Possession and Prejudice (Pride & Prejudice Variations)
Chapter One
Elizabeth marched back to the parsonage steaming with rage, her jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached.
The revelation Colonel Fitzwilliam had so casually imparted, that Mr. Darcy had deliberately separated Bingley from Jane, had congratulated himself on saving his friend from an imprudent connection, burned in her chest like a hot coal.
She barely noticed the spring flowers nodding along the lane, the pleasant warmth of the afternoon sun.
Her mind was too full of Jane’s quiet sadness, of her own foolish hope that Bingley might eventually return for her sister, of Mr. Darcy’s insufferable pride.
She had known him arrogant from their first meeting.
But this! This calculated cruelty, this casual destruction of her sister’s happiness, exceeded even her worst estimation of his character.
That he should consider Jane unworthy of his friend, that he should take it upon himself to judge and condemn where he had no right, made her hands curl into fists at her sides.
The parsonage door stood open to admit the spring breeze. Elizabeth stepped inside, grateful for the cool dimness of the entrance hall after the glare of the bright sunshine. She needed solitude, time to master the fury that threatened to choke her, and marched briskly towards the stairs.
“Oh, Elizabeth!” Charlotte appeared in the parlour doorway, her expression apologetic as she saw Elizabeth’s intended direction. “I did not expect you back quite so soon. We have visitors; Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson have come to take tea.”
Elizabeth felt her composure, already strained, threaten to crack entirely.
She could not, absolutely could not, sit through tea and make polite conversation when her blood was still hot with indignation.
But Charlotte’s eyes pleaded with her, and Elizabeth recollected that she was a guest in this house, that Charlotte must manage relations with Rosings as best she could.
“Of course,” Elizabeth heard herself say.
Her voice sounded nearly normal, though her throat felt tight.
“I shall join you directly.” Removing her pelisse, she yanked at her bonnet ribbons with perhaps unnecessary force, wincing as she heard threads rip.
She made herself stand still for a moment, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath, before resuming untying the ribbons more carefully.
She followed Charlotte into the parlour, willing her expression into pleasantness.
The room seemed over-warm and too small.
Charlotte’s sister Maria sat perched on the edge of a chair, her posture painfully correct, her eyes bright with the importance of entertaining such exalted company.
The companion Mrs. Jenkinson occupied another seat, her spine rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes cast down as was her usual habit.
And Anne de Bourgh herself sat in the best chair, looking as pale and insubstantial as always, yet regarding Elizabeth with an intensity that seemed at odds with her fragile appearance.
“Miss Bennet,” Anne said, her voice soft but carrying clearly in the confined space. “How pleasant to see you again. I trust your walk was agreeable?”
“Very agreeable, thank you.” Elizabeth took the only vacant seat, on Anne’s other side, accepting the tea Charlotte poured for her with fingers that wanted to tremble.
She gripped the delicate cup too firmly, feeling the heat of the tea through the porcelain.
The fury in her chest had not subsided. If anything, being forced into this performance of civility made it worse, a pressure building behind her breastbone.
“You must find Kent quite different from Hertfordshire,” Anne continued. Her gaze never left Elizabeth’s face, an unwavering attention that felt oddly improper. “The countryside here is perhaps less wild, more cultivated.”
“The countryside is very pleasant,” Elizabeth replied, taking a sip of tea she barely tasted. The liquid was too hot, scalding her tongue, but she welcomed the sharp sensation. It gave her something to focus on besides the roiling in her stomach.
“And the company?” Anne’s lips curved slightly. “My cousins have both been pleased to make your acquaintance, and I hope you have found their company interesting. Colonel Fitzwilliam is considered quite charming, I believe.”
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Charlotte looking at her with a concerned expression.
Perhaps she could see the colour rising in Elizabeth’s neck, the way her shoulders had gone rigid.
Elizabeth forced herself to relax marginally, to set down her teacup with exaggerated care before her hands could betray her by shaking.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam is indeed amiable,” Elizabeth said. Her voice had an edge to it she could not quite suppress. “He is very forthcoming in conversation.”
“And Mr. Darcy?” The question hung in the air, pointed and deliberate.
