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Chapter Text

When reflecting upon the matter later, Elizabeth Bennet would feel that the morning after the ball at Netherfield had been doomed to disaster from the first.

In the usual course of things, Elizabeth was in the habit of rising early. In a house as noisy as Longbourn, where one’s daily life was conducted to the accompaniment of Mary’s diligent practice at the pianoforte, Kitty and Lydia’s squabbling and Mrs Bennet’s frequent calls for Mrs Hill, early mornings were a rare time of peace and stillness.

Neither Elizabeth’s mother nor her sisters shared her predilection for being up at sunrise. Mrs Bennet, despite rarely sleeping past dawn, liked to linger in bed for at least an hour after waking; Jane and Mary were woken up by the maid precisely in time to dress before breakfast; and Kitty and Lydia frequently wandered into the breakfast room, still yawning, when the rest of the family were halfway through their meal already. Mr Bennet was the only one who was as fond of early mornings as Elizabeth. As he invariably spent them reading in his library, however, the house was no less quiet for his being awake.

Elizabeth would sometimes join her father, but most days she preferred to devote these early hours to solitary pursuits. If the weather permitted, she took a walk before breakfast; if it did not, she used the time to work on her correspondence. Despite enjoying company and having no particular aversion to the usual noise and bustle of her home, she found it pleasant to have these quiet moments to herself ‒ time which she could spend precisely as she pleased, without anybody to distract or interrupt her.

The day after the Netherfield ball, however, began as it meant to go on: entirely on the wrong foot. Elizabeth had gotten to bed exceedingly late, and despite her exhaustion, had been too vexed and mortified by all that had occurred to fall asleep. Instead, she had lain awake, dwelling on the evening’s embarrassments ‒ her family’s vulgar behaviour, Mr Collins’s unwelcome attentions and Miss Bingley’s snide remarks about Mr Wickham. She had not succumbed to sleep until close to dawn.

When she awoke, still tired and feeling quite dismal, she found to her surprise that it was already light in the room and that Jane’s side of the bed was empty. Upon consulting the clock, she discovered that she had slept far later than usual: the rest of the family must be at breakfast already. After dressing in a hurry, she rapidly made her way downstairs, feeling out of sorts for having overslept and a little cross that no one had thought to wake her.

Thus it was that Elizabeth arrived in the vestibule precisely in time to hear Mr Collins declare, loudly enough to be heard even through the closed door to the breakfast room: “I am surprised, Mrs Bennet, that my cousin Elizabeth has yet to venture downstairs. I hope that she is not indisposed, as I had intended to solicit the honour of a private interview with her in the course of the morning.”

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, she heard her mother exclaim, over the giggles and cries of Kitty and Lydia: “Oh! Certainly you may address her, Mr Collins! I am sure that Lizzy will be delighted to hear you as soon as she is up. I have no notion why she is so tardy this morning ‒ she is not usually in the habit of lying about in bed.”

“She was still sleeping when I came downstairs, Mama,” came Jane’s voice. “I thought it kindest to allow her to rest, as she must be fatigued after being up so late yesterday.”

“Well, she has to be woken up immediately ‒ Hill! Hill!”

In the background, Mr Collins began to expound on the proper hours a clergyman’s wife ought to keep ‒ but Elizabeth was no longer listening. Instead, she was rapidly attempting to determine how to avoid his proposal.

Had she had time to think the matter through, she might have realised that the wisest course of action would have been to simply enter the breakfast room and get the matter over with. In the best case, she might have been able to forestall her cousin’s coming to the point, and at worst, she would have had to endure the embarrassment of listening to an unwanted proposal before refusing it as gracefully as she could. She had no real fear that she would be forced to accept Mr Collins’s suit. Her mother might attempt to press her, but her father, she was certain, would take her side.

However, Elizabeth was tired after a night of disturbed sleep, distressed by all that had happened at the ball the previous evening, and vexed by her mother’s presumption. Tired and cross people are not always wise, and at that moment, all she could think of was that it was imperative to prevent Mr Collins from attempting to address her in the first place.

Her first notion was to retreat upstairs ‒ but she suspected that Mrs Bennet, impatient to secure her future, would not be long in coming to her door to hurry her down. Therefore, she instead made for the hall closet and seized her half-boots and pelisse, with no better plan in mind than simply escaping the house for the present.

Even in her agitation, Elizabeth was aware that she would not be able to avoid Mr Collins forever. Still, the notion of enduring his proposal now ‒ in the breakfast room, with the food still upon the table and Kitty and Lydia competing with her mother to listen at the door ‒ was entirely unbearable. Perhaps, if she stayed out long enough, the family might have dispersed into their various pursuits by the time she returned, and she might at least endure her mortification with a smaller audience. Or, if she happened to catch her father alone and he was not particularly disposed to teasing her that morning, he might be prevailed upon to spare her the dreaded tête-à-tête with her cousin.

She had just finished lacing her boots when Mrs Hill came bustling out of the breakfast room and stopped short at the sight of her.

“Miss Lizzy! There you are ‒ the mistress is asking for you.”

“Tell Mama that I am not at all hungry this morning, Hill ‒ she need not expect me for breakfast. I find I have the greatest fancy to walk to Oakham Mount. I dare say I will be out all morning!”

And before the housekeeper could protest, Elizabeth was out of the door, rejoicing in her well-timed escape. Mr Collins, she was certain, was not so determined a suitor as to attempt to follow her all the way to Oakham Mount. She had bought herself a respite, and would have a long walk in the fresh morning air to plot her next move.

Mrs Bennet, unsurprisingly, was less than pleased when Mrs Hill returned to the breakfast room without Elizabeth.

“Walked out!” she cried. “Of all the possible times ‒ whyever did you let her leave, Hill? Did you not tell Lizzy that Mr Collins is expecting her?”

Mrs Hill, more perceptive than her mistress, had a fair notion that this would hardly have tempted Miss Lizzy to defer her walk, but wisely refrained from voicing it.

“Well, did she at least tell you where she was going?” Mrs Bennet demanded, not waiting for a reply to her previous question.

“Yes, madam,” replied the housekeeper. “Miss Lizzy told me she meant to walk towards Oakham Mount.”

“Why, she will be two hours at least!” exclaimed Mrs Bennet with displeasure. “As like as not, Mr Bennet will have ridden out to see to the tenants before she is back, and then there is no telling how long we may have to wait for his return so that he may give his blessing.”

Mr Bennet, who had been observing the exchange with a great deal of amusement, raised an eyebrow at this but remained silent.

“It will not do!” his wife continued. “Mr Collins, you had best go after her. Indeed, it will go very well that way, for while you are walking together, you will have all the privacy you desire to speak, without any servants listening at the door ‒ not that our servants would do such a thing, of course.”

Here, Elizabeth was proven wrong: she had underestimated both Mr Collins’s tenacity and his fondness for walking. Despite not being particularly athletic in appearance, Mr Collins, being a country parson who did not keep a carriage, had occasion to walk a great deal. He was also not at all averse to being outdoors. Therefore, when informed of the distance to Oakham Mount, he did not find it a particularly daunting prospect. On the contrary, he assured Mr and Mrs Bennet, the charming countryside would surely provide a most fitting ambience for a romantic declaration.

Whatever Mrs Bennet may have thought of the romantic potential of a grey and cloudy November morning, she was not one to begin quibbling about details when she was on the verge of getting a daughter married. She deftly silenced her youngest daughters’ titters and cut Mr Collins’s ramblings short with her enthusiastic agreement; and then hurried him out of the door so that he might catch up with Elizabeth as soon as possible.

Thus it was that, three quarters of an hour later, Elizabeth was most unpleasantly surprised to hear a voice behind her, calling: “Cousin Elizabeth! Cousin Elizabeth!”

She briefly contemplated pretending not to hear and continuing on her way, but common sense soon prevailed. Mr Collins had already seen her, and it would have been both unpardonably rude and entirely ridiculous to attempt to outrun him. Besides, she had now effectively cornered herself in a position where she could not hope to return to Longbourn without encountering him, as he was between her and her path home. She therefore reluctantly stopped to wait, mustering all her grace to handle the situation with as little unpleasantness as possible.

“How fortuitous that I have caught up with you, my dear cousin!” Mr Collins panted as he reached her. It was apparent that he had exerted himself to walk above his usual pace in his bid to catch up. “I am come expressly to join you on your walk,” he continued, bowing rather more deeply than necessary. “May I offer you my arm?”

“I am not certain that it is proper for us to walk together unchaperoned,” Elizabeth prevaricated in a last attempt to escape the inevitable. “I shall direct you to the spot with the best view, and will myself return to Longbourn, so as not to give our neighbours reason to gossip.”

Alas, this discouragement was in vain. Mr Collins replied, with an ingratiating smile: “I congratulate you for your sense of propriety, cousin Elizabeth, but I assure you, you need have no anxiety in that regard. I am here with your mother’s knowledge and blessing, and thus even the strictest requirements of propriety must be satisfied. There is no need to curtail your walk; and indeed I particularly desire your company, so that you may direct my attention to the finest views. ”

Elizabeth could thus do nothing but accept Mr Collins’s escort, though she persisted in declining his arm. He found this a sufficient opening for a deluge of praise of her maidenly delicacy, which Elizabeth did her best to deflect while attempting to steer the conversation towards safer topics.

However, all too soon they reached the crest of the mount, and it became apparent that Mr Collins had chosen this spot as the stage of his declaration. In vain did Elizabeth attempt to prevent him from making it. With an indulgent smile, Mr Collins ignored her protests and began: “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness, but allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother’s permission for this address.”

Thus saying, he stepped closer, taking Elizabeth’s hands in his. She instinctively tried to retract them, but Mr Collins’s grip was surprisingly firm, and she found herself unable to pull herself loose without resorting to unladylike struggling. Therefore, she was obliged to stand there, rather too close to her cousin to feel quite comfortable, and reluctantly listen as he began to describe how he had singled her out as the companion of his future life.

Chapter Text

Elizabeth would not have been particularly pleased to know that she shared her propensity for rising early with a man she was determined to despise. Mr Darcy, despite having gotten to bed very late ‒ and, he thought resentfully, later than would have been necessary had not Mrs Bennet’s transparent machinations kept the entire Netherfield party waiting for her family’s departure ‒ had woken at first light as was his habit. After tossing and turning for a quarter of an hour, he had deemed further attempts to sleep useless and begun his day.

He found himself up before anyone but the servants, an occurrence that was neither unusual nor unwelcome. On this morning in particular, he was grateful not to have to endure Miss Bingley’s and Mrs Hurst’s attentions. They would no doubt have wished to discuss, at length, the events of the previous evening, and Darcy was still feeling too unsettled by all that had occurred to be prepared to bear snide allusions to fine eyes and future mothers-in-law with equanimity.

He was therefore not at all displeased to spend an hour reading in solitude, and a cup of strong coffee went some way towards driving away the dull, sluggish feeling which in recent years had begun to follow nights of too little sleep. However, he still found himself disinclined for company. Thus, when the first sounds of servants being summoned to attend to the other occupants of the house began to drift down the stairs, he had his coat and hat fetched and made his escape.

Darcy was more in the habit of riding than walking in the mornings, but on this particular day, with his mind so preoccupied, he felt that a brisk walk before breakfast might be what he needed to clear his thoughts. He therefore set off in the direction he often found himself choosing on the days he decided to forgo riding in favour of a stroll. There was a small elevation of land a mile or so from Netherfield, which the locals called Oakham Mount but which in truth was merely a hill. Still, Darcy found that the ascent to the top provided an invigorating sort of exertion, and though the view was nothing extraordinary, it was pleasing enough to gaze at while allowing his breath to settle after the climb. It had thus become a favoured destination on his rambles.

As he walked, he allowed his thoughts to return to the matters troubling him ‒ namely, the disconcerting conversation he had had with Miss Elizabeth Bennet the evening before, and the problem of Bingley’s imprudent behaviour with Miss Jane Bennet.

He still could not quite understand how the dance with Miss Elizabeth, which had begun so well, had ended on such an unpleasant note. He had spent some time merely admiring her rosy cheeks and graceful movements, feeling that no conversation was necessary. Then she had opened their customary banter, and Darcy had delighted in the back-and forth ‒ until she had blindsided him by bringing Wickham into the conversation. What was more, their following exchange had given him to understand that the scoundrel had managed to make an impression on her with whatever tales he had fed her. Darcy had set her right, of course ‒ but there was a niggling doubt at the back of his mind that he ought, perhaps, to have been more explicit. However, it was hardly a matter that could have been discussed in the middle of a ballroom, with any number of curious ears around them.

He did not know why the thought of Wickham spreading malicious tales about him in this insignificant country town disturbed him so. After all, it was not likely that a steward’s son would be given much credit when compared to a respectable landowner, and even if some were fooled by Wickham’s empty charm into believing him, it hardly mattered. Darcy had no connection to this place. When he left, he was unlikely to ever return, unless Bingley took up more permanent residence in the area than Darcy thought ‒ or hoped ‒ was likely.

Yet it piqued him that Miss Elizabeth had been so ready to take Wickham’s side. Darcy had no intentions towards her, of course. If a marriage between Bingley and the eldest Miss Bennet would be unwise, a marriage between himself and Miss Elizabeth would be entirely imprudent. He needed only remind himself of the appalling behaviour of her mother and younger sisters the previous night, along with the disgraceful indolence of her father in not checking their behaviour, to convince himself of the impossibility of the match. Still, it irked him that such a clever woman must display such poor judgement in this particular matter ‒ that she would show partiality towards Wickham, of all people!

It seemed clearer and clearer to Darcy that it was high time for him to leave Hertfordshire, and preferably to convince Bingley to spend some time away, too. He was quite certain that a few weeks in London would put thoughts of witty but ineligible country misses out of his head, no matter how lovely. Bingley, meanwhile, ought to be removed from Miss Jane Bennet’s vicinity before he put himself in a position where his honour was engaged. Darcy did not wish to see his friend, blinded with infatuation, wed a woman with nothing to recommend her but her beauty and her manners. He would be all too likely to discover after the initial rush of passion had receded that he had chained himself to a wife whose affection towards him was lukewarm at the most.

Darcy did not consider the eldest Miss Bennet mercenary, precisely, but her mother was certainly a fortune-hunter of the worst possible sort. Mrs Bennet would no doubt persuade her mild-mannered daughter to accept such an eligible man regardless of whether her affections were engaged. And based on his observation of her behaviour, Darcy was quite certain that they were not. No, Bingley would be much better off away from Miss Bennet’s sweet smiles.

Besides, there was Georgiana to think of. Darcy would, of course, never interfere if Bingley met a suitable lady before Georgiana was of an age to wed. If, however, Bingley took a few more years to grow out of his present habit of falling in and out of love at the drop of a hat, he would be beginning to pay serious thought to settling down precisely when Georgiana was of an age to marry. Darcy could not think of a man he would rather entrust with his sister. To have his hopes for Georgiana’s future crushed by the machinations of a grasping Hertfordshire matron would be quite intolerable.

Darcy was almost at the top of the hill when he was abruptly pulled from his ruminations by the sound of voices ahead of him, just behind the next bend in the path. A man was the principal speaker, and though his tone was low enough that most of the words could not be distinguished, Darcy could make out enough to understand that the conversation was of a highly intimate nature. In fact, it was clear that the man was paying his addresses to a lady, though both were concealed by the trees and shrubs growing by the side of the path.

Darcy immediately made to turn back ‒ he had no wish to intrude upon such a moment ‒ when the voice of the lady rose above the man’s.

“Really, Mr Collins, you puzzle me exceedingly! If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”

Darcy stood as if frozen in place. The voice was that of the very lady who had so persistently been occupying his thoughts ‒ and who was now, quite plainly, in the middle of receiving an unwanted proposal. Belatedly, he also recognised the voice of her suitor: it belonged, of all people, to Lady Catherine’s fool of a parson.

Even had Darcy not thought Mr Collins a bumbling imbecile before, his opinion would have been confirmed this instant. The man was, apparently, foolish enough to persist in his advances despite having been firmly rejected. For as Darcy vacillated in place, keenly aware of the impropriety of listening, yet incapable of retreating, Mr Collins continued to speak.

“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course.”

At this point, it sounded as if Miss Elizabeth attempted to interrupt, but Collins droned on without listening: “It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications—”

Good God! The gall of the man! Though his objections to Miss Elizabeth’s station in life were founded in truth ‒ had Darcy not repeatedly reminded himself of them in his attempts to remain immune to her charms? ‒ what sort of man would speak thus to the woman he was attempting to woo?

