Darcy held out a hand to Miss Elizabeth, whose scowl tickled him.
“No need to chastise me again for ignoring my injury,” he teased, knowing full well that was not what had angered her. “Mrs. Keller removed the stitches this morning.”
She pulled a face at him before placing her hand in his own.
The clergyman had clearly settled on Miss Bennet as his future bride, regardless of her father’s warnings or the poor woman’s sentiments. Mr. Collins offered Miss Bennet what passed for compliments, sat as near her at meals and in the drawing room as her sisters would allow, and took her brief, polite responses as a return of his interest. He sat across from her now in the carriage, regaling them all with information about Lady Catherine’s estate, particularly the glazing on the windows, which had cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh a great deal of money, though how much exactly, he could not say.
“Perhaps it was eight hundred pounds,” Mr. Collins mused. “Lady Catherine mentioned eight hundred pounds. Although she did say it was nearly one thousand pounds the second time she condescended to relate the story to me.” Unconcerned with the discrepancy, he coughed into his handkerchief and continued to speak rather hoarsely.
Darcy could not help but chuckle, though he attempted to keep it quiet. Lady Catherine likely had no notion of what the glazing had cost, though he was nearly certain that whatever the amount, his nipcheese of an uncle had not paid the bill. Fitzwilliam nudged him gently in the ribs, no doubt thinking the same thing.
“Cousin,” Miss Lydia asked sweetly from her position nearest the window, “I cannot help but notice you may be in some distress. Should you not save your voice for the larger company? We would not wish to be selfish and keep all of your conversation to ourselves when our neighbours have not yet had the pleasure of hearing about Lady Catherine and Rosings Park.”
“Well,” Mr. Collins said, surprised, and stuttered to a halt. “Perhaps you are right, cousin, perhaps you are right.”
Miss Kitty smothered a snort, an affliction that seemed to travel through most of the occupants of the carriage, but Miss Lydia’s expression remained perfectly innocent. Some young man would have his hands rather full when she grew up. For now Darcy was simply grateful that her ploy was successful, and Mr. Collins’s incessant nattering had ceased, however briefly. Miss Bennet must be grateful for the reprieve.
Collins’s choice made a strange sort of sense, Darcy supposed. Miss Bennet was the eldest daughter, and he could not deny that her features were uncommonly beautiful. For a man who had only been given a fortnight to find a bride and did not care to learn more about the woman to whom he would yoke himself forever, those two traits were evidently enough. Even after having met Mr. Collins, Darcy could not comprehend how any man would be so heedless of his own comfort. What sort of man would bend to Lady Catherine’s demand that he offer for a woman in less time than it took to make a good pair of riding boots?
He did hope that Bennet would intercede on Miss Bennet’s behalf soon, or the man might actually propose. Unless Darcy was mistaken, and he did not believe that to be the case, Miss Bennet and Bingley were forming a sincere attachment. It would mortify her to receive a proposal from another man as though she had been encouraging his attentions.
Darcy observed the ladies, who were packed tightly together on the forward-facing bench. It was fortunate they were all slender. Miss Elizabeth was eyeing Mr. Collins rather grimly. She had asked her aunt Phillips to invite the Netherfield party this evening, proving that she thought of Miss Bennet’s comfort over her own.
Bingley had better attend. Darcy was hoping for some conversation of his own with the second Bennet daughter, and he would be unable to secure her attention if she was anxious for Miss Bennet’s sensibilities.
Bingley and his sisters had arrived at Longbourn that morning to extend an invitation to a ball. It was to be held at Netherfield on the twenty-sixth of November, only five days from now. The formal invitations were being sent to most of the guests, but Bingley had been adamant about extending the Bennets’s invitation in person.
The ball would be perfect. They would both be dressed in their finest clothes, and it would be agreeable to dance with Miss Elizabeth as his intended. Darcy had never anticipated dancing with so much pleasure before.
Darcy observed Miss Elizabeth as he silently planned his proposal. First, he would request permission from Bennet. He expected no resistance, but Bennet was, and in a way, always would be Darcy’s commanding officer. He respected the man’s superior rank both as a general and Miss Elizabeth’s father.
Once Miss Elizabeth was his wife, at least the latter would change. He glanced out the window as he considered that even then, he would not always be the one in command. A lightness in his heart coaxed his lips into a small smirk.
Once he had obtained permission from Bennet, he would ask for a moment alone with Miss Elizabeth before they left Longbourn for the ball. If she desired it, her father could even make the announcement at Netherfield rather than waiting for the gossip to make the rounds. His imagination conjured a picture of her as his intended, beaming as she accepted congratulations from her friends and family, her beautiful eyes dancing with delight . . .
“Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth inquired, breaking into his thoughts.
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, discomposed.
She motioned to the door. “We have arrived.”
He grinned and shook his head. The other men were already outside. “I beg your pardon, ladies. I was wool-gathering.” He rose from his seat, and, bent at the waist, made his way to the door. The Pemberley carriage was so large and so well built that it barely tipped under his weight as he exited.
Mr. Collins was waiting for Miss Bennet to step out of the coach, but Bingley appeared as if from nowhere to slip in front of him.
Miss Bennet’s countenance transformed from trepidation to something almost ethereal when she spied Bingley holding out his hand to assist her. Neither of them paid any mind to Mr. Collins’s spluttered protests as Bingley escorted her inside.
“Well,” Mr. Collins said with a huff. “Perhaps I will assist Miss Elizabeth. Would you mind, Mr. Darcy?” He moved as if to push Darcy aside.
Darcy did mind, as it happened. Perhaps Mr. Collins typically used his size to shove in where he wished to go, but he was not the largest nor the strongest man here tonight. As had Bingley, Darcy also ignored Mr. Collins’s increasingly irritated demands. Instead, he held out his right hand to Miss Elizabeth. She laid her palm in his, the warmth of her little gloved hand in his causing his heart to leap in his chest. Her eyes were fixed on his, and she stepped down easily without watching her feet.
Her balance was perfect until Mr. Collins hurried to her other side to grasp her free arm and pull her in his direction.
One of Miss Elizabeth’s feet flew up, and she fell away, towards Mr. Collins. Darcy moved swiftly, encircling her waist with his left arm and pulling her tightly against him before she lost her footing altogether and fell to the ground. He held her for a moment before wrapping his other arm around her shoulders to lift her from the steps and set her safely down on the ground.
Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, and she moved swiftly to put Darcy between herself and Mr. Collins. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said without looking at him.
“You need not thank me,” he replied quietly. “You are not to blame.”