The image rose before her: herself seated beside him for life, listening daily to the glories of his patron’s chimney-piece and the precise height of the shelves in the parsonage.
Elizabeth suppressed a shudder.
Mr. Collins appeared mildly discomposed. “I see. I would not intrude where another gentleman’s interest has been formally sanctioned.”
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze darted across the room.
“Well then,” she said brightly, “there is Mary.”
She gestured toward the corner.
Mary sat upright, spectacles glinting in the lamplight, Fordyce open in her lap. Her brow was drawn in earnest concentration. She had, at that moment, the aspect of a young woman prepared to endure tribulation with moral fortitude.
“My third daughter is the most pious girl imaginable,” Mrs. Bennet continued. “So serious. So studious. She reads nothing but improving works. And she is exceedingly industrious.”
Mr. Collins followed the direction of her hand.
Elizabeth watched his face.
There was, unmistakably, a tightening at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes shifted—briefly—to Kitty and Lydia, who were laughing far too loudly over some trivial absurdity. He hesitated.
Mrs. Bennet pressed on. “Mary would make a most dutiful clergyman’s wife. She delights in sermons.”
Mr. Collins straightened, as though resigning himself to virtue.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Seriousness of mind and moral improvement are of the first importance. Sir Godfrey has often remarked upon the necessity of correct female conduct.”
Elizabeth nearly smiled.
“Yes, I concur with your choice, madam,” he declared. “I shall endeavor to cultivate Miss Mary’s acquaintance.”
He rose and crossed the room.
Mary looked up in evident surprise as his shadow fell across her pages. She blinked, then closed Fordyce carefully, marking her place with deliberate precision.
Elizabeth observed the scene with a mixture of gratitude and incredulity.
She had escaped—narrowly.
If Darcy had not come forward this morning—if her father had hesitated—would her mother now be smiling just so, encouraging Mr. Collins toward her?
The thought alone sent a distinct chill through her.
She bent once more over her work, thankful—for perhaps the first time in her life—that Mrs. Bennet had been premature in announcing a daughter’s prospects.
∞∞∞
The following morning broke clear and brisk, with a pale autumn sun casting long shadows across the lawn at Longbourn.
Elizabeth had just taken her seat at the breakfast table when Lydia burst into the room, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with purpose.
“We are going into Meryton,” she declared, as though announcing a military campaign. “This very morning.”
Mrs. Bennet, who was buttering her toast with unusual delicacy, looked up at once. “Into Meryton? For what purpose, child?”
“For what purpose?” Lydia cried. “To speak with the officers, of course! We were introduced to several of them when Jane and Lizzy were at Netherfield, and I mean to improve the acquaintance.”