Furthermore, it was not as if Collins was above Miss Elizabeth in rank. Even with the modest estate he stood to inherit, the fact remained that he was currently a mere country parson, and might continue in that position for years or even decades to come. He ought to count himself fortunate if he gained the hand of a gentleman’s daughter. And when it came to looks, manners, intelligence, there was no question that Miss Elizabeth was by far his superior. That Collins could not perceive it was further evidence of his foolishness. Yet he would not cease speaking!

“…As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense—”

Darcy could bear to hear no more. With a few long strides, he rounded the bend in the path and came upon the scene of the proposal ‒ indeed, had it not been for the familiarity of his surroundings, he might have thought he had stumbled onto a theatre stage in the middle of some second-rate farce.

Miss Elizabeth had her back to him, and appeared to be attempting to extricate her hands from Mr Collins’s grasp. As Darcy stepped into the clearing, she was drawing backwards, her distress evident in her posture and movements. Collins, incredibly, was still speaking, his greedy hands clutching at hers with no regard for her attempts to escape.

Into this tableau Darcy strode, speaking loudly before either of the would-be lovers had perceived his presence: “Sir, I beg your forgiveness for interrupting a private interview, but it cannot be helped. I must demand that you release the lady and step away. She has made her refusal very clear, and it is quite obvious that she does not desire your attentions.”

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It all seemed to happen in an instant. At one moment, Elizabeth was, with increasing desperation, trying to free her hands from her cousin’s grasp while he bombarded her with declarations of love she neither believed nor wished to hear. She was experiencing the sudden and exceedingly disagreeable realisation that they were quite alone, that Mr Collins was a great deal larger and stronger than she, and that he had very little interest in listening to her. She did not believe that he would intentionally injure her or attempt to take liberties ‒ but she was acutely aware of being entirely in his power, and struggling to repress a surge of fear.

Then, as if out of nowhere, Mr Darcy ‒ what was he doing here? ‒ was smartly stepping between them. Elizabeth’s hands were released, and she all but stumbled backwards as Mr Darcy bore down on Mr Collins.

For a moment, she even feared ‒ or perhaps hoped ‒ that Mr Darcy would strike her cousin, so ferocious was the look in his eye. He settled, however, for merely looming over the unfortunate Mr Collins (no mean feat, Elizabeth was forced to concede, for Mr Collins was not a small man either), while continuing to speak more rapidly and sharply than Elizabeth had ever heard him express himself before.

“I had the misfortune of coming up the path in time to hear your proposal, sir. Miss Bennet’s response could not have been clearer. She has said, in the plainest of terms, that she will not have you. I wonder, then, why you will not have the good sense to take your leave.”

Elizabeth was distantly aware that, had the circumstances been different, she would have found the picture before her exceedingly entertaining. Here were the two men she disliked the most out of her acquaintance, looking almost like caricatures of themselves. Mr Darcy appeared somehow even taller and haughtier than usual, imperiously staring down at Mr Collins with utter scorn written on his countenance. Mr Collins cowered before him, awe and resentment battling for dominance in his expression. Being thus berated by the nephew of his esteemed patroness had clearly struck fear into Mr Collins’s heart, yet it was evident that a man as self-important as he could not avoid taking offence at being spoken to in such a manner.

Yes, it ought to have been diverting, and perhaps one day Elizabeth would be able to look back and laugh at the memory. At present, however, her mind was in far too much turmoil and she was suffering too much mortification to appreciate the amusing aspects of the situation. Mr Collins’s proposal in itself had been distressing enough ‒ but to have had it overheard by Mr Darcy, of all people, was an indignity beyond bearing.

The latter gentleman was still glaring at Mr Collins, who finally appeared to find his tongue.

“Mr Darcy,” he began, in a tone of injured dignity, “allow me to assure you that the interview you have interrupted, though perhaps conducted in an unusual location, is in no way inappropriate. I have the blessing of my cousin’s mother for my humble request, and was, before your untimely interruption, in the process of presenting it, in the hope of soon being able to follow the advice of your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by entering into the state of holy matrimony.”

“Your purpose was clear enough to me, Mr Collins,” replied Mr Darcy coldly, “but it appears that mine was not clear enough to you. Miss Bennet has refused you ‒ I heard her state it quite plainly ‒ and so you ought to spare her further embarrassment and leave her in peace.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed Mr Collins with an obsequious smile, “I now perceive the source of your misunderstanding. Although Miss Elizabeth’s words may, to one accidentally overhearing them, appear to have constituted a refusal, I believe we are both sufficiently familiar with the usual practices of elegant females to understand that such language is commonly employed by young ladies in order to increase their suitors’ love by suspense. I am certain that my cousin has said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female character, and therefore beg your leave to continue addressing her in the hope and, I may even say, firm belief that her final answer will be favourable.”

Despite being ready to sink with mortification, Elizabeth could not help a rush of vindictive glee as she witnessed the offended incredulity on Mr Darcy’s countenance. It was some consolation to see him as vexed and astonished as she was by her cousin’s presumption.

“As it appears, sir, that we have drawn very different conclusions from Miss Bennet’s words,” Mr Darcy replied in a frigid tone, “perhaps we ought to turn to the lady herself for clarification. Miss Bennet, would you kindly elaborate on whether your rejection of Mr Collins’s proposal was meant as a refusal or as a particularly subtle form of encouragement?”

Elizabeth was forced to subdue a sudden urge to laugh. What an inconvenient moment for Mr Darcy to reveal that he had something approaching a sense of humour ‒ albeit a rather scathing one. Having composed herself with some effort, she addressed her cousin.

“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatsoever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. I hope that no more needs to be said on the matter.”

Mr Darcy, who had listened to her in almost pointedly attentive silence, now turned towards Mr Collins and inquired: “May I trust, sir, that you now understand Miss Bennet’s words as I do ‒ as a quite unambiguous refusal?”

The disbelief on Mr Collins’s countenance was plainly written. Elizabeth suspected that, had she been alone with him, he might have persevered in his wilful self-deception. Mr Darcy’s behaviour, however, could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female, and his rank and air of authority apparently gave his utterances a weight in Mr Collins’s eyes that Elizabeth’s entirely lacked. Therefore, albeit with an air of stiffness that marked his displeasure, he bowed to Elizabeth.

“Madam, I hereby accept your refusal, and far be it from me to resent your behaviour. It is now becoming increasingly apparent to me that I was mistaken in believing us to be suited to each other. I had hoped to secure both my own happiness and the future comfort of yourself, your mother and your sisters, in a match which I thought to be advantageous to all parties. I will not, however, persist in proffering my olive branch to one who is so clearly unwilling to accept it, and shall merely express my humble hope that you may not come to regret your choice. For my own part, I am beginning to think that I may, one day, come to see it as a blessing in disguise ‒ but it would be imprudent to say more. Let us henceforth be forever silent on this point.”

He bowed again, first to Elizabeth and then to Mr Darcy. “I shall now take my leave. Madam, sir, I wish you both a good day.”

Elizabeth had not dared to so much as glance at Mr Darcy out of the genuine fear that whatever she saw in his expression would tip her over into either laughter or hysterics. However, when Mr Collins, rigid with injured pride, had disappeared behind the bend in the path and the sound of his footsteps had faded into the distance, she could no longer contain herself, and cautiously turned her head in order to observe Mr Darcy’s countenance.

Their eyes met, and one brief glimpse of the mixture of indignation, astonishment and crushing hauteur on the gentleman’s face was indeed sufficient: the dam burst, and Elizabeth collapsed into a paroxysm of mirth.

Her outburst, though certainly unmannerly, may perhaps be excused to some degree by the trying events of the morning. There had been the unpleasant surprise of finding out that her cousin intended to propose; the even more distressing moment of discovering that he had followed her; the vexation and unease of having to endure his proposal ‒ and finally, the shock of Mr Darcy’s unexpected appearance. All this she had, besides, faced on an empty stomach, a detail which may appear prosaic but likely had more than a little influence on the violence of her reaction.

Bent over, gasping for breath, with tears streaming down her face, she did not know Mr Darcy’s response to her uncontrollable fit of laughter until she felt a gentle but firm hand on her elbow and heard him say: “Miss Bennet, I believe you had better sit down.”

As she was neither feeble of body nor prone to fainting fits, Elizabeth was about to protest until she realised that her hands were, in fact, trembling somewhat alarmingly, and that her legs felt rather less steady than usual. Instead, she allowed Mr Darcy to lead her to a small rock conveniently situated at the edge of the clearing and assist her to a seat. He pressed a handkerchief into her one hand, a small silver flask into the other. Then, merely saying, “I shall give you a moment to compose yourself,” he turned and walked some steps away, positioning himself as if he were admiring the view from the mount.

The contents of the flask turned out to be brandy. While strong liquor may not generally be conducive to moderating emotional reactions, the sheer shock of the burning taste on her tongue did startle Elizabeth out of what was, in fact, on the verge of turning into a fit of hysteria. She swallowed two or three mouthfuls before turning her attention to the handkerchief.

Having made the best effort she could to make herself somewhat presentable, she looked up to discover that Mr Darcy was still standing by the edge of the precipice, facing away from her and clearly intent on giving her as much time as she needed to recover. She had hardly had time, in the midst of the events of the past half-hour, to wonder at his sudden appearance and subsequent actions, but she marvelled at it now ‒ that she had been found in, and rescued from, such a situation by Mr Darcy!

It was almost too mortifying to even contemplate. Yet, instead of displaying his customary disdain, Mr Darcy had behaved quite like a gentleman should. To be sure, he had looked down his nose at Mr Collins, but Elizabeth was sufficiently irate with her cousin to feel that Mr Darcy’s scorn had, in this instance, been entirely justified. Towards her he had been everything respectful and considerate ‒ kind, even ‒ and seemed even now to be doing his best to spare her embarrassment. It was so entirely unlike her previous notions of him that Elizabeth hardly knew what to think.

She found, on cautiously rising to her feet, that though her knees still felt somewhat shaky, she was able to stand without any immediate risk of swooning or relapsing into her previous fit of emotion. Mr Darcy, having evidently heard her rise, turned and stepped quickly towards her.

“I hope you are feeling better, Miss Bennet?” he inquired.

“I am, thank you, sir,” she replied, acutely conscious of the awkwardness of the situation. “I apologise for my ‒ my previous outburst. I can only excuse myself by saying that I have had a rather trying morning.”

“There is no need to apologise. Your reaction was entirely understandable given the circumstances.”

Elizabeth looked at Mr Darcy sharply at this, wondering whether his words were somehow intended to mock her. To her surprise, she saw no malice in his countenance; only somewhat stiff, but genuine, concern.

Suddenly recalling that she was still clutching his handkerchief and the flask of brandy, she awkwardly proffered them to him.

“Thank you, sir, for these ‒ and, indeed, for your timely intervention. Your assistance was very welcome. I am very sorry indeed that you were obliged to witness such a scene. I am sure that your mortification can only have been rivalled by my own.”

“Think nothing of it,” replied Mr Darcy seriously. “You were not at fault. All the blame must rest squarely on Mr Collins. To accost you in such a secluded location, where you could not easily escape his presence, was reprehensible. I merely did what any gentleman would have done had he found himself witnessing a lady being treated with such disrespect.”

Though Elizabeth entirely agreed with his sentiments on this occasion, Mr Darcy’s choice of words at the end of his speech was, perhaps, a little unfortunate. It immediately reminded Elizabeth of a certain occasion on which he had treated her rather less than respectfully. However, it would have been the height of ingratitude and incivility to harp on past offenses at such a moment, and so she merely smiled slightly and reiterated her thanks.

They then stood awkwardly for a moment, both somewhat at a loss about what to say or do next, until Mr Darcy, recollecting himself, offered to escort Elizabeth back to Longbourn. She at first attempted to decline, not wishing to put him out of his way. However, upon Mr Darcy’s assuring her that he would not be unduly inconvenienced, and as she recognised that she was still not feeling quite herself, she accepted his proffered arm without further protest.

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As they began their descent from the mount, Elizabeth found that she did, in fact, require the support of Mr Darcy’s arm more than she had expected. To her mortification, she discovered that she was a little unsteady on her feet. Belatedly, it occurred to her that consuming brandy on an empty stomach, after first walking several miles, had perhaps not been a prudent thing to do. Mr Darcy, thankfully, did not comment on her somewhat wavering progress, nor did he seem to be greatly inconvenienced by the way she was occasionally forced to lean on his arm.

Though she could barely admit it even to herself, it was also reassuring to have his solid presence by her side as they made their way down the path. Elizabeth silently chided herself for being missish and silly. No matter how discomfited she had been by Mr Collins’s refusal to listen to her, he ‒ a man of the cloth! ‒ would surely never have attempted to impose upon her physically. And in any case, it was perfectly ridiculous to imagine him lying in wait for her somewhere along the path!

Unfortunately, at this thought, her mind suddenly conjured up a vivid image of Mr Collins leaping out of the hedgerows to continue professing his regard, and she was unable to entirely repress her ensuing snort of laughter.

“Miss Bennet?” her companion queried, appearing somewhat startled. Perhaps he feared that she would descend again into hysteria.

“Pardon me, sir,” Elizabeth hastened to say. “It is only that I am beginning to see the humorous aspect of today’s events. When faced with embarrassment of this magnitude, I find that I should rather laugh than cry ‒ for crying gives me such a headache.”

“You are of a happy disposition indeed, to be able to rally your spirits so quickly.”

Elizabeth could not determine whether this was entirely complimentary, or whether there was a barb hidden somewhere in Mr Darcy’s words. Not wishing to be shrewish, however, she replied lightly: “I was born to speak all mirth and no matter, sir.”

“And to be merry best becomes you,” Mr Darcy countered with a slight smile. “Although I do not believe this to be an accurate rendition of your character. I have witnessed first-hand that you are capable of speaking seriously when you so choose.”

“But alas, I rarely do choose to,” Elizabeth said archly, “and after this morning, I am even less inclined to bother. It appears that whether I jest or not, my words are to be waved off as merely the coquetry of an elegant female. I do not know what else I could have said to make Mr Collins believe that I was in earnest.”

“The fault, in this case, was not with the speaker but with the listener.” After a moment’s hesitation, Mr Darcy continued: “Miss Bennet, pardon my forwardness ‒ but do you fear that he may yet attempt to renew his advances?”

Elizabeth considered the matter for a moment before shaking her head. “I believe I may rest easy on that account. Recall what he said before leaving ‒ he is already beginning to persuade himself that he had a fortunate escape. For all my cousin’s obtuseness, I do believe that once it became clear to him that I was, indeed, serious in my refusal, he was sufficiently offended to no longer consider me a worthy object.”

She ought to have left it at that. Perhaps the brandy had loosened her tongue, however, or perhaps her vexation with Mrs Bennet for her part in the debacle simply could not be contained any longer, for she was unable to resist continuing: “My mother, however, will no doubt attempt to persuade me to reconsider. I expect her to be severely displeased when she discovers that I turned my cousin down.”

“But that is utterly absurd!” exclaimed Mr Darcy, with a vehemence that entirely startled her. “Not even your mother ‒” He hastily checked himself and continued, instead: “I could hardly think of a less suited pair. There is such a disparity in intelligence, in breeding, in temperament, in ‒ in beauty!”

Mr Darcy coloured a little as he uttered the last words; but before Elizabeth could do more than marvel at such a flattering estimation of her qualities from such an unlikely source, he continued: “Even in terms of fortune and consequence, it is not so very advantageous a match. Your cousin’s expectations, while respectable, are hardly out of the common way, and besides he is not likely to come into his inheritance for a number of years yet.” As if suddenly recalling the implications of Mr Collins’s succeeding to his fortune, he belatedly added: “With my hopes for your father’s continued health.”

Elizabeth was all astonishment at such an impassioned speech about a subject which could hardly be of much concern to him. She could only attribute it to his having taken a most decided dislike to Mr Collins ‒ a dislike which she wholeheartedly shared. Yet she could not help feeling a growing irritation at his easy dismissal of her father’s estate and his unflattering, though fortunately unfinished, comment about her mother.

There was, therefore, a sharper edge in her tone when she replied: “While I entirely agree that the match is impossible, you must surely understand that, though a modest estate by the standards of some, Longbourn is my mother’s home. It is natural that she should wish to see one of her daughters as its next mistress. It would secure both her own future and that of any unmarried sisters.” Not entirely without bitterness, she added: “After all, as Mr Collins was kind enough to remind me, I am not likely to receive other offers.”