“You have spent some time in his company as well.” Anne tilted her head slightly, like a bird examining something curious on the ground.
“He has spoken little of your prior acquaintance in Hertfordshire, but then Mr. Darcy is not given to idle chatter. Do you find him agreeable?”
Maria made a small, nervous sound, half-hidden behind her teacup. Even she could sense the tension crackling through the room. Charlotte began to speak, some deflection about the weather or the roads, but Anne’s attention remained fixed on Elizabeth with an unnerving focus.
“I cannot claim to know Mr. Darcy’s character well,” Elizabeth said. “He keeps his own counsel, as you say.”
“But you must have formed some impression.” Anne’s voice remained soft, but something in her eyes had sharpened. “He is the sort of man who makes an impression, whether he intends to or not.”
The pressure in Elizabeth’s chest threatened to burst free in words she would regret.
She could feel her composure fraying, thread by thread.
Yes, she had formed an impression, of a man so consumed by pride and prejudice that he thought nothing of destroying another’s happiness.
A man who judged others by their connections and found them wanting. A man who…
“I find Mr. Darcy to be a gentleman of strong opinions,” Elizabeth said, selecting each word carefully. “He is not easily swayed by the feelings or preferences of others.”
“How perceptive,” Anne murmured. Something flickered across her pale features; satisfaction, perhaps, or calculation. “It is refreshing to meet someone who observes so clearly.”
Mrs. Jenkinson stirred, finally speaking for the first time since Elizabeth had entered. “Miss de Bourgh, you must not tire yourself with too much conversation. Remember what the physician said about exertion.”
“I am quite well, Mrs. Jenkinson.” Anne’s voice remained pleasant, but her companion subsided immediately, folding her hands once more in her lap.
Anne’s attention returned to Elizabeth, that same unsettling intensity in her gaze.
“Tell me, Miss Bennet, do you enjoy your time at Hunsford? Does it suit you?”
Charlotte seized on the change of subject with visible relief, launching into praise of the parsonage and Mr. Collins’s situation.
Maria added her own eager observations about the neighbourhood, the shops in the village, the kindness of Lady Catherine’s condescension.
The conversation became a flurry of social pleasantries, a familiar dance that required little genuine participation.
Elizabeth contributed little, but she remained acutely aware of Anne’s continued scrutiny, the way those pale eyes tracked her smallest movements.
It was the attention of someone cataloguing, assessing, measuring.
Elizabeth had been observed by potential suitors, by disapproving matrons, by curious neighbours, but this felt different.
This felt like being examined by a natural philosopher studying a specimen.
This was a different Anne de Bourgh than the silent girl at Rosings, stifled by her mother’s overbearing presence.
The flush in her cheeks would not quite fade.
Whenever Darcy’s name arose, and it arose with suspicious frequency in Anne’s gentle questioning, Elizabeth felt fresh heat prickle across her skin.
Her posture remained too rigid, her responses too cautious.
Anyone with sense could see she was barely maintaining control.
Anne, it seemed, had abundant sense. Each time Elizabeth struggled to master her reaction, Anne’s expression shifted subtly; a small tightening around the eyes, a barely perceptible nod, as though Elizabeth had confirmed something important.
It made Elizabeth’s skin crawl in a way she could not quite define.
“You must come to Rosings again before you leave Kent,” Anne said. “I should like to know you better, Miss Bennet. I find you quite fascinating.”
Fascinating. As though she were a curiosity in a cabinet, something strange to be studied and understood.
Mrs. Jenkinson set down her teacup with a soft clink and cleared her throat.
“Mrs. Collins, forgive me, but I wonder if I might have a word about the receipt you mentioned, the one for the tonic you mentioned that your mother taught you? Miss de Bourgh’s constitution might benefit from such a remedy. ”
Charlotte rose immediately, ever the accommodating hostess. “Of course, Mrs. Jenkinson. I shall write it out for you. Maria, perhaps you might help me – you can show Mrs. Jenkinson the herbs in the stillroom while I write out the receipt?”
Maria nearly leapt from her chair, eager to be useful, to be noticed performing some service. The three women departed in a rustle of skirts and murmured conversation, their voices fading down the passage toward the back of the house.
The parlour door clicked shut.