“After his father’s death, he would not remove me from them. I did not press him. We have remained as we were.” Lady Anne’s eyes softened. “It is time.”
Elizabeth felt a swell of unexpected emotion.
“I will speak to him,” she promised quietly.
“And another condition,” Lady Anne continued.
Elizabeth laughed. “You bargain fiercely, madam.”
“You must tell me—plainly—if Georgiana or I ever make a nuisance of ourselves.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling broadly. “Only if you promise equal honesty regarding my choice in furnishings, meals, or gowns.”
Lady Anne’s answering laugh was low and genuine. “Agreed.”
By the time they returned to the house, something had shifted—subtly but unmistakably. What had begun as formal courtesy was becoming something else.
Inside, Georgiana rose from the pianoforte as they entered, her eyes bright. “Miss Elizabeth,” she said shyly, “would you try the second movement? I think you will like it.”
Elizabeth joined her at the bench, their shoulders brushing lightly.
Lady Anne watched them both, and for a moment the three of them shared a look—unspoken but certain.
It was not merely alliance.
It was the beginning of family.
And in Darcy’s absence, that warmth steadied Elizabeth more surely than she would have believed possible.
Chapter 27
Darcy returned precisely when he said he would.
Elizabeth did not realize how tightly strung she had been until she saw him stride into the drawing room at Netherfield—travel cloak still dusted from the road, eyes searching for her before propriety demanded he greet his stepmother and sister.
The tension in Elizabeth’s body dissolved at once. Her world was once again put right.
Everything thereafter seemed to move with remarkable smoothness, at least for a time.
The license was secured. Bingley’s banns were read for the second Sunday with only a modest stir among the parishioners, though Mrs. Bennet declared afterward that she distinctly heard three women gasp during the reading.
If there were whispers in Meryton, they were largely benevolent. Two weddings in one week were novelty enough to eclipse any lingering curiosity.
Mr. Collins, however, proved less organized.
It was during the second Sunday of banns for Jane and Bingley that he experienced what he described as a most alarming revelation.
“My dear Mary,” he announced one afternoon, his brow knit in theatrical concern, “it has come to my attention that I have neglected to arrange for the reading of our banns in my own parish. An oversight of considerable magnitude.”
Mary paled slightly.
“It is required,” he continued gravely, “that they be published in both parishes.”
“Then you must attend to it at once,” Mary replied. “As we are not marrying until January, there is still time.”
The following day, however, a letter arrived for Mr. Collins from his patron. Sir Godfrey wrote, in the most emphatic language, that Mr. Collins’s request to remain at Longbourn until his wedding in January was unacceptable. The living required its pastor, and Christmas services could not be performed by a curate. He was to return at once to resume his duties, and he could return again to Longbourn three days before his wedding.
Mrs. Bennet fluttered in agitation at the idea of losing a future son-in-law before the wedding breakfast could be planned, but even she dared not contradict Sir Godfrey’s authority.