“He must surely be wrong about that,” said Mr Darcy, so decisively that Elizabeth was entirely startled. Perceiving her surprise, he hastily added: “I only mean to say ‒ you are young, vivacious and not unhandsome ‒ surely there are gentlemen out there who will see your worth, despite your connexions being less than ideal.”

“A compliment indeed, sir, particularly from a gentleman who not so long ago pronounced me merely tolerable.”

At this, Elizabeth felt him start, but her vexation was increasing, and she continued without heeding him: “No, my cousin has the right of it, in this matter if in nothing else. My sisters and I have bleak prospects. Our society here in Meryton is limited, and though my aunt and uncle in Town welcome us for visits from time to time, there is a decided shortage of eligible gentlemen in our circle. Besides, apart from a gentleman’s being eligible, there is the matter of liking him well enough to be able to contemplate a future with him. I may not be as romantic as Jane, but I should not wish to marry without some degree of affection and respect. As I have lived to my twenty-first year without encountering a single gentleman who would fulfil these requirements, I should not be surprised to end up a spinster.”

Mr Darcy made no reply. Had Elizabeth chanced to look up at him, she would have seen an expression of powerful surprise and mortification on his countenance. However, she had abruptly become aware of the inappropriateness of her outburst, and directed her gaze to her feet as she exerted herself to rein in her temper. She reminded herself that Mr Darcy, despite his infuriating sense of superiority and tendency to be off-handedly insulting, had earned her gratitude. He should not have been rewarded with a tongue-lashing, no matter how much he managed to irritate her.

“Pardon me, Mr Darcy,” she said after a moment of silence. “I fear I have said more than I ought, and my tone was not what it should have been.”

“And I should not have pried,” replied Mr Darcy, with rather more grace than Elizabeth had expected of him. “I believe your reprimand was justified.” He hesitated, then continued: “I must also offer my own apology for a particular remark you appear to have overheard. It ought never to have been uttered, and was, besides, entirely inaccurate in regard to your person.”

There was a faint tinge of colour in his cheeks, and he stared stiffly ahead as he spoke. It was not the most charming of apologies, but Elizabeth forced herself to concede that it appeared to be entirely sincere.

In a bid to lighten the tone of their conversation, she replied with an attempt at playfulness: “As I, unlike some, have never claimed to be afflicted by implacable resentment, I suppose I must accept your apology. Besides, it was rather unhandsome of me to bring the matter up. After all, your remark was uttered weeks ago, before we were even acquainted with each other, and is it not said that eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves? Let us agree that I was justly punished for listening to another’s conversation, you for being rude, and put the matter behind us.”

Mr Darcy bowed solemnly. “Thank you ‒ I applaud your generosity of spirit.”

There seemed not much that could be said after this, and they continued walking for some time in a silence that was, if not precisely comfortable, at least not hostile. At long last, they came to the edge of Longbourn’s park, and Elizabeth drew to a halt.

“Mr Darcy, I believe I can find my way home safely from here. Please allow me to thank you again for your kind assistance. I assure you that it is greatly appreciated. I would invite you into the house, but I fear that the scene inside will be rather undignified, and I do believe you have already suffered sufficient embarrassment on my behalf today.”

“If my presence may serve to shield you from some part of it, I would be happy to be of assistance,” said Mr Darcy, with such unexpected gallantry that Elizabeth was left nearly devoid of speech with amazement.

Recovering herself, however, she replied: “I thank you ‒ but I believe it would be somewhat impolitic to make my entrance with another gentleman in tow immediately after turning Mr Collins down. For all that it is widely known that you and I do not admire each other, I think it would send the wrong message.”

To this, Mr Darcy made no protest. With a bow, he wished her a good day, and so they parted; he to return to Netherfield, she to face the ire of her mother.

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Elizabeth found, upon entering the house, that Mr Collins had informed her mother of his rejected suit. Mrs Bennet’s reaction was precisely as could be expected. Elizabeth was subjected to all the violence of her disappointment: decried for being a headstrong, foolish girl who had no compassion for her mother’s nerves; informed that Mrs Bennet would never talk to her again; and then promptly made to listen to a slight variation of the same lecture.

Elizabeth, well acquainted with her mother’s temper and aware that, on certain occasions, it must simply be allowed to run its course, maintained her equanimity as best as she could. From Mrs Bennet’s exclamations, she was able to piece together an impression of what had occurred at Longbourn while she had been making her way home with Mr Darcy. To her relief, though not entirely to her surprise, she discovered that Mr Collins had been unusually tight-lipped about what, precisely, had occurred during their interview, and had soon retired to his room. Of Mr Darcy’s interference he had not spoken a word. Elizabeth supposed that even Mr Collins must have realised that relating such a tale would make him a laughing-stock.

Despite her mother’s repeated attempts to press her into revealing more, Elizabeth remained steadfast in her refusal to disclose anything beyond the fact that Mr Collins had joined her on her walk, asked for her hand and been turned down. She was equally impervious to Mrs Bennet’s attempts to change her mind, resisting the alternating coaxing and threats with steady determination. When an appeal to Mr Bennet to intercede fell on deaf ears, Mrs Bennet, excessively disappointed in both father and daughter, at long last declared that she wished Elizabeth out of her sight.

This was a welcome turn of events for Elizabeth, who was beginning to feel rather exhausted as well as entirely famished. She immediately escaped upstairs, and was not particularly surprised when, not long afterwards, Jane surreptitiously entered their chamber bearing a tray of cold meats, bread and cheese, which was most gratefully received.

To her sister, Elizabeth was finally able to unburden herself about her morning’s adventure. Poor Jane was put in something of a quandary; for as much as she disliked to find fault in anyone, even she was forced to admit that Mr Collins had behaved quite badly.

“I am sorry for our cousin’s disappointment, of course,” she said, “and I am certain that he did not mean to make you uncomfortable ‒ but it was not at all gentlemanly of him to be so insistent. Oh, Lizzy, how very distressing it must have been for you! I am glad that Mr Darcy happened upon you when he did, and made Mr Collins see reason.”

“Oh, yes ‒ I should not have thought I would ever be so glad to see Mr Darcy! But I find that I like his glares and frowns much better when they are directed at someone I am displeased with.”

“From your account, he appears to have behaved exactly as a gentleman ought to.”

Elizabeth ducked her head, abashed, though Jane’s tone was very mild.

“Indeed he did”, she admitted, “though it is very vexing of him to reveal such an unexpected streak of decency, when I had been quite content to dislike him. But,” she continued hurriedly at Jane’s admonishing look, “I concede that Mr Darcy acquitted himself very well today, and that I am very grateful for his assistance. There, have I now humbled myself sufficiently?”

Jane, never one to seek an argument, assented ‒ but her tone was perhaps a little dubious.

Perceiving that her sister’s delicate sense of justice had been affronted, Elizabeth continued more seriously: “I assure you, dearest Jane, that I do not mean to be flippant ‒ but though I am sensible of the service Mr Darcy has done me, I cannot help being mortified that he witnessed such a scene in the first place. It makes me all too conscious of having made an utter fool of myself; for had I not tried to run off and avoid our cousin, the entire farce could have been avoided. And to make matters worse, I fear I spoke far too candidly to Mr Darcy on our walk back. I am sure he thinks me a dreadfully ill-bred creature.”

Jane, of course, was immediately mollified by such a speech, and was quick to turn the subject from Mr Darcy to anything that might soothe and comfort her sister. In this occupation, she continued until summoned downstairs by a housemaid, as Mrs Bennet had need of her.

Elizabeth, left alone, sank down on the bed to marvel at the absurdity of the morning. She had received her first offer of marriage, an event far less romantic and more embarrassing than she could ever have imagined. Yet, though she had told Jane that she did not wish to dwell on Mr Darcy, she could not help but return again in her mind to the moment of his unexpected appearance. Somehow, Mr Collins’s distressing proposal seemed less fantastical than the fact that Mr Darcy had been the one to rescue her from it, and that he had shown her such kindness and consideration besides. To be sure, he had revealed some of his habitual disdainfulness on their walk back ‒ yet Elizabeth could not, all things considered, help but think somewhat better of him than she had before.

It was perhaps fortunate that Darcy had a three-mile walk to compose himself, for as he turned back towards Netherfield, his mind was in utter turmoil.

Darcy rarely had occasion to feel foolish. He prided himself on his strong understanding and sought to think and act in a sensible, rational manner. Yet he now found himself obliged to admit that he had succumbed to the very weaknesses which he had ever sought to avoid, and behaved in a manner which could only be described as ridiculous. For surely one could but laugh at a man who would take pains to avoid encouraging a woman he admired ‒ only to discover that she had never considered him a marital prospect in the first place.

He turned her words over and over in his head as he trudged on. Still, no matter how he attempted to find some hidden meaning, some other interpretation, he kept reaching the same conclusion: Elizabeth Bennet did not admire him ‒ no, she did not even like him. And it was abundantly clear that it was his own boorish behaviour at the assembly ball which had sparked her dislike.

It would have been bad enough had his unfortunate remark been merely a temporary lapse in manners; but although he devoutly hoped that it had been the only one she had overheard, he was uncomfortably aware that it was not the only one he had made. Were she to hear of all the quips he had made at her expense at the beginning of their acquaintance, she would surely detest him entirely.

His new-found understanding of her feelings put many of their past interactions in a different light. He had thought that her clever retorts and arch remarks were intended as flirtation. Well, it appeared that she had meant quite the opposite. How fortunate that he had never revealed his reluctant admiration to her! His humiliation was aggravating enough as it was, but at least he had the consolation of it not being known to anyone else.

Yet it pained him that she seemed to believe him so entirely indifferent, even though every rational part of his mind sought to convince him that her opinion could not, must not have any significance to him. He had, after all, never had any intentions towards her. What did it matter, then, if she never had an inkling of his true feelings? Was this not, in fact, precisely as he had intended it to be? He would leave Hertfordshire, never to return; she would remain, never knowing of the admiration she had inspired. Were their paths ever to cross again, he would have conquered his foolish infatuation, and she, as likely as not, would be married to some insignificant country squire or moderately wealthy tradesman’s son.

And the thought of that was entirely unbearable.

Some degree of affection and respect, Elizabeth had said. The words haunted him. She had turned down Mr Collins, but still it was very likely that, if she married at all, she would eventually have to settle for a man who was very much beneath her ‒ a man whose chief attraction was that he could provide her with a respectable home. It disgusted Darcy to think of it: that such an intelligent, vivacious woman, devoid of any mercenary aspirations, would be forced to sacrifice her principles and sensibilities for the sake of financial security.

Yet there was nothing he could do to change how matters stood. He was not her relation; likely she did not even consider him a friend. He had no power and no right to interfere in her affairs. Even had it been possible for him to offer for her ‒ and no matter her many fine qualities, Darcy sternly reminded himself that it was not ‒ she did not care for him.

Unhappy musings on this last point occupied Darcy the remainder of the way to Netherfield. There, upon his arrival, he was met first with the information that Bingley had already set off for London, and then with a great number of exclamations and questions from Bingley’s sisters, who had been severely distressed by his failure to appear at breakfast. Fortunately, they were soon distracted from their interest in what could have detained Darcy so long on his walk, by their determination to convince him of a scheme they had been hatching during his absence: that of following their brother to London.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst had devised some very finely constructed arguments for this purpose, but their efforts had been quite unnecessary. Darcy seized the idea with alacrity almost as soon as it was broached. The events of the morning had discomposed him far more than he liked. It was incumbent upon him to regain control of himself and order his thoughts ‒ and that, he felt, would be best accomplished as far away from Miss Elizabeth Bennet as possible.

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The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs Bennet’s ill humour or ill health. Mr Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay. To her relief, however, he appeared as desirous of avoiding her as she was of avoiding him. She felt that they could now have nothing to say to each other, and perhaps he shared the sentiment.

After breakfast, the girls, eager to be out of the house, walked into Meryton to inquire if Mr Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their aunt’s where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was well talked over. ‒ To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence had been self-imposed.

“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near, that I had better not meet Mr Darcy; ‒ that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”

Before the events of the previous day, Elizabeth would have wholeheartedly approved of Mr Wickham’s forbearance and taken great pleasure in commending it. Now, however, as he continued speaking on the subject of Mr Darcy, in a manner which was not particularly complimentary, she found herself in a rather awkward position. Her opinion of Mr Darcy had by no means been entirely reversed, but she had been forced to acknowledge that he did possess some good qualities. Besides, in the light of his not inconsiderable service to her, she no longer felt herself to be at liberty to dislike him quite as unreservedly as she previously had.

She had leisure to experience all the discomfort and conflicting emotions that this created. Mr Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk, Mr Wickham particularly attended to her. She felt all the compliment it offered to herself; yet she could not fully enjoy the gratification of being so clearly singled out, for Mr Wickham’s conversation once again centred round his ill-treatment at Mr Darcy’s hands. Elizabeth could not quite suppress a pang of guilt at listening to such talk about the man who had only the previous day come to her rescue ‒ and then was vexed with herself for feeling guilty.

The fact that Mr Darcy had behaved as he ought on one occasion (and more than that; Elizabeth’s sense of justice forced her to concede that he had, in fact, acted with something akin to gallantry) did not acquit him from his past misdeeds. However, it did occur to her to wonder, as she listened to her companion’s airing of his grievances, whether Mr Wickham’s account of Mr Darcy’s character might not, perhaps, be a little biased.

She did not hold it against Mr Wickham. It would be understandable, she felt, that even such an amiable young man would feel some degree of bitterness considering the disappointment he had suffered. Nevertheless, to herself, she was forced to concede that it was possible that Mr Darcy’s disposition might not be quite as dreadful as Mr Wickham made it out to be. She attempted to dismiss these doubts ‒ there was such an openness in Mr Wickham’s countenance, such a cadence of truth in his words, that she could hardly imagine how he could, even inadvertently, be deceiving her ‒ but was not entirely successful.

This lingering feeling of discomfort prompted her to steer him away from Mr Darcy and towards other, safer topics. As Mr Wickham’s conversation remained as engaging as ever even with the change of subject, the rest of the walk passed very pleasantly, and Elizabeth was, at the end of it, able to think almost as well of him as she had previously.

Soon after their return to Longbourn, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and made her almost impatient for him and his companion to take their leave. No sooner had they done so, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs.

When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, acquainted Elizabeth with its contents. It was from Caroline Bingley, and comprised the information that the whole party had left Netherfield without any intention of coming back again. Moreover, Miss Bingley made quite clear her hopes of an attachment between her brother and Miss Darcy.

To Jane, it was evident that Miss Bingley, having suspected the nature of her feelings for Mr Bingley, and knowing him to be indifferent, meant to kindly hint her away from him. To Elizabeth, it was equally evident that Miss Bingley had seen that her brother was in love with Jane, but wanted him to marry Miss Darcy, and was thus doing her best to separate the lovers.

As Jane firmly believed Miss Bingley incapable of wilfully deceiving any one, and Elizabeth firmly believed the opposite, they spent quite some time debating the subject. Elizabeth, however, was the one who ultimately prevailed. Jane was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of her affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

It was only later that it occurred to Elizabeth to wonder what Mr Darcy’s part in the business had been. Miss Bingley had stated in her letter that Miss Darcy’s relations wished her to marry Mr Bingley as much as his own; and though Elizabeth was not inclined to unquestioningly believe everything Caroline Bingley said, she did not think it an implausible notion.

Was Mr Darcy an active participant in Miss Bingley’s scheme to separate Mr Bingley and Jane? Was he perhaps merely hopeful of securing a wealthy and amiable husband for his sister if presented with the opportunity? Or was it all only a product of Miss Bingley’s own wishes, disguised as fact? Without quite knowing why, Elizabeth felt it incumbent on herself to determine the answer to these questions. No matter how long she puzzled over it, however, she could not come to a satisfactory conclusion.

Finally, she was forced to concede that the matter was not ultimately of much importance, given that Mr Darcy had left the neighbourhood. Even if ‒ when ‒ Mr Bingley returned, she reasoned, it was not likely that his friend would return with him. After all, Mr Darcy had made it clear what he thought of country society, and Meryton and its surroundings in particular. No, he would remain in London with his sister, to the contentment of both himself and everybody in Hertfordshire.

Had Elizabeth wished to examine her feelings more closely, she might have wondered why she did not feel quite as contented with this conclusion as she should have. However, as it happened, she did not wish to. Instead, she determinedly put the matter out of her mind.

Darcy was glad to have much to occupy him during his first days in London. A number of business matters which had accumulated during his absence from town needed to be dealt with; certain obligatory social calls had to be paid; and of course he was eager to see Georgiana again.

