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They walked several steps before she continued.

“Mama went to Papa. She expected him to make me accept. She told him that I must be brought to reason.”

“And your father?”

“He sent for me.”

For the first time in her account, Darcy heard real uncertainty beneath the remembered amusement. Mr. Bennet’s support had not been something upon which she had counted without fear.

“He asked whether I had refused Mr. Collins,” she said. “I told him I had. Then he said I would have to disappoint one parent, because he would not be reconciled to my marrying him.”

Darcy smiled.

“It was very like Papa,” Elizabeth said. “He made Mama angrier than she had been before, and made it possible for me to leave the room without giving way. I was grateful for both, though perhaps I ought only to have been grateful for the second.”

“Did Collins accept your refusal then?”

“At last. He discovered that I had a temper which would make him unhappy. It was a discovery I had been trying to assist him in making all morning.”

Darcy laughed, and Elizabeth’s smile returned fully.

“My mother did not speak comfortably to me for some time. It was difficult for Jane, who wished everybody to be happy and could not quite accomplish it. Charlotte was a great assistance.”

“Miss Lucas?”

“Mrs. Collins now.”

He knew Collins had married. The identity of the bride had meant nothing to him when Lady Catherine mentioned it in a letter. He had not understood that she was Elizabeth’s friend.

“He applied to her soon afterward?”

“Very soon.”

“You must have been astonished.”

“I was. More than I ought to have allowed her to see.”

Elizabeth looked through the trees. The confession had sobered her, and Darcy waited rather than supplying the condemnation which he would have found easiest.

“Charlotte does not expect what I expect,” she said. “She wanted a home of her own. She has brothers and sisters, very little money, and no wish to remain dependent upon her father for the rest of her life. She considered what Mr. Collins offered and decided she could be content with it.”

“Do you believe she is?”

“She writes as though she is. I hope she tells me the truth. I have no right to wish her miserable merely to prove that my refusal was sensible.”

Darcy looked at her. He had not accused her of such a wish, but understood that she was answering an earlier judgment of her own.

“Would you reconsider, knowing that the provision you refused might satisfy someone you esteem?” he asked.

“No.” The answer was immediate. Then she softened it. “Charlotte must live with her husband. I should have had to live with mine. We cannot make the decision for each other.”

“And the uncertainty afterward?”

“I do not enjoy it. I know very well that Papa cannot remain with us forever.”

Her voice changed upon the last words. Darcy regretted the question before she had finished answering it.

“But I could not promise to honour a man merely because I feared being poor,” she said. “It would have been unjust to him as well as to myself.”