William Collins"
The silence afterward was a thing of rare and gleaming beauty.
Then, it shattered.
“Foureligible candidates?” Kitty squawked. “What about Jane?”
Mrs. Bennet clapped a hand to her chest. “He must mean the younger girls, of course. Jane is clearly meant for Mr. Bingley. I call that Providential.”
Elizabeth choked on a laugh. “Mother, you do not even know what this man looks like.”
“I know he is a gentleman and that he has written a letter with his own seal. That is more than some can say.”
“Does he wear a red coat?” Lydia asked hopefully.
“No,” said Mary primly. “He wears a clergyman’s frock.”
“Is it at least a flattering one?” Kitty asked. “Can clergymen be fashionable?”
“That depends on the sermon,” murmured Elizabeth.
Mrs. Bennet sighed thoughtfully. “He might do for Lizzy, if she can stop making faces at everything.”
“Faces?” Elizabeth cried. “That letterisa face.”
“I think,” said Mary, who had not blinked since the letter’s midpoint, “that I might be willing. If he is truly a man of principles.”
“He is truly a man ofsomething,” Elizabeth muttered. “Possibly steam.”
“He is the heir to this house,” Mrs. Bennet said. “And if he chooses one of you, I shall consider it a blessing. Even if it is Mary.”
“Thank you, Mama,” said Mary with great dignity.
Elizabeth slumped into the nearest chair and stared at the ceiling. “He has not even met us. What if he finds none of us acceptable?”
“Nonsense, Lizzy. How could you say such a thing?Mygirls, not acceptable? Rubbish!” her mother chided.
Mr. Bennet folded the letter again, tucking it back into his coat with a satisfied sigh. “Well. That was invigorating.”
“You are enjoying this far too much,” Elizabeth said.
“I find joy where I can,” he replied. “And if that joy comes in the form of a pompous cousin with poor timing and worse intentions, who am I to reject the hand of Providence?”
Elizabeth rose, still shaking her head. “I do not care how few eligible candidates we have. I have no intention of marrying a man who proposes in a letter rather than at least meeting us first.”
Chapter Twelve
He had read thesame paragraph three times.
Once with disinterest, once with rising irritation, and once—pointedly, furiously—as if sheer will might force the words to rearrange themselves into something useful.
They did not oblige.
Darcy shut the volume with a cracking of leather binding and stood. He had not opened that particular treatise on estate management to learn anything new—only to reassure himself that something in the world still functioned by rules. Bingley had no Latin grammars, so he found the next most logical option.
But even that had betrayed him.
The sun was out, weak and indifferent. The air had sharpened overnight. And if he remained cooped in this house any longer, he might put a quill through the next person who said the word “ball.”