He was pleased to find that his sister appeared to be doing tolerably well in Mrs Annesley’s care. Nevertheless, it was plain that she was not yet recovered from the unhappy events of the summer. It pained him how timid and anxious she was. Though she had always been reserved with those she did not know well, it seemed that her disappointment had caused her to retreat even from her own brother, and Darcy found himself unable to draw her out. For all that he held his sister in the greatest affection, there were topics which he found difficult to broach with her, and he suspected that she felt the same. He had ever been better at expressing his feelings through deeds than through words, but he felt that in the present situation, words of encouragement and reassurance would likely have done more good than the gifts he presented her with.

Perhaps had they each been less reserved, or had there not been such a disparity in their ages, it might have been easier for Georgiana to confide in him. As it was, however, he could not help but wish that Georgiana had a sister or close female friend to turn to. Somebody lively and cheerful enough to distract Georgiana out of her shyness, yet with sufficient sweetness to prevent her vivacity from being too intimidating, and possessed of a healthy dose of kindness and good sense.

This, of course, was all it took for Darcy’s thoughts to turn once again to Elizabeth Bennet. He was obliged to acknowledge to himself that she, if anyone, could have brought Georgiana out of her shell, and that her ease in company would have been exceedingly useful for his sister to emulate. And perhaps, had Georgiana had more examples of lively, sociable people in her life, she would not have been so easily drawn in by George Wickham’s carefully cultivated air of openness and sincerity.

Then again, Elizabeth herself had not been unaffected by Wickham’s charm, if Darcy’s conversation with her at the Netherfield ball was anything to judge by. And, given his newfound understanding of her opinion of him, Darcy was increasingly uncertain whether she had paid any heed to his warning. It consoled him but little that Elizabeth had no dowry to tempt a fortune-hunter. Though he did not think that she was likely to be easily tempted into indiscretion, Georgiana’s brush with disaster served as an unhappy reminder that high morals were not always enough to protect a young lady. Elizabeth was older than Georgiana, of course, and had likely been out in society for some years already ‒ yet Darcy could not entirely suppress a discomfiting suspicion that he had left her in a vulnerable position.

In an effort to alleviate his lingering sense of guilt, he determined to call on Bingley. He hoped, though he did not quite admit the thought even to himself, to find some confirmation that he had done right in leaving Meryton so precipitately. It would have pleased him to find his friend beginning to forget Jane Bennet already, his attention seized by the distractions of London. He might then have congratulated himself on assisting Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst in their efforts to separate Bingley and Miss Bennet.

Elizabeth had clearly implied that her sister wished to marry for affection, and Darcy had no reason to doubt her sincerity. Nevertheless, though he must concede that Miss Bennet was unlikely to become a pawn in her mother’s mercenary schemes, he could yet hope to be proven right in his doubts about Bingley’s steadiness. To feel that he had saved Miss Bennet from an inconstant suitor might lessen his discomfort about his own behaviour in quitting Meryton.

Unfortunately, upon entering the Hursts’ drawing room, Darcy instead found himself in the middle of a family argument ‒ an argument concerning none other than Miss Bennet. As soon as the obligatory greetings were out of the way, Miss Bingley, with the air of resuming a dispute halted only moments ago, addressed her brother.

“Charles, is it not fortuitous that Mr Darcy happened to call at this moment? He may help to settle the question to everybody’s satisfaction.” Turning to Darcy, she continued: “Louisa and I have been attempting to explain to Charles why his notion of courting Jane Bennet is foolish in the extreme. He will not listen to us; we are not swayed by his arguments. Will not you, as an impartial judge, tell us whose side you would take?”

Darcy immediately attempted to refuse; but to no avail. Mrs Hurst joined her sister’s plea, and even Bingley voiced his hope that Darcy’s judgement might silence the dispute once and for all.

It was uncomfortable to be pressed for his opinion on a matter which, a week previously, he would have thought himself to understand perfectly, when he now saw clearly the limitations of his knowledge. Yet he also felt some reluctance to leave the matter in the hands of Bingley’s sisters, for he knew that their objections did not rise merely out of affection for their brother. Their advice was self-serving. His, though unwillingly dispensed, could at least strive to be disinterested.

“Very well, I shall give my opinion if you wish it. Bingley, the lady’s lack of fortune and connexions cannot be denied. Still, you have a sufficient fortune of your own for hers not to be an obstacle. In financial terms, the match cannot be deemed ideal, but neither is it imprudent. Miss Bennet’s connexions are somewhat unfortunate” ‒ Miss Bingley threw her brother a triumphant look ‒ “yet it cannot be deemed so great an evil as to make the match impossible. She is a gentleman’s daughter. Marrying her would not elevate your standing in society, but I do not believe it could do you any great harm.”

Miss Bingley was now looking decidedly less pleased. Darcy forged on quickly, before she could cut in.

“To Miss Bennet’s character and disposition, I can see no objection. She is, by my observation, as well as judging by her general reputation, a sweet-tempered, amiable, sensible woman, and her manners are beyond reproach. She is, in many ways, similar to you in temperament, though somewhat more sedate ‒ and that, I judge to be entirely in her favour. In all likelihood, she would influence you for the better, Bingley.”

“I cannot disagree with you there, Darcy ‒ she is in every way an angel,” replied Bingley, grinning.

“I now come to my principal objections to the lady,” Darcy said, effectively wiping the smile off Bingley’s face. “Despite the excellence of Miss Bennet’s character, it must be said that the other members of her family ‒ with the exception of Miss Elizabeth ‒ are by no means her equals in manners. Her mother and youngest sisters, in particular, frequently betray a total want of propriety, and her father does very little to check them. You are easy-going enough to disregard much of it, but you ought to seriously consider how much you are prepared to expose yourself ‒ not to mention your sisters ‒ to such behaviour. Recall that, after your marriage, you would be forever tied to such relations as Mrs Bennet and Mrs Philips.”

“Indeed!” cried Miss Bingley. “Charles, did Louisa and I not tell you precisely that?”

“You have made your opinion very clear, Caroline,” replied Bingley. “Perhaps you will have the goodness to allow Darcy to continue laying out his.”

“Oh, certainly! Do go on, sir.”

Darcy had taken advantage of this brief interruption to consider how to best make his last point. Now, he said: “So far, though there is much to be said in Miss Bennet’s disfavour, I do not believe that any of the disadvantages I have raised are insurmountable—”

Here, Bingley visibly brightened.

“—provided that there is true affection on both sides. You need not marry a fortune, nor aspire to a match above your sphere if that is not your wish. Vulgar relations are an evil, but one which can in your case be tolerated for the sake of mutual admiration and regard.”

Bingley opened his mouth to object, but Darcy stayed him by raising his hand.

“I have no doubt about the sincerity of your attachment, Bingley ‒ but it is, so far, of relatively short duration. You have known Miss Bennet for less than two months. I have known you to be in love for longer than that, only to fall out of it again. Of the lady’s affections, I am even less certain. To be sure, she welcomes your company and attentions, but I have not perceived in her behaviour any symptom of particular regard. However,” he continued as he saw Bingley’s face fall, “it is possible I am mistaken.”

Darcy hesitated. He did not wish to reveal the source of his intelligence so as not to be forced to divulge the particulars of his recent interview with Elizabeth. Nevertheless, he felt that, in order to be just, he must in some way indicate what he had come to understand. Elizabeth had described her elder sister as a romantic, and her own refusal of an offer with clear material advantages made Darcy willing to entertain the notion that her sister might do the same.

“I do not,” he ultimately said, “claim to be a good judge of young ladies’ sentiments. In fact, I have reason to believe myself quite the opposite. You are likely better able to evaluate the state of Miss Bennet’s heart. In any case, from what I have observed of the elder Miss Bennets, I do not believe either of them to be mercenary. Despite what her mother might wish, I do not think Miss Bennet would accept a proposal unless she held her suitor in sufficient regard. It is for you to determine whether that is enough for you. In the end, you are the one who will have to live with the consequences, whatever you decide.”

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst looked dismayed. Bingley, on the other hand, leapt out of his chair to vigorously shake Darcy’s hand.

“Darcy, my man, wiser words have never been spoken! I shall return to Hertfordshire as soon as my business here is concluded, and see for myself what Miss Bennet’s feelings may be.”

His sisters began to exclaim in protest, but Bingley, with uncharacteristic sternness, went on: “Caroline, you may accompany me if you wish, or, if Louisa decides to remain in town, you are surely welcome to stay with her if that pleases you better. Darcy, I should be delighted if you consented to return to Netherfield with me. If nothing else, I am certain there is still some hunting to be had before the weather turns, and no doubt Christmas-tide will bring its own amusements.”

Darcy wavered. He had very little desire to return to Hertfordshire. His pride had been severely mortified by the discovery of Elizabeth’s dislike, and he had no wish to return to the scene of such humiliation ‒ particularly as he feared that it had not even lessened her power over him. To return would be to risk further pain and embarrassment at her hands, made all the worse by the knowledge that she had no notion of her influence. No, Darcy would much rather remain in London and exert himself to banish Elizabeth Bennet from his thoughts.

Yet there was the problem of Wickham. Darcy knew that his conscience would plague him if he left matters as they were; if he did not at least attempt to discover how much of an impression the man’s pernicious lies had made on Elizabeth. He found himself in a predicament he rarely faced: that of being exceedingly reluctant to do what he believed to be his duty.

“I shall consider it,” he finally replied. “But, Bingley, whatever you do, be a little more circumspect in your attentions to Miss Bennet. The neighbourhood is already expecting you to declare yourself. If you return now, continue paying Miss Bennet marked attentions, and it ends up coming to nothing, you will damage both her reputation and your own.”

It was evident from Bingley’s expression of dismay that this consideration had not occurred to him. However, rather than causing him to doubt the wisdom of returning, it only strengthened his resolution to hasten back to Hertfordshire.

“For if expectations have been raised,” he said, “it seems to me that my absence may do as much harm, or more, than my presence in Meryton. I had much rather suffer the mortification of being refused than expose Miss Bennet to derision for disappointed hopes. I would not have her injured by the consequences of my own imprudence.”

Darcy found himself effectively silenced. Here was Bingley, speaking so easily of sacrificing his pride for the sake of Miss Bennet’s comfort. It suddenly made his own reluctance to face Elizabeth again appear rather cowardly. If his absence allowed Wickham to hurt her ‒ if he put his pride above her well-being ‒ he would be the worst sort of knave.

Thus it was that, less than a week after returning to London, Mr Bingley and his party were once again on their way to Hertfordshire. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst had, in the end, elected to follow their brother, declaring that they could not countenance leaving him without a hostess for his table. Darcy did not doubt, however, that their true aim was to continue their efforts to dissuade Bingley from offering for Miss Bennet. Certainly their sudden enthusiasm for the country could not be due to any fondness for the local society.

As for Darcy himself, his publicly avowed purpose for returning was to assist Bingley in judging whether Jane Bennet was amenable to his suit. The purpose he privately avowed to himself was to discover whether Elizabeth Bennet was in danger from George Wickham. Whether there were other, unacknowledged motives to precipitate his return is difficult to determine. It is certain, however, that the prospect of seeing the second-eldest Miss Bennet again filled him with equal parts of anticipation and dread.

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The events of the next few days aided Elizabeth in her resolution to put Mr Darcy out of her mind. Though Mr Bingley’s removal to London was lamented frequently and loudly by Mrs Bennet and silently and unobtrusively by Jane, the attention of everybody at Longbourn was temporarily diverted from the Netherfield party first by Mr Collins’s departure, and soon afterwards by the announcement of his engagement to Charlotte Lucas.

This news caused no less tumult in the neighbourhood than in Elizabeth’s own emotions. She was bitterly disappointed in Charlotte, genuinely anxious that it would be impossible for her friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen, and at pains to conceal both her disappointment and her concern. Besides, as Mrs Bennet soon decided that Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief, there were numerous scoldings to endure, and it was quite apparent that Mrs Bennet did not intend to abandon her resentment for a long time.

Mrs Bennet would, indeed, likely have taken many months to forgive her second daughter, had she not been distracted by happier news. Not even a week after his departure, Mr Bingley returned to Netherfield. The report which shortly prevailed in Meryton was that he intended to remain the whole winter, and that both his sisters and his brother-in-law had returned with him.

From this intelligence, Elizabeth deduced that Mr Darcy had remained in London as she had conjectured he would. In this belief she remained until the day after the Netherfield party’s return. The ladies of Longbourn were at home that morning, entertaining a group of officers who had come to call. When more visitors were announced, Elizabeth was unsurprised to see Mr Bingley, though delighted that he had chosen to pay his respects to Jane so soon after his arrival.

The entrance of Mr Darcy, however, threw her entirely into confusion. She had not at all expected to see him; had thought him to be still in London ‒ and by an unkind twist of fate, she happened to be seated next to Mr Wickham. In fact, at the moment of the Netherfield gentlemen’s entering the room, she was laughing at a clever quip Wickham had made ‒ only for the laughter to die on her lips when she looked up to meet the eyes of Mr Darcy.

Fortunately, the worst of Elizabeth’s initial embarrassment was covered by the flurry of greetings and polite inquiries directed at the newcomers. Still, she was acutely aware of the fact that Mr Darcy’s gaze had, immediately upon his entrance into the room, been directed towards her. He could not have failed to perceive Mr Wickham’s presence by her side. Indeed, she had seen the moment Mr Darcy registered it, for his expression had turned even haughtier than usual, and after greeting her and acknowledging Mr Wickham with the briefest of nods, he had immediately turned away.

An awkward scene followed. Although Mr Bingley and Jane were soon oblivious to everyone but each other, the rest of the occupants of the room could not fail to notice the tension between Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham. The former, as was his habit, scarcely said a word to anyone, standing stiffly apart from everybody else; and the latter, too, appeared to have lost some of his customary ease in company.

The conversation grew stilted, further increasing the general discomfort. It was a relief to everybody when Mr Denny, after a quarter of an hour, declared that it was time for him to take his leave, prompting the rest of the officers to also make their excuses. Elizabeth, vexed by Mr Darcy’s rudeness and inclined in that moment to feel sympathetic towards Mr Wickham, gave her friend a warm farewell.

The awkwardness between those remaining was only slightly lessened, however. Although Mr Wickham’s departure caused Mr Darcy to shed a little of his rigidity, he spoke very little and spent most of his time looking either at Bingley and Jane or at the floor. To Elizabeth, he scarcely said a word, though once or twice, as she looked up from her work, she did catch him turning away, as if he had been watching her only moments before. Elizabeth, still irritated, fancied that there was censure in the looks he directed at Mr Bingley ‒ perhaps Mr Darcy did not approve of the resumption of his friend’s courtship. Why he might be looking at her, she could not imagine.

The gentlemen’s visit was not long. They declined staying for dinner, though Mr Bingley assured Mrs Bennet that he would be delighted to join them some other day. Mrs Bennet was nevertheless satisfied with his attentions to Jane, and after the gentlemen’s departure could hardly sit still for her flutterings of delight. Jane herself was less confident, but pleased nevertheless, and smiled and blushed becomingly at her mother’s speculation about when Mr Bingley might be expected to call again.

Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure, but for her own part, the visit had left her confused and dissatisfied. Whether she was primarily displeased with Mr Darcy, Mr Wickham or herself, she could scarcely decide. Mr Darcy’s aloofness had certainly been off-putting; yet she was obliged to admit that Mr Wickham had hardly acquitted himself better. For all his confidence whenever Mr Darcy was absent, his manner when confronted with the other gentleman rather resembled that of a rabbit faced with a fox. There was a suggestion of cowardice in it that Elizabeth could not bring herself to ignore.

As for herself, she was unaccountably embarrassed that Mr Darcy had seen her speaking with Wickham. In vain did she remind herself that Mr Darcy’s opinion ought to hold no sway over her. Was not Mr Wickham her friend? How poor-spirited, how disloyal of her to be afraid of owning it!

Yet the discomfort lingered ‒ for when Mr Darcy had looked at her, she had felt as if he could hear every disparaging remark that Mr Wickham had ever made about him. She was acutely conscious of being in his debt, and feared that she was repaying him very poorly.

Elizabeth did not meet either Mr Wickham or Mr Darcy again for almost a week. During this time, Mr Bingley called at Longbourn three times and his sisters stopped by once for a quarter of an hour. Their guest, however, remained absent ‒ a matter little remarked upon, as he had never been a frequent caller and had, in the past, only occasionally accompanied Mr Bingley. Mr Wickham, too, kept his distance, and Elizabeth could not help wondering whether he was attempting to avoid another encounter with Mr Darcy.

