“But she is only marrying Mr Collins,” Kitty sighed. “I want to catch someone more exciting, like Captain Carter. You do not see Captain Carter lurking about the booksellers,’ or reading Fordyce all the time, do you?”
Mary lifted her chin. “Booksellers and Fordyce are precisely what a gentleman should concern himself with, Kitty. A man’s character is not built on mere excitement or frivolous pursuits but on his dedication to moral and intellectual improvement. Mr Collins may not be a captain, but he is a man of substance and duty, which is far more worthy of respect than the fleeting charms of an officer’s uniform.”
Elizabeth stifled a sigh as Mary’s voice dripped with the smugness that had become all too familiar since her engagement to Mr Collins. It was insufferable, really, how Mary had transformed into a model of self-righteousness, as though her upcoming marriage elevated her to a higher moral plane.
“Do not be so dull, Mary,” Lydia retorted, waving a dismissive hand. “We have plenty of time to think about serious matters when we are old and grey.”
“Indeed, indeed!” Mrs Bennet agreed. “Youth is for enjoyment, my dear Mary. And your sisters are only having a bit of fun.”
Jane sat beside Elizabeth, quietly stitching a handkerchief, her blank expression betraying no hint of anything like the vexation that Elizabeth was feeling. Elizabeth’s mind still spun on that conversation with her father from the day before.
Her father and Mr Collins were at Netherfield even now, meeting with the gentlemen of Meryton. The selection of Sir Anthony Mortimer as their new MP should have brought some relief, but it did not. Her father’s lack of enthusiasm about the man’squalifications had left her uneasy, but the fact that everyone else was so willing to endorse him with seemingly few questions asked only deepened her concerns.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Lydia’s voice pierced through the fog in her mind. “Lizzy! Are you even listening? You have been sitting there with that sour look on your face for ages! Do stop being such a bore and tell us what you think of Captain Denny.”
Elizabeth blinked, realising that she had been staring blankly at the wall, lost in her thoughts. “I think,” she said, her voice clipped, “that it would do you some good, Lydia, to hold a serious thought in your head for more than a moment. You prattle on about these officers without a care in the world, but you might at least do others the courtesy of letting them think about something worthwhile!”
The words came out more sharply than she had intended, and the effect was immediate. Lydia’s face fell, the hurt clear in her wide eyes. Kitty looked at Elizabeth in surprise, and even Mrs Bennet’s cheerful expression dimmed. Jane’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth, her mouth parting in silent concern.
“Lizzy!” Mrs Bennet’s voice carried a note of reproach. “That was quite uncalled for.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with shame. “I... I am sorry, Lydia. I did not mean to speak so harshly.”
But the damage was done. Lydia turned her face away, her lips quivering slightly as she tried to laugh it off. “Well, if you are going to be so grumpy, I suppose we shall just have to enjoy ourselves without you.”
Elizabeth could hardly bear the sight of Lydia’s wounded expression. “I did not mean it, truly,” she stammered, rising quickly from her chair. “I… I think I shall go upstairs for a while.”
As the drawing-room door swung closed behind her, she clutched her hands into fists and squeezed them over her face, standing momentarily in the hall. “Foolish, Elizabeth. How could you? Scolding Lydia like that. She may be frivolous, but you know better.” The words felt heavy on her tongue, like stones she could not swallow.
She ought to go back and make a proper apology now, while the regret was most raw. But her blood was up, and so, no doubt, was Lydia’s. There would be no sensible conversations had if she turned back now, so she pulled her hands from her face and made for the stairs. Perhaps after a good while muffling her frustrations with her pillow, she could be rational again.
Her pace quickened as she reached the hall, her only thought now to find solace in the privacy of her room. “Lydia is still young,” she muttered to herself as she mounted the stairs. “You could recall yourself at fifteen. But no, you had to wound her pride instead. Always too quick to speak your mind...”
Her foot hit the stair awkwardly, and in her distraction, she misjudged the step. Her weak ankle buckled beneath her, and before she could catch herself, a sharp, searing pain shot through her leg. Elizabeth cried out, the sound muffled as she bit down on her hand, clinging desperately to the bannister to keep herself from collapsing.
Elizabeth cursed her carelessness, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “Stupid, stupid girl,” she hissed under her breath, the ache in her ankle only amplifying her frustration. “This is what you get for rushing—no sense, no patience…”
“Lizzy?” Mrs Bennet’s voice called from the parlour, tinged with irritation. “What have you done now?”
Elizabeth bit back tears, her breath hitching as she tried to compose herself. “Nothing, Mama,” she called back, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I just... bruised my toe.”
“For mercy’s sake!” came her mother’s exasperated reply. “It sounded as if you broke the stair!” Her voice shifted, and Elizabeth could tell that her mother was addressing her sisters, but still loudly enough for Elizabeth to hear every word. “Oh, I shall go distracted if Mr Wickham does not make his intentions known sooner and take her away. That girl, with her muddy hems and bruised shins! How shall I ever make a proper lady of her?”
Elizabeth’s teeth sank into her lower lip as the tears streamed hotly down her cheeks. The pain was more than a mere bruise—it throbbed with each heartbeat, the strained muscle reminding her of her foolishness. She was still clinging to the bannister, the throbbing in her ankle making her feel faint. The idea of climbing the stairs to her room was too daunting now, and it would be easier to limp back down.
Hopefully, none of her sisters would think of coming out of the sitting room. She could endure only so much humility for one day.
Hobbling as best she could, Elizabeth made her way to the kitchen, each step sending fresh waves of pain through her ankle. When she reached the door, she knocked gently before pushing it open. Mrs Hill looked up from her work, her eyes widening with concern as she saw Elizabeth’s pale face and the way she leaned heavily on the doorframe.
“Miss Elizabeth! Whatever has happened?”
“I twisted my ankle, Mrs Hill,” Elizabeth replied. “Do you have a bucket of cold water? I think it would help if I soaked my foot.”
Mrs Hill nodded quickly, setting aside her work. “Of course, Miss. Sit yourself down, and I’ll have it ready in a moment.”
Elizabeth limped to a nearby chair, sinking into it with a sigh of relief. As she waited for the water, she closed her eyes, trying to push away the embarrassment and the pain that seemed to swell with each passing minute. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? The weight of her earlier outburst, the sting of Lydia’s hurt, and now this—an injury caused by her own carelessness. She felt utterly wretched, her body and mind both aching as she sat there, waiting for the painful bite of the cold water and the brief numbness that might follow.
Darcy wiped the backof his hand across his mouth, the acrid taste of bile still lingering on his tongue as he sat back on his heels, the chamber pot beside him a miserable reminder of his condition. His stomach twisted again, but there was nothing left to bring up. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, but the room seemed to tilt and spin around him, the walls closing in like the jaws of some monstrous beast.
