Usually Elizabeth enjoyed dancing—but at a private assembly or ball, where there were many partners from which to choose. Here, with four gentlemen and three ladies, it was more awkward. After dancing a set with Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth went directly to Mr. Bertram, knowing he would ask. After that, she planned to dance with Charles Bingley. Unfortunately, Mr. Collins edged in.
“I thank you for the honour,” she told him, “but I ought to relieve Miss Woodhouse at the pianoforte.” After that, Mrs. Nicholls brought in refreshments, and Elizabeth fled the drawing room.
Would Mr. Collins follow? Or would he be occupied with coffee and cake? Across from the drawing room were the double doors to the ballroom. Elizabeth pulled one open and slipped inside.
Inside it was dark and chilly; rain beat against the tall windows like fingers drumming on a table. Elizabeth pressed her back against the wall. Surely her busy cousin would not follow her here! Surely he would remember that she had been exposed to sickness.
Why, oh why, has he come to Netherfield?
Moments later the door opened to admit a gentleman carrying a candlestick. When she saw who it was, Elizabeth let out a sigh of relief. “Mr. Darcy,” she whispered. “How you startled me!”
“Is something wrong?”
“It is so—close in the drawing room,” she said. A weak excuse, but it was the best she could do. “Please, close the door before my cousin—”
Mr. Darcy did so at once, but he remained inside. Why did he not go out? Elizabeth turned her gaze away from him. And then, by the light of his candle, she noticed something. There, on the far side of the ball room—a glittering.
“What is that?” she whispered. “Just there, do you see the sparkle on the floor? Hold up the candle.”
He did so.
“Could it be my bracelet? Under that collection of—what are they, chairs? Do you see?”
Together they crossed the ballroom, their footfalls echoing on the bare floor. Mr. Darcy gave Elizabeth the candle, pushed the chairs aside, and knelt to reach under a sofa.
Behind them, the drawing room door came creaking open. “Yoo-hoo,” a voice called. “Miss Elizabeth?”
It was Mr. Collins.
“What luck, to find you here,” he crowed. “Are you quite well, fair cousin?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “A trifle over-heated, that is all,” she called back. “I am not ill, if that is what you are wondering.”
“Your mama did mention that you have already had the mumps.”
Her busy mother’s tactics were thus exposed, and before Mr. Darcy of all people! Elizabeth felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “I wonder that you would dare to risk coming here,” she said to Mr. Collins.
“I was a bit over-hasty in my advice,” he admitted. “For most people have had the mumps, have they not?” He hesitated, and then gave an awkward laugh. Elizabeth suppressed a shudder; she could picture him moistening his lips. “It was in order to solicit a private interview with you that I have come,” he said. “And providence has granted my wish.”
Any honest answer Elizabeth could give would not be helpful, so she merely said, “So it would seem.”
“It is very dark in here,” Mr. Collins pointed out.
Elizabeth glanced at Mr. Darcy. From his kneeling position, he gazed up at her. She could see questions glittering in his eyes. “Don’t you dare move,” she whispered, and she held the candlestick higher.
“What is it you wish to say to me, cousin?” she called, more loudly. “Have you come to ask for a dance?”
Mr. Collins gave a little giggle. “Now that you mention it, yes! But come, you can hardly doubt the true purpose of my call. My attentions have been too marked to be mistaken.”
Elizabeth held back a sigh and courageously crossed the room. She had been fearing a declaration for days. Behind her came a noise, rather like a cough—Mr. Darcy!
Of course, Mr. Collins would continue to talk. “Almost as soon as I entered Longbourn House,” he said, “I singled you out as the companion of my future life.”
So here it was: a proposal, made with that pulpit-trained voice. It penetrated to every corner of the room! And he was smiling; Elizabeth could see the glint of his teeth.
“Perhaps it would be advisable,” he went on, “if I state my reasons for marrying. For you must know that I came into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife.”
“Mr. Collins …” said Elizabeth repressively.
But his enthusiasm would not be deterred. “First, I think marriage a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances. Second, it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—”
Was he preaching a sermon? Listing his reasons as one would draw up a list for the village shops?
