Page 3 of He Insulted My Entire Family Before Proposing

Mr. Darcy did not.

At one point, Lady Catherine demanded Elizabeth's opinion on whether younger sisters ought to come out before the elder were married. Elizabeth answered with all the liveliness expected of her, but she felt Darcy listening beneath the conversation. Family considerations. Unsuitable connections. Saved his friend.

The words arranged themselves like witnesses.

When they returned to the parsonage, Mr. Collins informed them that Lady Catherine had never been more gracious, which proved he had survived a different evening from everyone else.

Elizabeth excused herself early.

In her room, she opened her little travel desk and took out a sheet of paper. She did not yet know what she meant to write. A letter to Jane, perhaps, though Jane would suffer twice from any truth told too sharply. A list, then. Lists were honest. They did not pretend pain was more elegant than it was.

Mr. Darcy's offenses, she wrote.

Beneath it:

1. Public insult at Meryton.

2. Continued contempt of my family.

3. Interference between Mr. Bingley and Jane.

4. Interference dressed as prudence.

She paused, then added:

5. Looking at me as if the above may be overcome by his generosity.

It was a foolish entry. It looked especially foolish because the ink had blotted beneath generosity, as if even the pen objected to the word. Elizabeth considered crossing it out, then decided the blot improved the entry.

It was also the one that made her hand shake.

Outside, a carriage passed on the road to Rosings. Elizabeth put down her pen and listened until the sound faded. Then she folded the paper and tucked it into her desk.

A woman in a novel, she thought, would weep.

Elizabeth Bennet had no objection to weeping where it served. But tonight it seemed inadequate. Tears would not restore Jane's winter. They would not call back a sentence from a ballroom or remove the polished contempt with which one family might be weighed and found wanting.

No. If Mr. Darcy had made a record, then so would she.

CHAPTER 2

The next morning, Mr. Collins preached at breakfast.

This was not unusual. Mr. Collins could convert toast into doctrine if supplied with butter enough. Today his sermon concerned gratitude, an inexhaustible subject to a man who felt it was owed to himself by nearly everyone and to Lady Catherine by the remainder of creation.

Elizabeth had meant to listen with the patience due to a cousin, a clergyman, and a man who was dangerous only when speaking. Unfortunately, her list lay folded in her pocket and crackled whenever she moved, like a small paper conscience with poor manners.

"There are few qualities more ornamental in a young lady," he said, spreading marmalade with the gravity of a bishop, "than a proper submission to superior judgment. A young woman may possess wit, beauty, and even, in modest measure, opinion. But without gratitude to those who guide her, she becomes" - here he paused to locate the most dreadful possibility - "independent."

Maria Lucas looked impressed by the horror of it.

Elizabeth glanced at Charlotte, whose expression remained beautifully arranged. Marriage had taught Charlotte many household economies. The chief was economy of reaction.

"How fortunate," Elizabeth said, "that superior judgment is always so easy to identify."

"Indeed, Cousin Elizabeth. Rank, age, profession, and patronage all provide the most reliable assistance."

"And sense?"