One clear and crisp morning the week after the Netherfield party’s return, Elizabeth escaped the house early for a solitary walk. Although she rejoiced in Mr Bingley’s promising attentions to Jane, Mrs Bennet’s near-constant raptures on the topic, alternating between grandiose wedding plans and enumerations of all the riches Jane would have when her suitor came to the point, had made Longbourn an even noisier place than it usually was. Time for quiet and reflection had become a scarce commodity. Elizabeth had thus walked out more frequently than usual and rambled further than was otherwise her custom.

This particular morning, she chose the path leading past Netherfield and towards Oakham Mount. It was a walk she had not frequented very often of late, as it reminded her unpleasantly of the aggravating day of Mr Collins’s proposal. However, Mr Collins was safely back in Kent and engaged besides, and the pleasantness of the scenery along the path tempted Elizabeth too strongly to be resisted.

Due to the early hour, she did not expect to encounter anyone besides the occasional farmer or labourer going about their work; but in this assumption she was incorrect. She had only just passed the turn towards Netherfield when she heard her name hailed. Looking up, she saw Mr Darcy approaching her with hurried steps.

Elizabeth greeted him with some surprise, which only increased when, immediately after the usual greetings, he said: “I have frequented this path on several mornings now in the hope of encountering you. There is a matter of which I must speak to you in private.”

Elizabeth, entirely at a loss regarding what such a matter could be, and disconcerted by the gravity of his manner, hardly knew how to respond. Her curiosity, however, overpowered any other sentiments. Thus, she indicated that he might walk back towards Longbourn with her.

Mr Darcy fell into step beside her, and after appearing to collect his thoughts for a moment, began thus: “Miss Bennet, I fear that you will be displeased by what I have to say ‒ and, indeed, it is a topic I myself am reluctant to speak of. However, I can remain silent no longer. I ask only that you hear me out, despite the sentiments that may be evoked by what I have to relate. Whether you choose to believe my account or not I shall leave to your judgement.”

Elizabeth was beginning to suspect what his topic might be, and it was, indeed, one that filled her with a certain degree of trepidation. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was about to hear something she would rather not. However, she was also intensely curious. This, coupled with the feeling that their recent interactions obligated her to at least treat him with civility, prompted her to agree to his request.

Mr Darcy thanked her, and with a serious expression, continued: “You may have already guessed that the matter I wish to speak to you about relates to Mr Wickham.”

She nodded; this was indeed what she had suspected.

“I believe that, since his arrival in Meryton, you have been often in his company, and I have recently thought myself to perceive a certain ‒ preference ‒ towards him on your part.”

Elizabeth blushed, as much with embarrassment as with anger. For all that he had done her a service, it surely was not his place to broach such a topic with her! It took her a great amount of self-restraint not to interrupt him with an acerbic retort.

Mr Darcy, no doubt perceiving her heightened colour and stony countenance, said, in a somewhat softened tone: “Forgive me ‒ it is not my intention to pry into private matters. However, my observation of what appears to be your growing partiality towards Mr Wickham has made me feel I must warn you of that gentleman’s true nature.”

He looked somewhat pained as he said this. Elizabeth could readily suppose that it was rather embarrassing for him to once again feel himself obliged to interfere in matters of her heart. In this instance, however, her sympathies were greatly reduced by the unwelcomeness of his meddling.

“I know not what Mr Wickham has said to you of our past interactions,” Mr Darcy continued, “but I fear based on what you implied at the ball two weeks ago that he has not been entirely truthful.”

Elizabeth coloured, doubted and was silent. It had crossed her mind that Mr Wickham might have exaggerated Mr Darcy’s faults a little, but she had not expected Mr Darcy to accuse him of outright falsehood.

It was with astonishment and dread, therefore, that she listened to Mr Darcy’s account, which bore an alarming affinity to what Mr Wickham had told her, except when it came to the elder Mr Darcy’s will. There, the difference was significant. According to Mr Darcy, Mr Wickham had not only refused the living intended for him ‒ he had received ample compensation in lieu of it, and then squandered the entire sum in a few short years. The extravagance and profligacy, the idleness and vice which Mr Darcy scrupled not to lay at Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice.

Instead, as she listened to Mr Darcy, the vague stirrings of doubt that she had recently felt about Wickham’s tale began rapidly forming into something more substantial. She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct: he had had no reserve, no scruples in sinking Mr Darcy’s character in her eyes, though he had assured her that respect for the father, would always prevent his exposing the son.

And there was yet more to come. With increasing distress, Elizabeth heard Mr Darcy recount Wickham’s attempted elopement with Miss Darcy ‒ a girl no older than Lydia. The pain in Mr Darcy’s voice and countenance was unmistakeable, and it could not fail to move her. She had often heard him speak affectionately of his sister. His obvious grief at the betrayal Miss Darcy had suffered elicited her strongest sympathy, while fanning her ire against Mr Wickham.

How differently did everything now appear in which Wickham was concerned! His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. She grew absolutely ashamed of herself ‒ so much so that when Mr Darcy had finished his tale, she could hardly look at him.

Mr Darcy, mistaking the reason for her silence and averted face, said quietly: “I fear that what I have had to relate has pained you greatly. I wish I had not felt obligated to speak of it, but whatever sentiments Mr Wickham may have awoken, my conscience did not allow me to leave you in ignorance of his real character.”

Elizabeth, hot with mortification, immediately made to disabuse him of his mistaken assumption.

“Indeed, sir, you misapprehend the reason for my embarrassment. While I am pained by what you have related, it is merely my vanity which has been injured. That I, who have always prided myself on my discernment, should have been so entirely taken in by tawdry lies and cheap compliments! It is exceedingly humiliating ‒ yet no more than I deserve for my wilful blindness.”

Determined to make a clean breast of her mistakes, she continued: “I must also apologise to you, sir, for having believed such accusations against your character. I fear I have allowed one unfortunate remark at the beginning of our acquaintance to colour my view of you, despite your having since apologised for it. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“Do not be too harsh on yourself,” replied Mr Darcy. “Wickham is a practised liar and an accomplished deceiver. His success is not to be wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of his history. You had no reason to doubt him, and little opportunity to discover the falseness of his claims.”

Elizabeth would have liked to protest ‒ she ought to have been more perspicacious, she should not have allowed herself to be so easily imposed upon ‒ but she abruptly recalled that Mr Darcy’s sister had been similarly fooled, and that his father, too, had been unaware of his favourite’s faults. Although she did feel that such gullibility was more excusable in a girl of fifteen than in a woman of twenty, she did not wish to say anything which Mr Darcy might interpret as criticism of his deceased father or poor Miss Darcy.

Instead, she merely said: “Then, if you will not accept my apology, you must at least allow me to thank you. I believe ‒ I hope ‒ that I was not in any imminent danger from Mr Wickham, but you have saved me from making a worse fool of myself than I already have. I shall know, now, to be on my guard against him and to dismiss whatever drivel he spouts as utter falsehood.”

A sudden thought struck her, and she added: “I hope that he has not attempted to blacken your character to the neighbourhood in general. I had believed him to have confided only in myself ‒ but given what I now know, I have little confidence in his having any sort of reserve. I fear he may unjustly damage your reputation.”

“I should hope,” replied Mr Darcy somewhat curtly, “that my character would speak for itself. Your error is entirely understandable, given that I gave you such an unfavourable first impression ‒ but as for your neighbours, if they are foolish enough to believe his slander, they may do so. I do not care to expose my private affairs to the world.”

Though Mr Darcy had, over the past half-hour, risen considerably in Elizabeth’s estimation, he retained his ability to thoroughly vex her. She had acquitted him of several faults; but he also had some very real ones, and this ludicrous assertion forcefully reminded her of them.

“I presume, then,” she retorted archly, “that your favoured method of convincing those around you of your worth is to conceal your amiable qualities as carefully as possible. I am now persuaded that you are in every way honourable and upstanding ‒ but my neighbours, sir, know you primarily as a man who is too high and mighty to open his mouth in company, and who does not bother to conceal his disdain for them. If you will not blame me for being misled, you should not blame them too harshly if they were to make the same mistake as I did. It is natural, I think, to trust a man who is universally agreeable rather than one who is constantly giving offense.”

A little breathless after having vented her pique, and conscious of having been shockingly impertinent, Elizabeth awaited Mr Darcy’s response with some trepidation. The turn of his countenance, indeed, was a sight to behold. There was a moment of disbelief, followed swiftly by indignation ‒ but after mere moments, these emotions resolved themselves into what she could only interpret as chagrin.

“I perceive,” he said after a moment’s silence, “that it is now my turn to be humbled. My manners, according to your estimation, are quite abominable ‒ and considering what our acquaintance has been so far, I am afraid that your opinion must be justified.”

He paused again for a moment, then continued: “I can only say in my defence that I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers. I have not the talent which some people possess of conversing easily with those I have never seen before, or of making myself agreeable in unfamiliar company. However, I see now that I ought, perhaps, to have tried harder. It seems that my manners have cost me your friendship, and perhaps also the means of warning others of Wickham’s character, should it become necessary.”

Such a measured speech, such an honest acknowledgement of his errors, could not fail to sway Elizabeth’s sympathies.

“Should you wish for my friendship, Mr Darcy,” she replied warmly, “you have certainly earned it ‒ but I should think that you might reconsider taking on such a thankless task. Twice, now, you have been forced to rescue me from the attentions of objectionable young men. We must hope that I will learn to be a better judge of character and to keep unwelcome admirers at distance. Else I fear you will very soon find yourself heartily tired of coming to my aid.”

Mr Darcy smiled a little at this. “You have amply repaid my assistance, Miss Bennet, by giving me an edifying lesson about the value of good manners. I hope you will wish me equal success in my endeavour to improve myself as I wish you in yours.”

“Oh! Certainly ‒ and while you remain in Hertfordshire, perhaps we may each support the other in our quests. If you are willing, I can attempt to introduce you to those of my neighbours who are a little less silly than the rest. In return, you, sir, may turn your ferocious glare on the next unworthy gentleman who dares approach me, should I fail to discern his faults on my own.”

Mr Darcy smiled again, acceding to her request with good humour. But Elizabeth would have been surprised to know that, privately, he feared that he would be entirely too tempted to discourage any gentleman approaching her with too much interest, whether the man was worthy or not.

As she had not the least suspicion of the increasingly warm feelings in his breast, however, she continued their conversation in a light and amiable manner until they reached the outskirts of the Longbourn gardens. There, yet again, they parted.

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Mr Wickham remained absent from Longbourn over the following days, though a number of his fellow officers braved the increasingly chilly weather to enjoy the society of the pretty Bennet sisters. Mr Bingley was also a frequent visitor, and his attentions to Jane were so marked that Mrs Bennet could hardly contain herself. Somewhat to the puzzlement of the family at Longbourn, Mr Darcy also began to join his friend when he called.

“Good gracious!” cried Mrs Bennet, as she stood at a window one morning, “if that disagreeable Mr Darcy is not coming here again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must try to keep him entertained, that he may not be in Bingley’s way.”

Elizabeth had, indeed, been the one keeping Mr Darcy company when he and Mr Bingley came to visit. This was partly because Mrs Bennet greatly disliked him and her younger sisters regarded him with something akin to awe, and partly because he himself seemed to gravitate towards her.

Elizabeth found that she did not mind this duty at all. Even had she not felt obligated to ease his way out of gratitude for all he had done for her, she would have welcomed his conversation. She had discovered that Mr Darcy improved significantly on better acquaintance. When not accosted by the likes of Sir William Lucas, who had little capability for conversation beyond general platitudes, and when given a topic he found interesting, he spoke with intelligence and acumen; and though he was scrupulously polite to her, he did not hesitate to enter into debate if he disagreed with her views.

Elizabeth found, somewhat to her surprise, that they shared many interests and opinions, and that their discussions about the subjects on which they disagreed were, in fact, quite stimulating. She began to perceive that their interactions at Netherfield, which she had previously thought to have been arguments with ill-will on either side, had in fact been so only on hers ‒ Mr Darcy had been engaging with her merely for the pleasure of debating.

It also seemed to her that he was making good on his promise to improve his manners when interacting with Meryton society. Though he had, during his calls at Longbourn, primarily spoken with Elizabeth, he had made an effort to exchange at least a few words with Mrs Bennet and each of Elizabeth’s sisters as well. And the previous night, at a party hosted by the Gouldings, she had observed him making stilted but civil conversation with Mrs Long and listening with admirable composure as the two eldest Lucas sons bragged about their horses.

Elizabeth, impressed by Mr Darcy’s efforts, had done her best to aid him by drawing him into conversation with those who could interact with him on a more equal footing in terms of intellect, if not standing. It had pleased her to see that he found Mr Bennet a worthy conversational partner and that he also seemed to have taken a liking to Charlotte Lucas ‒ though Elizabeth noted with amusement that he carefully avoided topics related to Charlotte’s engagement and future husband.

It vexed her, therefore, to hear her mother speak of him with such incivility. Still, she consoled herself with the knowledge that Mrs Bennet would never dare to be discourteous to such a great man in person. And Mrs Bennet was, indeed, perfectly civil to Mr Darcy when he entered the drawing-room, though her greeting to Mr Bingley was much warmer.

Mrs Bennet, in fact, had no attention to spare for Mr Darcy. Her every thought was centred on hastening Mr Bingley’s coming to the point. Other gentlemen, particularly ones who had early on made it clear that they had little interest in her daughters, were of no consequence in her eyes. Her sole object was to further the match between Jane and Mr Bingley. And it was with this object in mind that she, a half-hour after the gentlemen’s arrival, proposed that the young people take advantage of the fine weather and walk out.

It was indeed a rare sunny day in the midst of the general greyness of December, and Mr Bingley took to the suggestion with alacrity. Mr Darcy, after a glance at Elizabeth, also pronounced himself agreeable to the scheme. Kitty and Lydia, perceiving an opportunity to walk into Meryton to meet officers, were no less eager to comply. Only Mary declared that she had rather remain at home, and since Mrs Bennet saw no need for her to go along, it was a group of six that began preparing to go outside.

As Elizabeth went upstairs to get ready, Mrs Bennet followed her, saying: “Lizzy, you must make sure to engage Mr Darcy to walk with you, so that Mr Bingley may speak alone with Jane ‒ and for heaven’s sake keep Kitty and Lydia from being underfoot! I am quite sorry that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.”

Elizabeth, aggravated in equal measure by her mother’s epithet for Mr Darcy and her transparent manoeuvrings, had no intention of complying. She, too, hoped that Mr Bingley would propose to her sister ‒ Jane deserved all the happiness of marrying a kind, amiable man who admired her as much as she admired him ‒ but she did not think that attempting to push Bingley into paying his addresses would be of any help. He must make up his own mind to speak when the time was right, and Elizabeth feared that her mother’s behaviour was more likely to make him hesitate than to encourage him.

As it turned out, however, matters seemed to go Mrs Bennet’s way without any effort on Elizabeth’s part. Kitty and Lydia, who had little interest in the company of gentlemen who did not wear red coats, reasserted their intention of walking into Meryton. Mr Bingley, on the other hand, declared a wish to admire the countryside around Longbourn, with Jane blushingly assenting to his request. Mr Darcy appeared initially to intend to keep company with them, but as he and Elizabeth were stronger walkers, they soon outstripped their companions.

At first, Elizabeth threw apprehensive glances behind her, worried that either Jane or Mr Bingley would be embarrassed about being left so pointedly alone. However, when she attempted to slow her pace in order to allow them to catch up, Mr Darcy said quietly: “I understand Bingley has been looking for an opportunity to speak alone to your sister. I believe we had best give them privacy ‒ unless you fear that Miss Bennet will find such an interview distressing.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Elizabeth, colour rushing into her cheeks as she quickened her steps. “No ‒ indeed I am assured that it will be very welcome.” In a rush of joyous anticipation, she added: “I believe, though Jane has refused to own it outright, that she has been very much hoping that your friend would speak. She has admired him from the first ‒ I am so very glad that her feelings are requited. She is the dearest creature in the world, and I cannot think of anybody who would be better suited to ensure her happiness.”

“I am glad ‒ very glad ‒ to hear such assertions from the one who knows Miss Bennet best,” replied Mr Darcy. “Of Bingley’s affections, I have no doubt, but I confess I have been a little anxious regarding the state of your sister’s heart. The serenity of her countenance and air is such that I have not been able to determine whether her sentiments towards Bingley are anything more than mere friendship.”