“And thirdly,” he repeated, smiling more widely, “it is the express wish of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
“In other words,” said Elizabeth, “you have been commanded to marry.”
He gave an awkward laugh. “You may have your little jest. But I am in earnest, dear cousin. Because I am to inherit the Longbourn estate after the death of your honoured father, I resolved to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place.”
“You wish to marry me out of pity, sir?”
His smile disappeared. “Why, er, no. Certainly not.”
By the light of the candle, Elizabeth could see the mulish set of his chin. “You,” he said solemnly, “being the fairest and cleverest of your sisters (possessing both wit and vivacity), have caught my eye. My motive stems from chivalry, fair cousin—a fine and selfless purpose, which is to mitigate the evils of the entail. I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem.”
In other words, Mr. Collins wished to assuage his guilt of casting his female cousins from their home!
“I am sensible of the honour of your proposals,” she began, “however—”
Again he interrupted. “As to fortune I am perfectly indifferent. I shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not possibly be complied with. One thousand pounds, yours after your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to.”
Must he insult her by pointing out her deficiencies? A noise in the far corner reminded her that Mr. Darcy was listening.
Mr. Collins added, with an air of awkward gallantry, “Rest assured, no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips once we are married.”
This was a bald-faced lie! He was reproaching her even as he proposed!
“I am sorry to give you pain,” said Elizabeth carefully, “and I thank you for the compliment you are paying me, but I am convinced that we shall not suit. Moreover, at the present time I have no intention of marrying.”
“None at all? Nonsense. Will you become like that haggish spinster in the drawing room? The laughingstock of Meryton, supported by the charity of friends? Come now.” Mr. Collins rubbed his hands together. “I am well aware that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of a man whom they secretly mean to accept—”
From the corner of the room came was a loud clattering, as if items of furniture—the chairs? —were being tossed aside. Mr. Darcy came striding through the darkness, smash up to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth’s candle threw Mr. Darcy’s features into sharp relief. “The lady,” he said sternly, “has told you no.”
Mr. Collins gave a scream. “What are you doing here?”
“That,” said Mr. Darcy, “is beside the point. As a clergyman and a gentleman, it is now your part to thank her for her time.”
“But—”
“And then take yourself off. At once.”
Mr. Collins looked from Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy and back again. His face was twitching like a rabbit’s.
Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “If this person continues to trouble you, say the word and I will gladly throw him from the house.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise. “Could you?”
“Now or at any time,” he said promptly. “And with the greatest pleasure.”
This remark was answered by hurried footfalls and the slam of the drawing room door. So much for Mr. Collins’s courage!
Elizabeth nearly collapsed with relief. “Thank God!” she cried. “And if you dare to breathe a word of this to anyone …”
“Your secret is safe with me. And most especially from Miss Woodhouse, our resident matchmaker.”
“Good gracious,” said Elizabeth, “she cannot mean to match me with Mr. Collins—”
“I think not. Besides, you have cut the ground from beneath her feet rather neatly. Your cousin will not be renewing his addresses.”
“I devoutly hope that you are right. I—am ashamed that you had to listen to all that.”
Mr. Darcy’s grim expression dissolved into a grin. “I have never yet had the occasion to propose to a lady,” he told her. “But now, thanks to Mr. Collins, I know precisely what not to do.”
“Oh dear, he was rather insulting, was he not?”
“As to Miss Woodhouse, you are not the only sufferer. No doubt she has a match in mind for me as well.”
“Not Miss Bingley,” said Elizabeth, before she could stop herself.
His eyes met hers, but they were smiling. “Definitely not Miss Bingley.” There was a pause. “Shall we sit for a moment? There is something I would like to talk over with you.”
He stepped away, and Elizabeth heard the scrape of chairs being brought forward. She sat in the one he placed for her, and he set the candlestick on the floor between them. His handsome face was now lit from beneath, rather like a ghoul’s, while fantastic shapes danced on the ceiling. And yet somehow it was easier to face Mr. Darcy like this, half-hidden by shadows.
He sat silent with his hands on his lap; Elizabeth noticed that the tips of his fingers touched one another.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said suddenly. “Who or what is ‘Aunt Jane’?”