Jane’s foot shifted restlessly on the rug, and Elizabeth stifled a yawn as her attention wandered to the sounds filtering through the walls from her father’s library. Mr Collins’s voice droned on, a persistent murmur even over the lively din of the parlour. She could only imagine the trials her father was enduring, trapped with Mr Collins’s endless self-congratulation.
“Mama, perhaps this lace would be more suitable for the veil,” Jane suggested. Elizabeth sucked in a stale breath and pulled her attention back to the table.
Mrs Bennet ran the lace between her fingers, examining it with a critical eye. “Yes, you are right, Jane. It is exquisite. Mary, you will look like an angel.”
Mary’s smile widened, and she murmured her thanks, but Lydia’s laughter from the opposite sofa interrupted anything else she might have said. “And can you believe it, Kitty? Mr Denny said that he once saw a duel! Imagine that!”
Kitty’s eyes widened. “A duel? How thrilling! Who was it between?”
“Jane, what do you think of this trim for the pelisse?” Mrs Bennet asked, holding up a length of delicate satin.
Elizabeth’s head snapped from one conversation to the other. Gracious, how was anybody to focus on a single thing? She was tempted to rub her temples again… and again, she wondered if this was how Mr Darcy had felt at the ball. Overwhelmed and lost in the middle of it all.
“Now, Lizzy, do pay attention,” her mother chided gently, interrupting her thoughts. “What do you think of these flowers for the bouquet? Lilies, perhaps, or roses?”
She shook her head. “I beg you would excuse me, Mama. I… I just remembered something I meant to do.”
“But the flowers! Now, if it were your wedding, I should say roses and lilies for Jane, beyond a doubt, but for Mary—”
Elizabeth stood to her feet and pointed. “Mary is right there. Perhaps you may ask her and stop considering this a ‘rehearsal’ of some sort for other weddings that are not yet planned. I am going upstairs.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elizabeth passed by herfather’s study and couldn’t resist the mischievous urge to poke her head in. Mr Collins was in the middle of an animated discussion, his voice carrying through the partially open door.
“And you see, sir, this new technique of crop rotation, championed by none other than Lord Cathcart, could greatly enhance the productivity of Longbourn’s fields. The benefits are manifold, particularly for the root crops, which...”
Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair, trying to interject. “Mr Collins, that only works when—”
“No, no, I assure you, sir, the Four-Course Crop Rotation is infallible. It was developed in Norfolk—I shall familiarise you, sir. It involves a four-year cycle of different crops: wheat, turnips, barley, and clover. Each crop replenishes the soil in a unique way, reducing soil depletion and increasing productivity.”
“Mr Collins, I have on these shelves three books on that very topic. While interesting, what you fail to account for is—”
“Then you have heard of it! Why, sir, I cannot help but wonder why it is not already implemented. Longbourn could be prospering much more handsomely. Perhaps you have not read Lord Cathcart’s account. Lady Catherine has a copy in her possession, and I flatter myself, I doubt not that she would lend it to you to see that Longbourn’s lands are improved as much as they can be before…” Collins cleared his throat and gestured modestly between them.
Elizabeth’s father was drumming his fingers on the desk, a vein popping out on his forehead. “I am sure your readings are extensive, but you must understand that Hertfordshire’s soil is—”
“Lord Cathcart’s method has proven successful across various estates,” Collins interrupted, his enthusiasm unabated. “Turnips and clover, in particular, improve soil fertilityand provide excellent feed for livestock. Surely, adopting such a progressive system would benefit Longbourn immensely.”
Mr Bennet sighed, rubbing his temples. “But Mr Collins, our soil is heavy clay, not the light, well-drained soil that turnips prefer. We have already considered this system and found it unsuitable for our conditions.”
“But the introduction of barley and clover also enriches the soil, providing nutrients that wheat depletes. It is a brilliant cycle that—”
Elizabeth stepped into the room, thinking it was past time to rescue her father. “Excuse me, Mr Collins,” she interrupted with a light knock on the door as she passed through. “A note was delivered from the local parson, Mr Harrison. He asks that you call on him at your earliest convenience.”
Mr Collins’s chest puffed with pride. “Mr Harrison has requested my presence? How flattering indeed! I shall make my apologies, Mr Bennet, and take my leave at once. It would be most impolite to keep a fellow clergyman waiting.”
Mr Bennet leaned his forehead on his hand, one greying eyebrow arched. “Oh, no inconvenience on my part. I believe you have expressed yourself with sufficient eloquence for one afternoon.”
“You flatter me, sir,” Mr Collins declared, gathering his papers. “I shall return shortly, and we can continue this most enlightening discussion. Good day!”
Elizabeth lingered by the door, watching as Mr Collins bustled out of the room. She turned back to her father, who appeared as if the weight of the world had been momentarily lifted from his shoulders.
“Clever, Lizzy. But what will poor Mr Harrison say when you deliver to him an unexpected caller who expects him to set aside his afternoon to hear how he ought to be managing his parish?”
“He is a man of God. Perhaps he can pray for supernatural rescue. Papa, can I fetch you anything?” she asked, stepping further into the study.
“No, Lizzy, thank you. I only wish for a bit of peace and quiet. Things that appear to be in short supply in this house.”
