“Mr.Darcy?” Mrs. Bennet cried, clutching at the back of a chair. “A man with ten thousand a year wishes to court Elizabeth?”
“The very same,” Mr. Bennet replied mildly.
“Oh! Oh, my nerves! Lizzy! My own Lizzy! To think I should live to see it! And Mr. Collins coming the same day…”
Kitty began laughing. Lydia demanded to know whether there would be new gowns. Mary murmured something about the providence of Heaven.
Jane rushed to Elizabeth and embraced her warmly.
“My dearest Lizzy,” she whispered, her eyes shining.
Elizabeth, overwhelmed, could only laugh helplessly as her mother launched into rapid calculations of settlements, wedding breakfasts, and future grandchildren.
Darcy stood very still amidst the chaos, his expression caught somewhere between astonishment and amusement.
Bingley clapped him on the shoulder with boyish enthusiasm.
“My dear fellow — congratulations!”
Darcy bowed slightly, though his eyes sought Elizabeth’s through the commotion. Mr. Bennet, observing the uproar he had so expertly engineered, seemed thoroughly satisfied.
“Now, now,” he said, waving a hand. “We shall exhaust Mr. Darcy before he has even spent a day in courtship. Mrs. Bennet, compose yourself. Girls, cease shrieking. Mr. Bingley, rescue whoever is nearest to fainting.”
“I believe,” Darcy said quietly to Bingley, “that should safely withdraw to allow the family time to prepare for their guest.”
“A prudent strategy,” Bingley agreed.
They made their excuses amid the clamor, slipping out while Mrs. Bennet was extolling the superiority of Derbyshire over Hertfordshire and planning which neighbors must be told first.
As the door closed behind them, Darcy allowed himself one final glance back toward the drawing room — toward Elizabeth, who stood flushed, luminous, and smiling in the midst of delightful disorder.
And he thought, not for the first time, that he would gladly endure far greater chaos than this, if only to stand at her side within it.
Chapter 20
Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn shortly before dinner, with an air of consequence wholly disproportionate to the modest chaise that conveyed him.
Elizabeth, who had been summoned to the front hall by her mother’s urgent whisper— “Stand properly, child!”—saw first a large, awkward figure bumbling down from the carriage. His features were not disagreeable; indeed, in repose, they might have been considered respectable. Unfortunately, his expression was one of solemn self-importance, which did little to recommend him.
He bowed—low and lingering.
“My dear cousins,” he said, straightening with visible satisfaction, “it affords me the most heartfelt pleasure to at last behold the ladies of Longbourn.”
Elizabeth curtsied with due civility. She felt at once that he was a man who admired the sound of his own speeches.
Within moments, he began expressing his gratitude for their condescension in receiving him, for the excellence of the road from Kent, for the admirable aspect of the hedgerows, and for the honor of being connected—however distantly—to so deserving a family.
Elizabeth listened, her curiosity rapidly giving way to astonishment.
He scarcely drew breath.
At dinner, he spoke of his living in Surrey with such frequency that Elizabeth began to suspect it was less a parish and more an extension of his person. He referred repeatedly—reverentially—to his patron, a gentleman by the name of Sir Godfrey, whose judgment, generosity, and discernment were described in terms bordering upon the devotional.
Mr. Bennet listened with a composure that Elizabeth knew too well. It was the expression he wore when thoroughly entertained.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, nodded with avid encouragement at every mention of Sir Godfrey’s “condescension.”
Elizabeth concluded before the soup was cleared that Mr. Collins considered himself a man of considerable consequence—and that nothing short of thunder would interrupt him mid-sentence.
