First impressions

An Unwelcome Interlude

The morning sun at Netherfield brought no peace. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the library where Elizabeth sat, a book lying unread in her lap. Her mind was a riot of conflicting images: Darcy’s cold pride at the assembly, the searing heat of his touch removing the leaf from her hair, the raw vulnerability in his voice in the dark library. She was furious with herself. How could her heart flutter for a man who had deemed her merely "tolerable"?

The sound of boisterous voices and crunching gravel in the drive shattered her reverie. Peering through the window, her stomach sank. A familiar, overly ornate carriage—her father’s—had arrived. And emerging from it, smoothing his waistcoat with an air of profound self-importance, was her cousin, Mr. William Collins.

“No,” she whispered to the empty room. “Not here. Not now.”

Her prayers went unanswered. Within minutes, a flustered footman announced the visitor to the drawing-room where the Bingleys, Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth were taking tea.

“My dear cousins!” Mr. Collins boomed, his eyes sweeping over the opulent room with unconcealed avarice. “And the esteemed residents of Netherfield! What a profound honour! I am Mr. William Collins, rector of Hunsford, under the most gracious and condescending patronage of the noble Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

He executed a bow so deep and unctuous it seemed he might topple over. Miss Bingley’s lips pursed in distaste. Mr. Darcy, who had been standing by the window, turned slowly. His expression, which had been surprisingly open in Elizabeth’s presence, iced over into its familiar, haughty mask.

Mr. Collins’s gaze then fell upon Elizabeth, and it fixed there with terrifying resolve. “Cousin Elizabeth! The report of your sister’s illness reached us at Longbourn, and I felt it my duty, as the heir to the estate, to personally ascertain her condition and offer spiritual comfort.”

“Your concern is… overwhelming, sir,” Elizabeth managed, feeling the heat of a blush of pure mortification creep up her neck. She dared a glance at Darcy. He was watching the scene with an unnerving stillness, his jaw tight.

The afternoon descended into a special kind of torture. Mr. Collins, oblivious to the stifled amusement of the Bingleys and the frozen silence of Darcy, held forth on the magnificence of Rosings, the wisdom of Lady Catherine, and his own fortunate position in life. He attempted to draw Mr. Darcy into conversation about his esteemed aunt, but Darcy’s replies were monosyllabic, his gaze repeatedly flicking to Elizabeth, whose cheeks were flushed with a mixture of anger and shame.

During a lull, Mr. Collins cornered Elizabeth near the fireplace. “My dear cousin,” he began, his voice dropping to what he likely believed was a conspiratorial whisper, but which carried easily across the room. “The sight of you in this noble house, tending to your sister with such… rustic devotion, has only confirmed the rightness of my decision. It soothes the conscience I might have had about displacing you and your sisters from your home. For I am come here with the express purpose of choosing a wife from among my fair cousins, and I have fixed my choice upon you.”

Elizabeth stared at him, utterly horrified. “Sir, I—”

“Do not thank me yet!” he interrupted, patting her hand. “We shall speak to your father upon our return. It is a most eligible match, you see. A merging of the family lines, securing your mother and sisters’ future comfort. A practical and, if I may say, a rather brilliant arrangement.”

From across the room, Elizabeth saw Darcy’s hand, which had been resting on the mantelpiece, curl into a white-knuckled fist. He had heard every word. The look he shot her was not one of mockery, but of something far more dangerous: a fierce, blazing anger. It was not directed at her, but at the situation, at the vulgarity of the proposal, at the sheer indignity being heaped upon her.

In that moment, their eyes met over the head of her oblivious cousin. It was a silent, frantic communication. In Darcy’s stormy gaze, she saw not judgment, but a shared understanding of her humiliation, and a protective fury that stole her breath.

“Mr. Collins,” she said, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a rage that gave her courage. She extracted her hand from his. “You are too hasty. I have given you no encouragement. The idea is as shocking as it is impossible.”

Mr. Collins’s smile merely widened. “Ah, the modesty of your s*x! It does you credit, my dear. I understand your initial surprise. I shall persist, and my attentions shall, in time, overcome your charming reluctance.”

He gave another bow and moved away to fawn over a porcelain shepherdess, leaving Elizabeth standing alone, shaking. A moment later, she felt a presence beside her.

Darcy stood there, his posture rigid. He did not look at her, but stared straight ahead at the wall, his voice a low, gravelly whisper meant only for her ears.

“Is your happiness to be bargained for so cheaply? A ‘practical arrangement’?” The contempt in his voice was palpable.

Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. “It is not my arrangement. It is his.”

He finally turned his head, and the intensity in his eyes was overwhelming. “You deserve more,” he said, the words simple, stark, and devastatingly sincere. “You deserve a man who sees you not as a convenience for an estate, but as the very reason his own heart beats. You deserve a man who would burn the world to the ground before seeing you treated with such… transactional disregard.”

Elizabeth could only stare at him, her world narrowing to the fierce, handsome face before her. He was speaking of abstract principles, but it felt like a vow. It felt like a promise.

Before she could form a reply, he gave a curt nod and strode from the room, leaving her more unsettled than ever. Mr. Collins’s proposal was a farce, a nightmare. But Mr. Darcy’s quiet, furious defense of her worth was the most dangerously romantic thing she had ever experienced. The villain of Meryton was becoming her most unlikely champion, and her

heart was perilously close to surrendering.