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***

Dinner is Mr. Collins.

It is always Mr. Collins, but tonight he has news, and he has saved it for the boiled mutton.

“Lady Catherine was much distressed by your indisposition, cousin Elizabeth. Much distressed. She observed that young ladies who take insufficient exercise are prone to headaches, and that she has always said so.”

“Has she,” I say.

“Frequently. And she desires that you walk in the park every morning while you remain in Kent.” He beams. “I assured her you are a great walker, and she said you would be the better for it, which I thought a most condescending remark.”

“Most condescending,” I agree.

“And she says I hold my fork like a farmer’s daughter,” Maria puts in.

“Her ladyship’s attention to the smallest particulars,” says Mr. Collins, “is one of the great blessings of this parish.”

I take a large mouthful of mutton so that I need not answer.

“But I have not told you the most singular thing.” Mr. Collins lowers his voice, though there is no one to hear but ourselves. “Mr. Darcy was quite out of sorts this evening. He came in just as we were taking our leave, and went straight up without a word to anyone. Lady Catherine remarked upon it.”

My fork stops.

“Perhaps he was tired,” Charlotte says lightly.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam said his cousin had letters to write. And then—” Mr. Collins pauses for effect, “—he sent down word that his horse is to be saddled at first light. At first light, cousin. Lady Catherine says no gentleman rides out before breakfast unless he is a highwayman or a Whig.”

“Perhaps he is going away,” says Maria.

“Without taking leave of her ladyship? Impossible.” Mr. Collins shakes his head. “No, it must be business. A man of Mr. Darcy’s consequence must have a great deal of business. Ten thousand a year does not manage itself.”

“No,” I say. “I do not suppose it does.”

I eat nothing more.

***

I do not sleep, either.

I lie in Charlotte’s second-best bedroom and look at the ceiling, where a crack in the plaster runs from corner to corner like the Thames upon a map. And I talk to Mr. Darcy in my head, and in my head I win every time.

You called my family inferior, sir, and then asked me to join it to yours. Which of us is meant to be the fool?

That is good. I ought to have said that.

The door opens a crack. Candlelight, and Charlotte in her wrapper, with a cup.

“You are not asleep.”

“I am arguing.”

“With whom?”

“The ceiling. It is losing badly.”

Charlotte sets the cup on the washstand and sits on the end of the bed. “Drink that. It is chamomile, and I am told it quiets the mind.”

“Then it will have a great deal of work tonight.” I sit up and take it. “Papa has a name for what I am doing. L’esprit de l’escalier. The wit of the staircase. One thinks of every clever answer only when one is already halfway down the stairs and it is too late to go back up.”