ten | 10.

A CHANGE OF PACE.

    The next time Mary and her family sat at the dinner table, it was under far less agreeable circumstances.

    The room felt heavier, mulled down by an air of obligation and the presence of their newly arrived guest.

    From her seat near the far end of the table, Mary glanced discreetly to her right, where their cousin, Mr. Collins, sat with a posture that was both rigid and self-important.

    His head bobbed slightly as he chewed, an unfortunate rhythm that matched the repetitive thud of his knife and fork against his plate.

    Mr. Collins was a man whose absurdity seemed inexhaustible.

    Mr. Bennet's earlier admonition for the family to mind their manners had rung clear in Mary's ears, but she suspected the warning had been meant less for her—naturally restrained in her speech—and more for her younger sisters and Elizabeth.

    Lydia and Kitty were prone to giggling fits, and Elizabeth's sharp tongue rarely spared those she deemed ridiculous. Still, Mary found herself struggling to abide by her father's wishes, for even her patience had limits.

    It was nearly impossible to endure Mr. Collins' relentless stream of trivial observations and ill-placed compliments.

    He spoke with such an air of gravity, as though each word he uttered were an unparalleled gem of wisdom.

    Mary couldn't help but think that, if such gems existed, they were entirely fool's gold.

    "Tell me," Mr. Collins began, his voice overly loud as he withdrew his fork from his mouth. "To which of my fair cousins do I owe the compliments for this excellent, and I do mean excellent, cooking?"

    Mary's chewing slowed as she exchanged glances with her sisters.

    Elizabeth's brow twitched upward, a telltale sign of restrained amusement, while Jane, ever polite, looked down at her plate with a small, uncertain smile.

     Kitty and Lydia stifled giggles behind their napkins, though not very effectively. Mary herself struggled to suppress a sigh.

    Did Mr. Collins genuinely believe they had prepared the meal? The idea was laughable. Mary couldn't recall the last time she'd stepped near the kitchen, let alone wielded a spoon.

    Mr. Bennet, seated at the head of the table, leaned back slightly in his chair.

    "My daughters were trained for battle, sir, not the kitchen." He replied dryly, his tone clipped as his finger smoothed the crease above his brow—a gesture Mary recognized as a sign of his irritation.

    He reached for his wine and drained the glass with a deep, resigned sigh.

    Sensing the unspoken pressure mounting across the table, Mary followed suit and sipped from her own glass, though perhaps with a bit more eagerness than was necessary.

    The warmth of the wine did little to calm the growing bitterness in her chest.

    She longed to say something, to correct Mr. Collins' misguided assumption or perhaps to point out the absurdity of his compliment altogether.

    But she knew better. Even if her father permitted such outbursts, she doubted she could summon the courage to voice her thoughts.

    Mary's grip tightened until her knuckles whitened, the wine sloshing perilously close to the rim.

    Elizabeth, seated beside her, glanced over with a bemused expression, her lips quirking in the faintest smile. Her eyes darted to Mary's hand, then back to her face, silently questioning.

    When Mary finally set her glass down with a slightly louder clink than intended, Elizabeth's brow furrowed in curiosity.

    Mary avoided her sister's probing gaze, instead focusing on the flickering candlelight that danced across the polished wood of the table.

    She pressed her lips together, silently willing herself to endure the rest of the evening with composure.

    It seemed the only person she ever found the nerve to confront these days was—well, she refused to even think of his name. But she couldn't deny that the comparison stung, leaving her feeling trapped in her silence.

    Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass as Mr. Collins resumed speaking, now waxing poetic about the "unparalleled hospitality" of his noble patroness.

    "My patroness is not only the King's richest subject but also his deadliest." Mr. Collins declared, his chest puffed out with pride like a rooster crowing at dawn.

    A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips, as though he had personally contributed to her accolades. "Singularly dedicated to the annihilation of the undead."

    At the mention of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, a ripple of interest passed through the room. Mary's head lifted slightly, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

    The name carried was a legend whispered across drawing rooms and battlefields alike.

    For years, stories of Lady Catherine's exploits in eradicating the undead had traveled far and wide, her reputation unmatched in both ferocity and precision.

   "Of course," Elizabeth replied, her sharp gaze flicking between Jane and their father. "She's renowned as the most lethal swordswoman in all of Great Britain."

    Mr. Collins made a pleased sound deep in his throat, his expression practically glowing. "Yes! Indeed! Why, my humble abode abuts Her Ladyship's grand estate, Rosings Park."

    Mary glanced down at her plate and absently pushed a stray pea to one side. Rosings Park—a name whispered with as much awe as Netherfield, if not more.

    She had heard of its manicured gardens that seemed to stretch into eternity and its grand halls where every piece of furniture was rumored to be an antique masterpiece.

    The thought of such splendor felt almost surreal, a life so far removed from her own modest existence at Longbourn.

    "Her Ladyship was widowed some years ago," Mr. Collins went on, his voice dipping into a tone meant to feign sorrow but coming off as overly theatrical.

   "And she has but one daughter, Anne, who, I regret to inform you, is of a sickly constitution. A most unfortunate circumstance, given her mother's brilliance and vitality."

    His voice droned on, detailing every aspect of Lady Catherine's estate, her lineage, and the unfortunate frailty of her daughter.

    Mary's initial intrigue began to wane as Mr. Collins delved deeper into the trivialities of his patroness' affairs.

    What might have been a fascinating topic instead became an exercise in patience.

    His voice seemed to stretch endlessly, each sentence embroidered with unnecessary flourishes, leaving little room for genuine engagement.