Elizabeth stared at him, astonished. She could hardly credit how anyone could have thought Jane indifferent ‒ but before she could voice her incredulity, she recalled what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Mr Darcy, she reminded herself, did not know Jane as she did, and therefore perhaps could not be expected to perceive the strength of her attachment beneath her modest reserve.

She hastened, instead, to assure him of the warmth of Jane’s regard.

“Indeed, Jane has too strong a sense of decorum to display her sentiments to the world, but you may rest quite easy. I believe she had not known Mr Bingley for a fortnight before she was in a way to be very much in love with him; and her feelings have only grown stronger since.”

“In that case, I feel as sanguine as you do about their future happiness,” replied Mr Darcy. “It only remains for me to congratulate you on gaining a new brother. Bingley is as good a fellow as they come. You will, I am certain, come to value him even more highly than you already do.”

Elizabeth thanked him warmly, and they spent the next quarter of an hour happily anticipating the future felicity of the young couple.

Upon turning back, they soon met Jane and Mr Bingley, who were both smiling so widely that there could be no doubt of what had occurred. Congratulations were offered and graciously accepted, and it was a cheerful group that returned to Longbourn. Mr Bingley immediately went to speak to Mr Bennet. Their conference was short and to the purpose, and Mr Bingley was soon able to return to the drawing-room, where Jane had already acquainted her mother with the news.

Mrs Bennet’s joy could scarcely be contained. She could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked of nothing else for half an hour. Elizabeth was more than a little embarrassed to have her mother’s exclamations overheard by Mr Darcy. She was glad that she had already assured him of Jane’s sincere affection for Mr Bingley, for it suddenly occurred to her how easily he might have believed that Jane cared only for Mr Bingley’s fortune, if he had only had Mrs Bennet’s raptures to judge by. She blushed for the vulgar way in which her mother at once began to anticipate the fine gowns and pin-money Jane would have, and wondered that Mr Darcy had not reverted back to his mask of cold disapproval.

He bore the scene, however, with a forbearance and command of countenance that Elizabeth found quite impressive. Not wishing to have his patience taxed beyond bearing, she made sure to draw him into conversation on the other side of the room. Still, as it was impossible to drown out all her mother’s silly remarks, she was rather relieved when the gentlemen finally took their leave ‒ for then she could participate fully in Jane’s happiness without concern about her family’s behaviour.

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The next day, the entire Netherfield party called on the Bennets. Whatever Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst might have thought of their brother’s engagement, Elizabeth was obliged to concede that they gave every appearance of accepting it with good grace. They spoke very prettily of their delight in gaining Jane as a sister, and had Elizabeth not recalled Miss Bingley’s note to Jane upon her temporary departure from Meryton, she might almost have thought them sincere. The two eldest Miss Bennets were invited to spend the next day at Netherfield, and the entire family to join the party for dinner.

The morrow thus saw Elizabeth and Jane conveyed to Netherfield. They were at first received only by the ladies, the gentlemen having gone out early to shoot; but Elizabeth privately suspected that Mr Bingley was not to be long detained from Jane’s side. These suspicions were proven correct: it was not much past noon when the gentlemen made their appearance.

After the initial pleasantries, Mr Bingley immediately engaged both Miss Bennets in conversation, leaving Mr Darcy to enjoy Miss Bingley’s attentions. His enjoyment, Elizabeth soon discovered with a few surreptitious glances, did not seem very great. Miss Bingley was speaking in an animated fashion, but he appeared to say little, and though his scant words were several times rewarded with peals of laughter, he himself barely even smiled.

Previously, Elizabeth would have dismissed this as more evidence of Mr Darcy’s haughty manners. Now, however, she thought she perceived something else behind his cold demeanour: it was discomfort, not merely disdain, which made him so stiff and taciturn. Every teasing remark of Miss Bingley’s appeared to make him more ill at ease.

Elizabeth had ample opportunity for observing the pair, as Mr Bingley and Jane, though it was not their intention to be rude, soon disappeared into a world of their own, where their conversation required little contribution from others. Mrs Hurst, sitting on Elizabeth’s other side, was studying a fashion plate with an expression of refined ennui, and Mr Hurst appeared to have fallen asleep.

There had been a time when watching Mr Darcy struggle under Miss Bingley’s relentless attention would have amused Elizabeth exceedingly. However, she found it was not so anymore. Besides the tentative friendship they had formed, which alone would have caused her to feel sympathy towards his discomfort, she vividly recalled the acute embarrassment she herself had suffered due to Mr Collins’s attentions. She had been rescued by Charlotte at the ball and by Mr Darcy the morning after. Now, it appeared that it was her turn to play the rescuer.

As she rose from her seat, she thought she saw an expression of relief cross Mr Darcy’s features. Miss Bingley, however, was not willing to have her tête-à-tête with her object interrupted. Seeing Elizabeth approach, she immediately cried: “Oh, I feel the greatest inclination to hear some music! Miss Elizabeth, would you not play for us?”

Her brother, his attention briefly torn away from Jane by the exclamation, enthusiastically seconded the request. With the rest of the party murmuring their agreement, Elizabeth could see no way to refuse. When she saw Mr Darcy’s shoulders sag minutely, however, she was possessed by a sudden inspiration.

“But I fear I must trouble someone to turn the pages for me,” she said. “Mr Darcy, perhaps you would be so kind as to oblige me?”

The gentleman rose with remarkable alacrity, directing only the briefest of apologies at Miss Bingley, who could not quite hide her affronted expression. As Darcy assisted her in sorting through Miss Bingley’s collection of music, Elizabeth said quietly: “I am sorry to bother you, sir, if you were enjoying your conversation, but it appeared to me as if it was, perhaps, your turn to be in need of assistance.”

He coloured a little, but replied: “Indeed, your surmise was correct. I am grateful for your aid.”

Elizabeth smiled, taking her seat at the pianoforte. “Perhaps we ought to form a pact in which we agree to rescue each other from disagreeable interviews in the future.”

Mr Darcy’s lips twitched, but he replied with every appearance of solemnity: “It should ease my mind greatly to have your protection, madam.”

“Consider it agreed, then,” said Elizabeth lightly, before turning her attention to the instrument.

Darcy, standing beside her, was indeed most pleased with the change in his situation. In addition to not having to endure Miss Bingley’s hollow flattery ‒ which after the news of her brother’s engagement had taken on a new, almost desperate quality ‒ he was afforded a most enjoyable view of Elizabeth’s countenance as she played. Though her eyes were directed towards the music and the keys, he found that looking at her from above gave him a new appreciation of her dark eyelashes. He had to remind himself sternly to also attend to his task of turning the pages. Thus, he passed the next half-hour in very pleasant contemplations, and would gladly have remained so even longer.

Elizabeth, however, was unaware of his admiring gaze (though Miss Bingley certainly was not) and did not particularly wish to extend her exhibition of her mediocre skill at playing for longer than necessary. After having remained at the instrument for a time she deemed sufficient, she therefore applied to Miss Bingley to take her turn. Miss Bingley assented quite readily ‒ but Elizabeth was determined to keep her side of the pact she had made with Mr Darcy. Therefore, to Miss Bingley’s frustration, she cheerfully offered to take his place turning the pages.

Darcy was thus forced to re-join the rest of the group and attend to their conversation. Elizabeth, meanwhile, was left to deflect Miss Bingley’s glares and irritable complaints about her turning the pages too quickly or to slowly. Still, as Darcy was able to admire Elizabeth’s form from afar, and as she in turn was blithely unconcerned by Miss Bingley’s displeasure, they neither had cause to repine.

It occurred to Darcy, as he watched an arch smile play over Elizabeth’s face, that were he only to replace Miss Bingley at the instrument with Georgiana and do away with Mr Hurst’s snoring in the background, he should be very close to his ideal of a domestic scene. Such a thought would once have frightened him. Now, however, he greeted it with something akin to resignation. Ever since he had spoken to Elizabeth of Wickham and she had offered him her friendship, he had known that he was fighting a losing battle against his heart. It was almost a relief to finally acknowledge defeat ‒ but it was a relief tinged with melancholy.

Had he not, over the past weeks, had cause to reconsider much of his former opinion of himself and his behaviour towards others, he would have seen no reason for gloom. Having accepted the inevitable, he would merely have taken the necessary steps to make it a reality ‒ that is, he would have sought out the first opportunity to solicit Elizabeth’s hand, not doubting for an instant that it would be bestowed on him.

However, he now knew that he had little reason to think her favourably disposed towards him. She no longer disliked him ‒ of that, he felt reasonably certain ‒ but there was no indication that her feelings matched his. She behaved towards him with the amiable unselfconsciousness of a friend, and had given no sign, by word or deed, of any stronger interest.

Mr Darcy was beginning to discover what it was to love with little hope of a return; and he had no notion what he ought to do about his situation.

If the afternoon had passed more or less pleasantly for everybody except Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, the tables were turned at dinner. Mrs Bennet arrived at Netherfield in fine form. Having spent the morning visiting her neighbours to gloat about Jane’s triumph, she was ready to revel in viewing the house of which her daughter would soon be mistress.

No sooner had Mrs Bennet been welcomed into the drawing-room than she began to list the improvements Jane ought to make to the house.

“For though Miss Bingley has done very well, a married woman must and shall arrange things to her own liking. Jane, you had best see to having these curtains replaced as soon as you may ‒ they do not at all suit the furniture! And the paper-hangings in the dining room looked a little worn, I thought, when we were here for the ball. Chinese papers would look very fine there, and I dare say the old ones would do well enough for some spare room or other. We must make a tour of the upstairs chambers as soon as we may…”

The behaviour of the rest of the Bennets was scarcely less mortifying. Kitty and Lydia did not speak one word of sense between them during dinner and spent a full quarter of an hour pestering Mr Bingley for another ball. Mary, perhaps in an effort to signal her disapproval of such frivolous pursuits, went off on a long-winded lecture regarding an edifying sermon she had recently read. And Mr Bennet, rather than attempting to turn the conversation in a more generally agreeable direction, took pleasure in baiting his wife and daughters into increasing foolishness.

Mr Bingley’s attention, fortunately, was mostly on Jane, but his sisters had nothing to distract them from the exhibition the Bennets were making of themselves. Elizabeth saw every raised eyebrow, every look of amused incredulity that passed between them, and felt close to despair. Jane was already looked down upon by her future sisters-in-law ‒ why must her family supply them with more reasons for disdain?

As for Mr Darcy, she hardly even dared to look at him. Still, whenever her eyes did chance to dart his way, it seemed to her that he was retreating more and more into himself. She could not blame him; even the most tolerant, forbearing man would have been hard put to endure such folly with equanimity.

Mr Darcy was in fact struggling to retain his composure ‒ but not for the reason Elizabeth might have imagined. As Mrs Bennet continued her crowing, Miss Lydia spilled wine on the tablecloth and Mr Bennet pretended to seriously consider inviting Mr Collins to perform his daughter’s wedding ceremony, Darcy sternly told himself that he ought to be happy to escape such connections.

Then he chanced to look at Elizabeth, and the misery he saw in her countenance made him forget all else. He could derive no comfort from something that caused her such embarrassment. Would that she cared for him even a little ‒ he would sweep her off to Derbyshire, where she would be at a safe distance from her mortifying relations, and might choose to see as much or little of them as she cared to.

It was fortunate, he decided at the end of the evening, that he had promised to join Georgiana in London for Christmas. Once again, he was in desperate need of some distance to clear his head. Perhaps a separation would allow him to master himself. Elizabeth would be Bingley’s sister-in-law; he must accustom himself to the notion of her being part of his social circle and learn to see her as merely a friendly acquaintance.

Or, should he fail to gain control of his feelings, he must discover how to win her affection.

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Elizabeth was surprised, after Mr Darcy’s departure, to discover that she rather missed his company. Despite its inauspicious beginnings, she had come to value their friendship. Now that he was gone, she found that there was a sad dearth of intelligent conversation at the parties and dances of the neighbourhood. Jane was often occupied with Mr Bingley; her intimacy with Charlotte was not what it had once been; and though her father could always be counted on for sardonic comments and diverting observations, she was finding it increasingly difficult to turn a blind eye to the impropriety of his behaviour towards his family, which materially lessened her amusement.

It was at an evening party at Lucas Lodge, while she was contemplating this circumstance with some dissatisfaction, that she was approached by Mr Wickham. She had seen little of him in recent weeks; at first because he had made himself scarce from Longbourn, and later because she had consciously avoided putting herself in his path. They had occasionally been in company together, but Elizabeth, partly out of resentment and partly out of a desire to dispel any appearance of her having formed a preference for him, had contrived to avoid speaking to him whenever possible.

The worst of her agitation about what Mr Darcy had told her was over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so, but she was not at all disposed to be in good humour with Mr Wickham. She had learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary, and the hints which he continued to drop about his past misfortunes could only serve to provoke her.

Mr Wickham had not yet become aware of her change in sentiments, however. After offering some idle gallantry on her good looks that evening, he began: “You have heard, no doubt, of the departure of one whom we neither have cause to think well of. It is a relief to me, I confess. It has been quite painful to be so often reminded of the happy days of my youth ‒ and of their bitter end.”

“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth coolly, “I can imagine that you should be relieved by Mr Darcy’s absence.”

Mr Wickham appeared a little taken aback by such a curt response. He soon recovered himself, however, and enquired, with the air of one who believes himself to know the answer: “Should I take it, then, that you are less pleased by his leaving? Has Mr Darcy risen in your opinion?”

“Yes ‒ I have recently discovered that Mr Darcy improves upon better acquaintance.”

“Indeed!” cried Mr Wickham with a look which did not escape her. Presently, however, he added in a gayer tone: “Your sister’s engagement, I suppose, has made you wish to see Mr Bingley’s friends in a more amiable light. I commend you for such generosity.”

“You are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, her patience rapidly diminishing. “It is rather that I have come to understand Mr Darcy’s disposition better. My past view, I have learned, was unfairly biased. In fact, I have reason to believe that I had been misled with regard to his character.”

Mr Wickham now looked more than a little alarmed.

“If so, I have no doubt that it was done unintentionally ‒ different people, after all, may recall the same events quite differently.”

“Yes,” replied Elizabeth, “and different people have such different notions of the value of money. For instance, there are those who think three thousand pounds a very handsome sum, while others find it so trifling an amount that they seem to forget having ever received it.”

She had the pleasure of seeing Mr Wickham turn first white, then red. He stood for a moment quite lost for words; then, with a mumbled excuse, he bowed and hurried away. For the rest of the evening, he remained staunchly on the other side of the room from wherever Elizabeth happened to be.

Elizabeth took no little pleasure in having frightened Mr Wickham off, but her delight in his mortification could not long stave off the peculiar ennui which had been plaguing her ever since Mr Darcy’s departure. It was as if everything had become a little duller without his presence. Her morning walks were no longer enlivened by the knowledge that she might encounter him; Mr Bingley’s calls at Longbourn did not hold half as much interest when he did not bring his friend with him; and when, in desperation, Elizabeth tried to amuse herself with a book, she found her thoughts turning to what he might have thought of this or that passage, and wishing that he were there to argue the merits and flaws of the author’s prose with her.

Not even the arrival of Mr and Mrs Gardiner could entirely shake Elizabeth out of her low spirits. Mrs Bennet had made sure to keep her relations entertained in the form of various engagements both at home and away; there was the general festive mood of the season ‒ yet Elizabeth felt oddly listless and weary through it all. She did her best to put up some semblance of her usual cheer in company, but she often feared that her distraction must be obvious to everybody around her.

It went unnoticed, however, until one rainy morning in the parlour at Longbourn. Elizabeth was sitting with her aunt, mother and sisters, trying in vain to focus on her needlework while Kitty and Mary argued about which book to read aloud to the group, Jane attempted to mediate and Mrs Bennet loudly begged them to lower their voices for the sake of her nerves. She was abstractedly wondering what Mr Darcy might have thought of such a scene when she was startled out of her reverie by Mrs Gardiner.

“You have hardly spoken a word all morning, Lizzy,” her aunt said quietly. “Are you quite well?”

Elizabeth looked up in surprise; but it was Lydia, who was sitting on her other side, who immediately replied: “Oh, you need not worry! She is only out of spirits because her beau has abandoned her.”

Elizabeth was struck quite speechless. Her cheeks blazed ‒ she sought in vain for a reply. She was in equal parts mortified and astonished. How had Lydia, of all people, managed to guess her secret, when she had not breathed a word of it even to Jane ‒ had hardly admitted it even to herself?

