“I question the wisdom of calling Mr. Darcy welcome,” Collins said with a tight little smile. “He may be my honorable patroness’s nephew, but he has long disdained to acknowledge it. And now he lurks in Hertfordshire with no stated business and an attitude of entitlement that I, for one, find most unchristian.”
Elizabeth’s vision sharpened to a dangerous clarity.
“You are free to find fault in whomever you like,” she said, “but I must correct the record. Mr. Darcy is in Hertfordshire on his own terms, which need not concern you, and he has behaved with nothing but civility toward this family. As for you, Mr. Collins, it would be well if you remembered that hospitality once extended obligates a guest to discretion.”
Mr. Collins flushed. “You presume to rebuke me, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Oh, I should hope not,” she said brightly. “I was aiming to insult you outright.”
There was a long, pinched silence.
Then Mr. Collins, straightening, turned to Jane. “I do beg your forgiveness, cousin. I had not intended to create unpleasantness. I had merely hoped—” he coughed— “that the affections we once shared might yet endure.”
Jane, who had shared precisely nothing but a strained smile, looked confused.
Mrs. Bennet, now glowing with the kind of horror only unprofitable suitors could bring, fluttered a handkerchief. “Oh! Mr. Collins, I am sure Jane is not inclined—”
But Mr. Collins had moved on.
“And speaking of cousins… and attachments… I must confess,” he said, “that I had begun to entertain suspicions regarding Miss Elizabeth.”
The room fell silent.
“I confess it strange to me. Now, it is true that my father had little contact with the Bennet branch of our family, but he did show me the family lineage on more than one occasion, by way of advising me of my…”
At this juncture, Collins placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head toward a gasping Mrs. Bennet. “That is to say, how themisfortunesof one branch of the family created something of a blessing for me. I must say, there was no record of my cousin Daniel Bennet ever having a daughter. And while the resemblance to your family is… plausible, it is hardly conclusive. Moreover, Miss Elizabeth, your manner is, I daresay, nearly as refined as the delightful Miss Anne de Bourgh’s. I must question whether such elevated training could have been afforded by so modest a family as my cousin’s must be.”
Elizabeth could not speak.
“I have made inquiries,” Collins went on. “And I have written to my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, to ask her advice, both on this matter and that of her profligate nephew ingratiating himself among unsuspecting families. She is most shrewd in such matters. I expect her express reply within the next day or two.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth.
And found she had nothing to say.
Nothing that would satisfy Jane’s soft, uncertain eyes watching her across the room. Nothing that would explain the burn rising in her cheeks or the sudden ache in her chest.
“I am certain,” she said finally, “that any doubts you may hold will be answered in time.”
Her voice was too quiet. Her lie was too thin.
Jane knew.
Of course she did. And Elizabeth, who could deflect nearly anything with charm or laughter, felt herself shrink under the weight of that silent, gentle gaze.
Bingley, who had been staring at the hearth as though trying to crawl into it, suddenly turned. “You wrote to Lady Catherine?”
His voice was not cheerful now. Not surprised or angry, just… cool. Stripped of its usual warmth. And harder than Elizabeth had ever heard it.
Collins nodded. “Naturally. She will know what is best. And she will likely write to her nephew, if she believes he is acting imprudently.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped toward Bingley.
The blood had drained from his face.
“You had no right,” he said quietly. “None at all.”
“I wrote only what I observed,” Collins huffed.