    Jane did her best to maintain an air of polite interest. Mr. Bennet, however, had retreated behind his wine glass, lifting it to his lips in deliberate, slow sips that seemed to signal his desire to tune out the conversation entirely, just as Mary had.

    Mary, for her part, let her thoughts drift as she resumed eating. She finished her roasted vegetables and moved on to dessert, savoring the delicate sweetness of the pudding.

    She stirred the cream on her plate with idle movements, her mind wandering to the stories of Lady Catherine herself—stories of cunning tactics on the battlefield and unparalleled precision with her weapons.

    Occasionally, a particularly loud or self-important remark from Mr. Collins would snap her back to the present. "The finest estate in all of Kent," he was saying now, "and Her Ladyship herself remarked only recently on the excellence of my sermons. Such a singular honor!"

    Mary resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

    She found herself pondering how Lady Catherine, with her celebrated strength and discipline, endured the company of someone like Mr. Collins for even a moment.

    Perhaps even the most formidable figures had their burdens to bear.

    Mrs. Bennet broke the brief lull in conversation as Mr. Collins scraped the last remnants of pudding from his dish, his spoon clinking noisily against the porcelain. "It would seem, sir, that all you lack now is a wife."

    The effect of her suggestion was immediate.

    The atmosphere shifted immediately, thickening with an awkward social fog that seemed to settle over the room.

    Lydia cast a knowing look at Kitty, their usual giggles conspicuously absent.

    Elizabeth's brow arched slightly as her eyes darted to Jane, who avoided everyone's gaze, her lashes lowered as she studied the intricate embroidery on the tablecloth.

    Mary, caught entirely off guard,  felt her composure falter as the spoon in her hand slipped free. The metallic clatter of it striking her plate reverberated loudly, turning all attention her way.

    Heat flushed her cheeks as she hurried to collect herself before her mother could chastise her, offering a hastily muttered, "Apologies. A slip of the hand."

    It was a plausible excuse for anyone unfamiliar with her, but her sisters and father knew better. Mary, with her disciplined hands honed from hours of practice on the pianoforte, was not prone to such accidents.

    Her mother's remark had shocked her more than she cared to admit, striking a chord of discomfort deep within her.

    Mrs. Bennet's words had been couched in polite phrasing, but their meaning was transparent to all present.

    Each daughter recognized the implication—Mrs. Bennet intended to position one of them as a candidate for Mr. Collins' matrimonial aspirations.

    Mr. Collins, unaware of the discomfort he had caused or perhaps too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice, offered a reply that only intensified the awkwardness. "I must confess, Mrs. Bennet," he began, his voice tinged with bashful humility, "that the fairest wifely choices are seated right here in this very room."

    As he spoke, his chin dipped in what he likely intended as an expression of modesty, though it only made his large, awkward frame appear more ungainly.

    He avoided meeting anyone's eyes directly, choosing instead to let his gaze sweep the table in quick, darting glances.

    Mrs. Bennet sat up straighter, her face lit with an eager smile that betrayed her growing satisfaction.

    For a moment, silence threatened to resurface, but Mr. Collins, apparently oblivious to the unease in the room, launched into another verbose proclamation. "I declare that I am enchanted by your daughter Jane, and request that I speak to her alone, if I may."

Mrs. Bennet, who had moments earlier been radiating satisfaction at her guest's interest, froze. Her carefully cultivated smile faltered.

Mary studied her mother's expression, noting the flicker of panic beneath the surface.

    It was rare for Mrs. Bennet to be caught so off-guard, but this time, even her sharp instincts hadn't prepared her for such a bold move.

"Oh." Mrs. Bennet chirped, recovering with a slight clearing of her throat, her voice higher than usual.

    Her hand flitted nervously to pat at her already impeccable coiffure, a gesture that betrayed her scrambling thoughts. "Dear Parson, I regret to inform you that Jane is already spoken for. We expect a formal proposal imminently."

    The announcement landed like a stone in a pond.

    Mr. Collins' eyes darted around the room, as if searching for some escape from the sudden blow to his plans.

His jaw twitched, and a faint redness crept up his neck, betraying the embarrassment he was clearly fighting to suppress.

Mary observed him with quiet satisfaction. It was rare to see such unshakable self-assurance falter, and she couldn't help but feel a small thrill at witnessing his discomfort.

"Oh... fuddle." Mr. Collins muttered after a long pause.

He set down his fork with exaggerated care and rubbed at the uneven stubble along his jawline, his movements almost absent-minded.

Mrs. Bennet, ever the opportunist, was not about to let the conversation die there.

    She waved a hand in the air as though brushing aside the setback, her smile reappearing with renewed determination. "But our Elizabeth is available. And, I daresay, she is nearly as fair as Jane!"

Elizabeth's head snapped up at her mother's proclamation, her expression shifting from mild amusement to thinly veiled indignation.

    Her dark eyes narrowed, and a faint flush crept across her cheeks—not from shyness, but irritation. Her lips pressed into a firm line, and Mary could almost hear the sharp retort forming in her sister's mind.

Mr. Collins, for his part, attempted to recover his composure, though his reluctance was evident in every stilted movement.

    "Oh... ah... yes, splendid." He stammered, his voice lacking the enthusiasm he had so confidently displayed moments earlier.

    He tugged at his cuffs and adjusted his chair as if trying to convince himself of his own words.

Mary kept her gaze fixed on her plate but couldn't resist a flicker of a smile. The scene unfolding before her was almost too absurd to be real.

    Her mother's tireless maneuvering, Elizabeth's barely restrained irritation, and Mr. Collins' bruised ego combined to create a spectacle that was both exasperating and darkly amusing.

END OF CHAPTER X.