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“Lady Catherine?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth’s expression brightened with such immediate amusement that Darcy began to suspect he would regret identifying the connection.

“You must forgive me. I had forgotten. Your aunt formed so great a part of his recommendations that I almost felt she had proposed to me herself.”

Darcy looked at her.

“He told me she advised him to marry,” Elizabeth explained. “It was one of the first reasons he offered. A clergyman ought to set a proper example; marriage would contribute to his happiness; and Lady Catherine had particularly wished it. I was obliged to wait some time to discover where I entered the arrangement.”

“You cannot have been surprised that he admired you.”

“I was surprised by his confidence that I admired him.”

She stepped over a fallen twig and continued before Darcy could answer.

“He had come to Longbourn to make peace with Papa over the entail. He could not alter the entail, but he thought marrying one of us would make everybody comfortable with the prospect.”

“An awkward beginning to a courtship.”

“A very convenient one, if one supposes there can be no objection to the bridegroom.”

“He supposed that?”

“He had a house, a living, and the expectation of another house in which I was already quite comfortable. He could scarcely imagine what more I wished.”

Darcy thought of the man as he had seen him at Rosings, eager to supply agreement before Lady Catherine had finished stating her opinion. He had never considered what such eagerness would become when accompanied by authority over a wife.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I could not accept him.”

“And he persisted?”

“He explained my answer to me.”

Elizabeth glanced up, found Darcy waiting, and laughed at the recollection despite herself.

“He believed a refusal was expected of a young lady upon the first application. Perhaps even upon the second. He assured me that he was not discouraged.”

“What could you say to that?”

“I said I was not attempting to encourage him. He found it very difficult to believe that I understood my own intentions as well as he did.”

Darcy’s amusement gave way to discomfort. A refusal ought to have ended the matter. It was easy to ridicule Collins, but less easy to hear how little consequence he had given the woman whose consent he purported to seek.

“Was your mother present?” he asked.

“Not at first. She had arranged our being alone. Afterward she came to congratulate him, and found that I had not done my part.”

Elizabeth spoke lightly, but her fingers tightened upon the edge of her shawl.

“Mama was very angry. I ought not to make a joke of all her reasons. She has five daughters and no power to leave them Longbourn. She thought I had been offered a means of keeping her in her home, and that I had refused it because I found Mr. Collins tiresome.”

“Was there more to it?”

“Than his being tiresome?” She considered the question. “Yes. I could not respect him. And he did not appear to think my opinion of him necessary.”