Before she could so much as attempt to disclaim it, however, Lydia continued, with a gleeful expression: “Lizzy was quite in love with Mr Wickham, you know, and he was forever paying her attentions ‒ but now he has not so much as spoken to her all week! ‘Tis too bad, for he is the handsomest of all the officers. I dare say I should go into a decline, too, were I in Lizzy’s shoes.”

For a heartbeat, Elizabeth could only stare at Lydia in utter incomprehension. Then, as she realised her sister’s error, she flushed even more hotly; but this time, there was a great deal of anger mixed in with her embarrassment.

“Indeed, aunt, Lydia is quite mistaken! I am entirely indifferent to Mr Wickham ‒ in fact, I assure you that his attentions are the last thing I could ever wish for.”

“Oh, tosh! You are only bitter at losing him!” exclaimed Lydia. “But it is no use being long-faced about it ‒ ‘tis now everybody else’s turn to try to catch him. Perhaps I should ask Mama to invite him to dinner tomorrow. How should you like it, Lizzy, if I were to become Mrs Wickham?”

Fortunately, Elizabeth was not obliged to reply: Mrs Gardiner now intervened, sternly taking Lydia to task for speaking so imprudently. Lydia was not in the least abashed, but she did allow her aunt to turn the conversation to a less contentious topic.

Mrs Gardiner had been made more than a little uneasy by this exchange, however, and she took the first favourable opportunity to speak to Elizabeth alone. After apologising for her incautiousness in having broached the topic in company, she went on to delicately inquire whether there had, after all, been some truth in Lydia’s assertions.

This notion Elizabeth was eager to at once disclaim.

“I admit,” she told Mrs Gardiner, “that I thought Mr Wickham very agreeable and charming at first, but that was only at the beginning of our acquaintance. After being more in company with him, I have found that I cannot approve of his character. I assure you that I am quite indifferent to him ‒ nay, I may even honestly say that I rather dislike him.”

She refused to elaborate on the subject, merely reassuring her aunt that Mr Wickham had not committed any impropriety towards her and that she did not think him a danger to her sisters.

“I do wish that Lydia would not be so eager to seek his company, but I am sure he can have no interest in her. I believe him to be merely a gambler and a fortune-hunter ‒ none of the girls in Meryton are rich enough for him.”

This was spoken so earnestly and seriously that Mrs Gardiner could not doubt her niece’s truthfulness and judgement. She turned, instead, to her initial cause of concern: Elizabeth’s low spirits. Mrs Gardiner had not failed to notice Elizabeth’s embarrassment and confusion when Lydia spoke of a beau.

“I am now assured that you have no partiality for Mr Wickham,” she said, “but I cannot help but wonder whether there is some other gentleman who is causing you heart-ache.”

Elizabeth would have liked to disclaim this suggestion as vehemently as she had dismissed Mrs Gardiner’s previous suspicions. Even had her conscience allowed such a falsehood, however, her countenance would have betrayed her, for she could not conceal the colour rushing to her cheeks.

“There is,” she finally replied. “But dearest aunt, I beg you not to ask me about him. My affections and wishes can come to nothing. It is entirely impossible, and so it will only pain me to speak of the matter.”

“But are you certain ‒ absolutely certain?” exclaimed Mrs Gardiner, surprised and a little alarmed by such despondency. “My dear Lizzy, I certainly do not wish to pry, but I must ask ‒ surely it is not a married man who has been paying you attentions?”

“Oh, no!” cried Elizabeth, entirely mortified. “He is not married, nor ‒ to my knowledge ‒ engaged. He has done nothing improper; indeed, he has shown me the most unexceptionable friendship and kindness. But I know quite certainly that he does not admire me, and even if he did, his station in life is such that he could hardly think me an eligible match. His family, I understand, has high expectations of him.” She attempted a weak smile. “I am fortunate, I suppose, in that he does not reside in Hertfordshire. Distance and time will, I am sure, be an effective cure ‒ but at present, I cannot help but be quite foolishly miserable over it all.”

Mrs Gardiner, seeing that Elizabeth was truly very unhappy, was too kind and tactful to question her further. Instead, as her niece lost her battle against tears, Mrs Gardiner merely pulled her into a silent embrace.

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The Gardiners returned to London two days before New Year, Mrs Gardiner having extracted a promise from Elizabeth to write frequently. Their departure was shortly followed by the return of Mr Collins, arriving in Hertfordshire for his own wedding ‒ and of Mr Darcy, coming to that of his friend.

Charlotte and Mr Collins were to marry a few days after Twelfth Night, Jane and Mr Bingley a week later. There was thus a great deal of to-do at both Longbourn and Lucas Lodge. In the wedding preparations, a certain spirit of competitiveness could be perceived: though Mrs Bennet and Lady Lucas would never have admitted as much, each harboured secret hopes of outdoing the other.

Mrs Bennet was still smarting over the fact that Charlotte, not one of her own daughters, was one day to take her place. Lady Lucas, on the other hand, felt that her triumph had been sadly undermined by Jane’s engagement to a man much wealthier than Mr Collins. Charlotte was thus obliged to abandon her initial scheme of departing for Kent from the church door in favour of a wedding breakfast for friends and neighbours, while Jane was at pains to assure her mother that neither she nor Mr Bingley desired Longbourn to be bedecked with pineapples and hothouse flowers in the middle of the winter.

In one regard, however, it was fortunate that the two events were to coincide so closely: Mrs Bennet was too busy preparing for and boasting of her eldest daughter’s upcoming nuptials to be able to muster up much resentment towards her second-born. Elizabeth had to endure only a few ill-natured remarks on the subject of Mr Collins, and even then her mother was easily redirected towards happier topics.

Elizabeth was glad to escape further scolding, for her nerves were sufficiently strained by the presence of Mr Darcy. Having become tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings during his absence, she was at first exceedingly self-conscious in his company. It seemed to her as if he had only grown more handsome and distinguished-looking while they had been parted, and her eagerness to speak with him on a thousand and one topics was tempered by a sort of shyness that she was entirely unused to experiencing.

Still, determined not to betray her feelings, and aware that they would by necessity be much in company during the time leading up to Jane’s wedding, Elizabeth exerted herself to behave towards Mr Darcy as she ever had. She was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was mostly persuaded that her performance was quite successful.

Yet there were moments of doubt. More than once, she caught him observing her from across a room in a manner reminiscent of the early days of their acquaintance, with an expression she could not interpret. Besides, though he was, in general, as kind and attentive a friend to her as he had been before Christmas, Elizabeth fancied that there was now a little more reserve in his manner, a little more distance between them. Had he divined her sentiments? Was he attempting to gently discourage them? She dreaded the thought.

How bitterly did she now regret her incivility and impertinence during their early acquaintance; how dearly did she wish that she had shown herself a little more to advantage in the autumn. At times, she indulged in imagining that perhaps, had she been less foolish, she might have hoped to make Mr Darcy admire her and win his regard ‒ and then sternly upbraided herself for such daydreams.

She reminded herself of her lack of fortune and connections, and of all the vulgar behaviour of her relations. Although she was by now disposed to think Mr Darcy among the very best of men, he did still have his pride. Even if he harboured some warmer affection for her ‒ of which she had no evidence whatsoever ‒ he would surely never consider connecting himself with such a family.

There was also the matter of the unknown cousin to whom rumour linked his name. Though Elizabeth could give little credit to the tales of Mr Wickham, and only slightly more to those of Mr Collins, she could not help but to wonder whether, in this instance, their information might not be correct.

Mr Collins had described Miss de Bourgh as being charming and amiable despite her sickly constitution. In her mind’s eye, Elizabeth pictured Mr Darcy with a young lady of delicate, ethereal beauty, one whose features bore some resemblance to his own. Perhaps he did indeed admire his cousin ‒ perhaps some of the long letters he had been writing at Netherfield had been addressed to her? Perhaps he was only waiting for her to be old enough, or for the settlements to be finalised, before making his engagement public?

It was impossible to inquire into the matter, and impossible not to wish to know it all. Mr Darcy had never spoken of Miss de Bourgh in Elizabeth’s hearing; but she had no way of determining whether that signified disinterest or merely a wish to keep his private affairs to himself. It would be very like him, she felt, to wish to conceal such matters from the world until all was settled.

She could only gather her fortitude, therefore, to withstand his visit with grace, and attempt to enjoy the pleasure of his company despite her heart-ache.

The wedding day of Charlotte and Mr Collins arrived, and both the residents of Longbourn and those of Netherfield were among the well-wishers. The groom was exceedingly pleased with himself, the bride calm and composed; and the wedding breakfast was fine enough to have Mrs Bennet wonder in a none-too-quiet whisper whether the Lucases meant to dine on bread and butter for the rest of the month.

Mr Collins had been noticeably cool and distant towards Elizabeth throughout his time in Hertfordshire; a circumstance which she had not in the least lamented. Perhaps the festive mood of his wedding day had thawed some of his resentment, however, or perhaps he had another motive in wishing to speak to her. Whatever the case, he found an opportunity, while Charlotte was receiving the congratulations of the Robinsons, to approach his cousin.

“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in attending our humble celebration; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it.”

Elizabeth, though surprised to be thus singled out and a little amused by the pomposity of his manner, said all that was proper on such an occasion, with some complimentary remarks about Lady Lucas’s arrangements. Considering how matters stood between them, she rather expected this to be the full extent of their interview. She could not imagine him desiring to converse with her at any more length than she wished to speak with him.

However, it became apparent that Mr Collins had more to say. Rather than moving on to greet other well-wishers, he fixed her with a self-satisfied smile and went on: “Indeed, cousin, you are very kind. But I must also express my particular gratitude to you ‒ for had events transpired differently, I might never have been united with my dearest wife.”

Elizabeth hardly knew what to respond to such a proclamation. It seemed calculated to insult; yet from such a man as Mr Collins, it was perhaps the closest she could expect to an offering of peace.

“I am glad,” she settled for replying, “that you are content with how matters have turned out.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr Collins, appearing quite satisfied indeed despite the blandness of her words. “I certainly have no cause to repine; and I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate lot either. What is more, she need no longer suffer those anxieties which often beset the eldest unmarried daughter of a house ‒ anxieties with which you, dear cousin, may perhaps soon grow familiar.”

Elizabeth, though indignant at his deliberate malice ‒ for there could be no doubt now that Mr Collins was attempting to take his revenge ‒ exerted herself to appear dispassionate as she replied: “I hope Mrs Collins will be as comfortable in her future situation as I am in my present one. If she is pleased with it, I shall rejoice in her happiness.”

“I commend you, cousin ‒ and I may say that it is prudent of you to attempt to maintain the connexion. Mrs Collins has indeed secured her future comfort, and though you claim at present to be happy with your circumstances, you may one day find—”

“Miss Elizabeth,” a voice said behind her, “I believe your mother is looking for you.”

Elizabeth’s heart performed a sudden little caper in her chest. Mr Collins, on the other hand, turned quite red. He appeared at once to wilt and shrink as he took in Mr Darcy’s forbidding expression.

“Mr Collins,” Mr Darcy said coolly, “allow me to congratulate you on your marriage. You are fortunate indeed to have gained the hand of a woman of good sense and character. I trust you will forgive me for cutting short your interview with Miss Elizabeth, for there are no doubt many others waiting to extend their best wishes.”

And with a slight bow, he offered his arm to Elizabeth and led her off.

Once they had passed into the next room, Mr Darcy said quietly: “I hope that your cousin did not distress you.”

“No,” Elizabeth assured him, “though I am grateful that you intervened when you did. I was in grave danger of losing my patience entirely and offending him on his wedding day.”

Mr Darcy looked grim. “If he gave you insult, I should be glad to remind him of his manners.”

“Oh, Mr Collins can say nothing that would hurt me,” said Elizabeth, endeavouring to maintain a light tone in order to conceal how very gratified she was by his concern. “He was merely trying to help me appreciate Charlotte’s good fortune. No doubt he hoped that I should betray some sign of regret over refusing his offer, but as I could never regret that, my feelings are entirely safe from him.”

“You are more forgiving than I should be in your position,” said Mr Darcy. However, his expression did thaw a little.

Elizabeth could not help but smile up at him. “Then we must hope that none of your cousins ever make the mistake of attempting to court you, lest they suffer an unpleasant surprise.”

She regretted her words immediately after speaking them. Her conjectures about Miss de Bourgh and his family’s expectations, momentarily forgotten, now reasserted themselves forcibly in her mind. She feared Mr Darcy must think her a dreadful, prying creature ‒ or that she had inadvertently exposed her own foolish wishes.

But before she had time for anything but a blush of mortification, he smiled and replied quite easily: “Fortunately, all my female cousins but one are married already. Besides, you have promised to be my champion against unwanted attentions. I mean to hold you to it, should the need arise.”

Elizabeth laughed, as much out of relief as out of appreciation for his jest.

“Oh, certainly ‒ as you have once again come to my aid, I must do my best to repay you at the first opportunity.”

To her surprise, Mr Darcy’s expression grew suddenly serious.

“I hope that you do know, Miss Bennet, that you may always count on my assistance should you need it. Being of use to you is its own reward. I require no other.”

He was looking at her with a peculiar intensity. She met his gaze, hardly knowing what to say. Had she received such a particular declaration from any other gentleman, she would have thought it a certain sign of a deeper regard ‒ but surely Mr Darcy could not—

“Oh, there you are, Lizzy! Charlotte is asking after you ‒ she and Mr Collins are about to take their leave.”

Never had Elizabeth been less pleased to see her dearest sister. Mr Darcy at once moved away, his expression once again unreadable. If only the interruption had come a little later ‒ but now the moment was broken. She was obliged to follow Jane, and the brief look she was able to steal at Mr Darcy told her nothing of his thoughts.

It was in disordered spirits, therefore, that Elizabeth said her farewells to Charlotte. Even as she reiterated her best wishes and hopes for her friend’s future, her mind was in large part occupied by the gentleman she had left behind in the parlour. She only hoped that her distraction was not evident to Charlotte.

Charlotte, sincerely affected by the parting, embraced her tightly and exhorted her to write often. This request Elizabeth had no hesitation in agreeing to ‒ but when Charlotte followed it up with an earnest invitation to visit her in Kent, Elizabeth found herself in an awkward predicament.

The notion of being in close quarters with Mr Collins, particularly after their recent exchange, was more than she felt she could endure. It was evident that he still resented her. To be a guest in his house under such circumstances would be exceedingly disagreeable; and Charlotte, too, would no doubt be made uncomfortable by their mutual dislike.

Nevertheless, an outright refusal at such a moment would have been uncivil in the extreme. Elizabeth was therefore obliged to give an evasive answer, but feared that even this was cause for offense: Charlotte appeared a little hurt, though she wisely contented herself with replying that Elizabeth must think the matter over at her leisure. Yet it was impossible to provide a satisfactory explanation ‒ and so a press of the hand and a repeated promise to write was all that Elizabeth could offer.

There was time for little more. The carriage was waiting, Mr Collins standing at the ready to hand his bride in. Charlotte was embraced by her mother and sisters and regaled with some final parting jests by her brothers; Sir William solemnly shook his son-in-law’s hand. Then the newlyweds were off; and Elizabeth, watching the carriage disappear behind a bend in the road, felt a sharp pang of sorrow. The events of the past hour had thrown her mind into turmoil ‒ first there had been the absurd interview with Mr Collins, then Mr Darcy’s unexpected avowal. She felt unsettled and off balance, and longed for some time alone to attempt to make sense of it all.

Of one thing, however, she was painfully certain: her friendship with Charlotte would never be quite the same again.

Chapter Text

Jane’s wedding was now fast approaching, and Longbourn was bustling with activity. The wedding clothes and trousseau must be finalised, Jane’s old possessions either packed or distributed among sisters and servants, and the house made ready for the festivities. Mrs Bennet was in a state of constant nervous excitement, alternating between delight at the prospect of impressing her neighbours and despair that the arrangements would never be finished in time.

Elizabeth had little opportunity to speak to Mr Darcy during these busy days. When she was not occupied with hemming, stitching and trimming, there were a great many callers to entertain at Longbourn, many of whom thought it vastly entertaining to subject Elizabeth to raillery on when she might be expected to marry. Even when the Netherfield party came to call, Elizabeth found herself in so much demand that she scarcely had time to say three words to the one she most wished to speak with.

She had turned their conversation at Charlotte’s wedding over and over in her mind, yet she could not determine to her satisfaction whether Mr Darcy’s words had, in fact, held any particular significance. At times, recalling all his kind solicitude towards her, she dared to hope ‒ only to moments later sink into despondency, convinced that he had merely been behaving as he felt that a gentleman ought to.

