TheBennetdrawingroomwas too full—of voices, of panic, of the smoke-sweet breath of lamp oil thickening the air. Elizabeth stood in the center of it all, hands clasped tight before her, feeling the walls press inward like jaws.
Mrs. Bennet was crying into a handkerchief that had not been clean since breakfast, her voice rising with each fresh wave of despair. “Ruined! Absolutely ruined! I told you that cousinship was nonsense from the start! A scandal, in our very household, and with the worst man in England, no less!”
Jane had a gentle arm wrapped around her mother, but her eyes were fixed on Elizabeth. Wide, stricken. Uncomprehending.
Kitty and Lydia huddled near the hearth, their skirts bunched in their fists, whispering. Mary stood a little apart, her brow drawn in fierce lines of confusion, clinging to a prayer book like a shield.
Collins, puffed with indignation, stood in the center of the room like a self-inflated toad, his eyes darting between Darcy and the Bennet family with theatrical horror. “It is appalling, utterly appalling,” he declared, his voice climbing in righteous volume. “Had I known she was no relation—had you all not insisted on lying about it—I should never have permitted such familiarity beneath this roof. I acted only in good faith, under the impression she was family. Instead, I find myself entertaining the company of a woman of mystery and aman”—he turned and jabbed a finger toward Darcy— “whose disgrace has been well-documented by better sources than mine!”
Darcy’s eyes glittered with rage, but he did not move.
Collins wheeled on Bingley next, his voice reaching a new pitch of self-satisfaction. “And you, sir, playing host to such a man! You cannot plead ignorance, not when Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself has spoken. She wrote me in the strongest terms. She is aggrieved, naturally, but not without compassion. In her beneficence, she has taken care to warn the good Mr. Wickham—yes, he is in London for the Season, as you may know—that her nephew is once again stirring trouble, this time from such a close vicinity as Hertfordshire!”
Darcy’s spine snapped rigid. Elizabeth could almost hear the bones and sinews cracking as his frame flexed from sheer wrath, viciously checked.
Bingley took a step forward. “She did what?”
Collins blinked, as if surprised anyone would interrupt such a noble pronouncement. “She felt it her duty to protect decent society. Naturally, she wrote to me at once—and to Mr. Wickham, who will, I daresay, not be slow to act if his generous nature is once again tested by Mr. Darcy’s… presence.”
“You fool,” Bingley breathed. “You absolute cretin.”
Mr. Bennet stepped forward then, his tone unflinching, each syllable cold and clean as a blade.
“Collins.”
The parson turned, puffing up again. “Sir?”
“Get out of my house.”
“But I—I am the heir!”
“And I am still very much alive. Collect your things while I still grant you time to do so. You maywalkback to Meryton to catch a post-chaise or hire a hack, I care not what.”
“But… but I have a trunk! My prayer journals, my clothing!”
“And whatever you cannot take with you now, I shall burn tomorrow. Out, sir.”
Collins gaped at him, jaw slack, as though he had been struck. Then, flustered and muttering about duty and the burdens of moral guardianship, he turned and made for the hall door—only to trip over the hem of the rug in his haste. He stumbled into the entryway with all the grace of an overturned teapot, clattered up the stairs to his room, and the door slammed behind him with a clap that echoed like a final verdict.
Elizabeth’s voice, when she finally found it, was soft. Broken, even. “I… I never meant for it to fall on all of you.”
Jane caught her hand. “You have not done this.Theyhave.”
Mr. Bennet, grim-faced, turned to Darcy and Bingley. “My study. Now.”
Elizabeth met Darcy’s eyes as he passed her. He did not speak. He only looked. And she knew well enough what that look meant.
She turned to Jane. “Come help me, Jane. I need to pack.”
Jane’s brows flew upward. “Lizzy—no. What are you talking about?”
Elizabeth’s voice cracked like glass. “I cannot stay.”
Jane stared at her, lips parted in shock, but she said nothing. She only turned, lifting her skirts, and followed Elizabeth up the narrow stairs without another word.
Their small shared room was warm and dim, the scent of rosewater lingering in the folds of the curtains. Elizabeth did not hesitate. She crossed to the wardrobe, yanked open the doors, and reached for the old linen wrap she had folded there days ago. Not the trunk Darcy had procured for her—there was no time for that, no strength to carry it, and no sense in taking more than she could run with. Just a satchel, a warm cloak. Just enough.
She gathered only the essentials—a change of gown, a ruby ring she had worn to Buckingham House that first night tucked in a kerchief, a clutch of undergarments procured for her by a bachelor, and the most unremarkable bonnet she could find.
