“Papa, you cannot,” Mary cried.
He turned to her. “And you. Such disloyalty to your sister. I am ashamed of you. Go to your room and do not come down. I will decide a fitting punishment.”
Mary went red. “Disloyalty to her? To a sister who never shows me any consideration? A family, in truth, that does not? I have no loyalty to Elizabeth or to any of you.” To Mr. Collins she continued, “Come, Cousin, I will help you pack. I cannot see why someone as good and noble as you would want to remain here.” Nose in the air, Mary left.
Mr. Collins cast them a scathing look and followed.
Elizabeth met her father’s gaze, taking in his sallow, haggard face. “Papa?”
With a gesture for her to follow, he went back into his study. “Close the door, Elizabeth.”
She did, trailing him across the room to sink into the chair before his desk. “Did you truly sign away my right to a future with Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
Removing his spectacles, Mr. Bennet pinched the bridge of his nose. “The earl gave me no choice in the matter.”
Elizabeth looked down at her clasped hands, surprised that the searing pain in her chest produced no outward manifestation. It felt as if she’d been run through. “No choice?” Her voice cracked on the words.
“The threats he made to you…to our family.” Mr. Bennet shook his head. “He said his son would not be robbed of his future greatness by a pair of fine eyes on a country miss of less than no consequence.”
“What am I to do?” Elizabeth didn’t mean to speak those words aloud. She pressed a hand to the agony in her chest.
“There is nothing to do. If Colonel Fitzwilliam attempts to court you, you must put him off. I…” He let out a long sigh. “I did secure four thousand pounds for you. You now have a dowry of five. That is something.”
As if her dowry mattered when the only man who had ever engaged her heart was lost to her. “Thank you, Papa,” she murmured, fighting back tears, aware that her father had done what he could.
He came around the desk and proffered his handkerchief. Was it only a few scant hours ago that Elizabeth had given Miss Darcy hers? Clasping the starched white cloth, Elizabeth couldn’t contain a sob. Her father drew her to her feet and held her as she cried.
After some time, Elizabeth pulled free, blotting her face. “I—” Her voice fractured. “I will be in my room.”
Mr. Bennet nodded and retreated behind his desk. He slumped in his chair as she left, closing the door softly behind her. She made her slow way down the hall.
To the nauseating sight of Mr. Collins coming down the staircase, his chin in the air and smug disdain curling his too-thin mouth. He cast her a scathing glance, then marched past Jane, Kitty, Lydia, and Elizabeth’s mother, who spilled from the front parlor.
“But…Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet called as he reached the front door. “You cannot depart without revealing which of my lovely daughters you mean to marry.”
He sniffed, threw the door wide, and stepped out.
Mrs. Bennet huffed, muttering, “Vulgar man.” Her gaze found Elizabeth, and she frowned.
Elizabeth longed to escape to her room, but two of the staff clattered down the staircase in Mr. Collins’ wake, lugging his large trunk with such excessive effort as to make Elizabeth wonder if they should search it for the silver. Sweating, the men lumbered across the entrance hall and out.
“I say good riddance.” Lydia’s voice was likely loud enough to be heard outside, especially as she angled the words at the still open door. “Mr. Collins is odious.”
“Yes, but he will have Longbourn someday,” Mrs. Bennet said with a sigh. “It would be better had he married one of you.”
“But he’s ghastly, Mama,” Lydia stated, louder still.
Mrs. Bennet shrugged. “Many men are.” Her gaze strayed back to Elizabeth.
Who raced to the staircase and up, in no humor to deal with her mother.
Fitzwilliam was not ghastly. He was tall, upright, capable, and kind. He’d aided Mr. Wickham even though the man had done his family an unforgiveable wrong. The Honorable ColonelRichard Fitzwilliam was the very best of men, and now Elizabeth was forever forbidden him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A maid burst into the breakfast parlor, earning surprised looks from Elizabeth, her mother, and her two youngest sisters. Mr. Bennet and Jane had long since dined, but Elizabeth hadn’t joined them. She’d hardly slept, awash in misery over Fitzwilliam, and had risen much later than was her wont. She was not the latest to breakfast, however. Mary remained in her room, where she’d been since Mr. Bennet ordered her there the previous afternoon. She’d made no effort to come down, not even calling for a dinner tray, and Papa had let her stew.
The girl who burst in, who came each morning from one of the cotters to augment Longbourn’s sparse staff, thrust a folded page at Mrs. Bennet. “Mum, Miss Mary isn’t in her room, and her bed’s not been slept in, and there was this.”