On the morning of the day preceding Jane’s wedding, Elizabeth woke at dawn after yet another fretful night spent pondering Mr Darcy’s intentions. Restless despite her tiredness, she decided that a brisk walk before breakfast was precisely what she needed to fortify herself for the no doubt busy day ahead. It had rained during the night, but though the sky remained grey, another downpour did not appear imminent. Thus, attired in her sturdiest boots and warmest pelisse, she set out into the damp morning air.

Whether Elizabeth consciously intended it or not, she found her feet turning in the direction of Netherfield, as if they could not help but follow the direction of her thoughts. It should not be surmised that she set out purposefully to encounter Mr Darcy ‒ but it must also be admitted that she was not entirely surprised when, shortly after passing Meryton, she spied him approaching in the opposite direction.

Greetings having been exchanged, he at once offered to turn and walk with her. This offer she accepted with alacrity, taking his arm with a mixture of happiness and trepidation. But if she had hoped, in the course of this encounter, to discover something of his feelings and intentions, she initially found herself disappointed. Mr Darcy did speak; but he spoke of indifferent topics, and she fancied that there was an air of distraction in his manner. After a time, the conversation flagged, and Elizabeth found herself quite at a loss for a new subject.

She was close to despairing. But then, having walked for some moments in silence, Mr Darcy suddenly turned to her and began, with an air of renewed purpose: “You will, I expect, find life at Longbourn a great deal altered after your sister’s marriage.”

“Indeed,” agreed Elizabeth, not certain where this was tending, but relieved that the silence had been broken. “It is fortunate that she will not be settled far ‒ it will make the change easier to become used to ‒ but I am certain that we will all feel her absence. Besides, I expect that Mr Bingley will wish to spend some part of the year in London; and so I must learn to be parted from Jane more frequently than before.”

“But you will surely join them there ‒ that is, I believe Bingley mentioned that your sister hoped to invite you to town for the season.”

Elizabeth, a little flustered that he appeared to be so well informed of her plans, replied: “Yes ‒ though Jane expects we shall not leave the country until after Easter. I confess I am glad to have the visit to look forward to. With Jane at Netherfield, Charlotte in Kent, and you, I presume, soon to leave Hertfordshire as well, I fear my circle of friends will be sadly reduced these coming months.” Deciding to be bold, she continued: “Your company, sir, will be particularly missed. I have come to value our conversations ‒ our friendship ‒ very highly.”

She could not look at Mr Darcy as she spoke ‒ but she heard his sharp inhale, and felt him draw abruptly to a halt.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, turning to face her, “when you are in London ‒ may I call on you?”

Meeting his eye, she found him regarding her so closely that it nearly robbed her of breath.

“Yes,” she managed to reply, “yes ‒ you should be most welcome, I am sure.”

“But would you welcome me still, were I not calling as a friend? Do you think ‒ even if your present feelings do not yet tend that way ‒ that you might learn to think of me with a warmer regard? For I must tell you that my purpose in calling would be to win your heart ‒ and your hand.”

The elation which Elizabeth felt at that moment was such as she had never felt before. She wished to laugh, to sing, to dance ‒ yet she was almost afraid to move or speak, as if to do so might awaken her from this happiest of dreams. It was only with an effort that she managed to compose herself sufficiently to reply: “Certainly ‒ but I fear there will be very little challenge in your quest. My hand is yours for the asking; and as for my heart, you have won it already.”

She now had the joy of seeing Mr Darcy’s countenance overspread first with astonishment, then, an instant later, with heartfelt delight.

“Can it be true?” he exclaimed. “Elizabeth ‒ dearest Elizabeth ‒ do you indeed return my affections?”

Her hand was still linked through his arm. She slipped it down to intertwine their fingers.

“I do; certainly I do ‒ only I had hardly dared hope that you—”

She broke off, unable to put into words the miserable anxiety she had suffered under ever since Christmas. Perhaps he could read some part of it in her countenance, however; for a moment later, she was in his arms, and he was assuring her, in the warmest of terms, of his fervent regard.

If any doubt or fear had still existed in Elizabeth’s heart, it could not have survived such a display of affection ‒ and when Mr Darcy bent down to kiss her, she discovered to her delight that her happiness could yet increase.

Not even the most ardent of lovers, however, can remain entirely unconcerned about the world around them. In the case of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, a sudden gust of wind, bringing with it a swift smattering of water from the overhanging branches of a tree, reminded them that they were standing in a country road in January, and that the weather was not conducive to lingering outdoors overlong.

On their leisurely walk back towards Longbourn, Elizabeth discovered that Mr Darcy had been as determined as she to gain clarity into where matters stood between them.

“I left Hertfordshire convinced of your indifference,” he told her. “At first, I attempted to accept it ‒ to learn to be content with friendship and give up any wish for more. I had not been many days in London, however, before the futility of such an aim became evident; for even that brief parting was near impossible to bear. I therefore returned at the earliest convenience, determined to discover your feelings and to influence them if I could. But though I was not entirely without hope, I could not ascertain whether you would be amenable to being courted. Of your true sentiments I had no notion.”

“Would you have declared yourself at all, had I not been so shamelessly forward today? Or would you have waited until we met again in town?”

“I should rather call it courage than forwardness,” protested Mr Darcy. “You said nothing improper or objectionable. But I would have made my attempt regardless. I had been endeavouring to decide how to broach the subject, and would have persevered in my course until I had my answer. I will not deny, however, that you made my task a great deal easier.”

It was, of course, also necessary to canvass at length the topic of their mutual affection and the beginnings from which it had sprung. Elizabeth was quite astonished to discover how long Mr Darcy had admired her; and recalling their encounter at Oakham Mount, was embarrassed anew by the manner in which she had spoken to him.

“I wonder that you did not write me off entirely after the shrewish remarks I made! You must have thought me horribly ill-mannered and ungrateful.”

“No, indeed! I will admit that your words stung, yet I soon came to perceive that all that you had said was entirely justified. My pride certainly took a blow; but I assure you it was a salutary lesson.”

“And you were generous enough to reciprocate in kind when you enlightened me about Mr Wickham. We were both, perhaps, in need of being humbled ‒ but I am hopeful that we have learned from the experience.”

“My faults, I am certain, were greater than yours. You were deceived by another ‒ I had been deceiving myself.”

“Oh, by all means, exaggerate my virtues and minimize my faults! We shall get along splendidly indeed, if you mean to be always flattering my vanity. But though I should happily continue to listen to your turning my errors into merits, I am afraid there is a more serious matter we must yet discuss.”

Mr Darcy, his demeanour immediately reverting to gravity, begged her to enlighten him.

“You see, it occurs to me that there is one person to whom we owe a great deal of our present happiness, yet who I fear will not be best pleased to hear the news of our engagement. I am speaking, of course, of Mr Collins. Had he not been so determined in his pursuit, you would not have needed to come to my rescue, and I might never have discovered all the excellence of your character.”

“I should hope,” said Mr Darcy, “that we would have found our way to an understanding even without your cousin’s efforts. I commend your good nature in making light of the matter; but I doubt I shall ever forgive him for the manner in which he has treated you.”

“And in this instance, I do not fault you in the least for your implacable resentment. In fact, you may be obliged to change your assessment of my good nature; for I confess I should dearly wish to see Mr Collins’s expression when he learns of our engagement.”

“I understand and approve of your sentiment,” Mr Darcy replied drily, “but I must say I have no particular wish to ever see Mr Collins again. Besides, at present, there is another countenance I should much rather be contemplating.”

The direction of his gaze made his meaning very clear; and Mr Collins was spared no further thought for the rest of their walk.

Chapter Text

It had been decided between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, in the course of their walk, that their betrothal should be kept private until after Jane and Mr Bingley were married. Elizabeth did not wish to encroach upon her sister’s celebration, and Mr Darcy assured her that he comprehended and honoured this sentiment. There would be time enough for their own news to be shared with the world. At present, both were content and perhaps even pleased to keep the secret between themselves.

Had all the attention not been on the acknowledged lovers, however, Elizabeth did not think that she could have escaped suspicion. The Netherfield party called at Longbourn in the afternoon, and while Mr Darcy was not a man whose emotions were easily perceived in his countenance, Elizabeth herself found it exceedingly difficult to maintain a semblance of equanimity. How could she speak to Mr Darcy, or even look at him, without betraying all that she thought and felt? She was so distracted that she could scarcely attend to the general conversation, and what little needlework she managed to accomplish while their guests were present was sadly uneven. She suspected that Mr Darcy’s state was hardly better: he spoke little, and when she dared to glance at him, she almost invariably found his eyes turned in her direction.

It was even more difficult to repress her eagerness to open her heart to Jane. It was their last night together in the room they had shared through the years of their girlhood; the last night of laughter smothered in pillows and confidences whispered under the cover of darkness. Elizabeth, now able to enter into Jane’s hopes and nerves on the occasion with even more personal feeling than previously, was a little regretful that she could not share her joyous tidings. Yet, though she knew that her news would delight her sister, she was determined that this night should be about Jane, and Jane alone. Thus they sat awake for hours weaving plans for the Bingleys’ wedded happiness, and when exhaustion claimed them at last, Elizabeth could sleep satisfied in the knowledge of having given Jane all her due.

The wedding, despite Mrs Bennet’s nerves, went off charmingly. The bride and groom were both radiant with joy, and the guests who came to the wedding breakfast were suitably impressed by the fineness of the arrangements. So great was Mrs Bennet’s satisfaction that, made magnanimous by success, she almost entirely refrained from crowing over her triumph to Lady Lucas.

Elizabeth, for her part, could not entirely keep her mind from wandering to the other wedding which she very much hoped would take place in the near future ‒ and judging by the number of times her eyes encountered Mr Darcy’s during the ceremony, his thoughts were not far removed from hers. However, they had little opportunity to speak until the breakfast, during which Mr Darcy spied an opportunity to approach Elizabeth while she was pouring out coffee.

“And what did you think of the ceremony, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth inquired with mock seriousness, handing him his cup.

“The rector spoke very well,” replied he, matching her tone, though there was a smile lurking in his eyes. “There was no useless parade, but I thought his words well suited to the solemnity of the occasion.”

“Indeed! At such events as these, it is advisable that the sermon be kept to a reasonable length, though it must of course not be too brief, so as not to feel hasty. But a wise clergyman understands that a simple message will be better received and retained on such a momentous day, and does not make his remarks overlong.”

“I am entirely in agreement, madam,” said Mr Darcy, still maintaining his air of apparent gravity. “Were I to marry one day, I should hope for the ceremony to be performed much in the manner of today’s service.”

“It appears that you have given some thought to the matter,” said Elizabeth, no longer able to repress her smile.

“Indeed I have,” replied Mr Darcy. “I find that, at present, few topics can interest me more.” Leaning a little closer, he added: “Will you not call one of your sisters to take over your duties here? I should greatly wish to hear more of your opinions on the subject of weddings.”

And so it was that, the very day after Mr Bennet saw his eldest daughter married, he found himself being petitioned for the hand of his second eldest. It cannot be denied that he was surprised ‒ whether more by the request itself or by the identity of the requester, it would be difficult to determine. Yet a few moments’ reflection after Mr Darcy’s departure from his book-room brought him to understand that this development was not, perhaps, quite as astonishing as it had first seemed. Upon looking back at the past few weeks, it occurred to him that he had often seen Elizabeth and Mr Darcy in conversation; and he also recalled that, before Christmas, his daughter had particularly introduced the young man to his notice.

When Elizabeth came into the room a quarter of an hour later, she therefore found her father tolerably composed. He did have some reservations about the match; but they were soon put to rest by Elizabeth’s earnest assurances of her affection for Mr Darcy. She had then to endure only a little teasing about her slyness in keeping their courtship so well concealed. Mr Bennet found nothing to object to in Mr Darcy’s character or circumstances, and though loath to part with his favourite, was sincerely happy that she would be so well situated.

Mrs Bennet’s reaction was rather less restrained; and in her behaviour, as well as that of Mrs Philips, Elizabeth found her only real source of distress during the weeks of her engagement. Though she was quite secure in the strength and steadiness of Mr Darcy’s affections, she knew that his forbearance must be greatly tested by the vulgarity of her mother and aunt. He bore their attentions tolerably well; but Elizabeth had no doubt that he anticipated their removal to Pemberley with even more eagerness than she.

It consoled her, however, that she could look forward to introducing Mr Darcy to some relations for whom there was no need to blush. Very soon after Mr Bennet’s consent had been obtained, Mrs Gardiner had the pleasure of receiving a letter from her niece.

“All my maudlin silliness over Christmas is to be forgot. The gentleman we spoke of has once again proven himself the best and cleverest of men ‒ by falling in love with me! Mr Darcy and I should be delighted to see you and my uncle at our wedding; but if you are unable to travel again so soon, you must promise to visit us in Derbyshire in the summer.”

Mr and Mrs Bingley, of course, were entirely delighted by the news. In their own newlywed happiness, they were warmly in favour of everybody else’s following them into the married state; and to see his good friend united with her dearest sister was everything they could have hoped for. (Mr Bingley’s sisters were a little less pleased ‒ in fact, the very day after the engagement was announced, they recalled pressing business in London, and were gone before the end of the week.)

Mrs Collins also wrote to convey her congratulations, intimating that she understood now why Elizabeth had felt unable to commit to visiting her at Hunsford. Elizabeth, relieved at this gesture of forgiveness from her friend ‒ for the tone of the letter was rather warmer than that of Charlotte’s previous one ‒ felt no need to correct her slight misapprehension. (Of Mr Collins’s reaction to the news Charlotte wrote not a word, and Elizabeth was obliged to content herself with imagining his surprise and chagrin.)

Visits to Kent, indeed, were not likely in the near future, for Mr Darcy’s aunt did not take kindly to the news of his engagement. Elizabeth was a little sorry that she would not have the opportunity to meet the famous Lady Catherine de Bourgh in person ‒ but only a very little. What she had heard of that great lady from Mr Collins, and what Mr Darcy let slip when speaking of his aunt, made her suspect that Lady Catherine’s company would be exceedingly diverting for the first hour or two and exceedingly tiresome after that.

As for her former conjectures about Miss de Bourgh, some surreptitious questioning assured Elizabeth that Mr Darcy had never given any serious thought to marrying his cousin. She was a little amused to recall her own fretting over the subject ‒ but not yet so amused as to wish to share her imaginings with her betrothed. She did not think she would be able to laugh about that period of anxious misery until she and Mr Darcy were safely married.

Fortunately, not all Mr Darcy’s relations were as hostile as his aunt. Miss Darcy was quite delighted by her brother’s betrothal, welcoming Elizabeth into the family with all the enthusiasm her shy and reserved temperament allowed. She came to Meryton for the wedding, and Elizabeth, discovering the genuine sweetness of her new sister’s character, found cause to despise Mr Wickham even more thoroughly than she previously had. She vowed to be as good a friend to Miss Darcy as she possibly could; and as Miss Darcy was no less eager to befriend her, there was little doubt of their getting along very well indeed.

The three youngest Bennet girls, though having taken only a moderate interest in their elder sisters’ courtships, found that they, too, had something to gain from their family’s good fortune. Mary would go to London with the Bingleys in Elizabeth’s place; Kitty was to join the Darcys at Pemberley for several months; and Lydia was invited by Mr and Mrs Gardiner to join them on a Northern tour in the summer. Mary, though professing little interest in most of the amusements of town, looked forward to visiting bookshops and attending concerts. Kitty was enthused by the prospect of residing at such a grand house as Pemberley was said to be, and perhaps also by the opportunity to be out of Lydia’s shadow. Even Lydia was surprisingly philosophical about being parted from her dear friends in the militia ‒ perhaps because Mr Bennet, after a serious conversation with Mr Darcy, had discreetly but firmly advised Mr Wickham that he was no longer welcome at Longbourn.

What more remains to be said? Mr and Mrs Darcy found great happiness in their life together. No marriage, of course, can be entirely without occasional discord; but the Darcys, having had some opportunity to practice resolving such disagreements before getting married, were rarely at odds for long.

Mrs Darcy never did lose her fondness for long walks. Fortunately her marriage, in addition to giving her access to the charming grounds of Pemberley, also ensured that she did not need to fear being accosted by objectionable gentlemen during her rambles; for Mr Darcy tended to need little persuasion to join her. And if they sometimes returned from such walks looking particularly red-cheeked and bright-eyed ‒ well, it was surely all due to the healthful effects of the exercise.