Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
T he arrival of Lady Catherine’s nephews was known immediately to those at the parsonage. Mr Collins had spent the morning in great anticipation, watching the lane diligently for any unknown carriages bearing exalted personages. It appeared a trial for Charlotte to keep Mr Collins away from Rosings Park on the day of their arrival; however, on the following morning, he hastened to great house to pay his deepest respects.
To the great surprise of all, when Mr Collins returned home, Lady Catherine’s nephews accompanied him. Charlotte had witnessed them crossing the road and immediately rushed to Elizabeth to tell her what an honour it was, adding, “I thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me. The gentleman’s interest in you was clear in Hertfordshire. Undoubtedly, he will be no less captivated here in Kent.”
Elizabeth had not a moment to respond or renounce all rights to the compliment before three gentlemen—Mr Collins, Mr Darcy, and a man introduced as Colonel Fitzwilliam—entered Charlotte’s parlour.
Elizabeth regarded Colonel Fitzwilliam with interest. He was charming and pleasant, bringing an ease to the small space they all shared. He was not nearly as handsome as his cousin, but his features warmed as he exhibited his effortless, friendly demeanour.
“Here I thought we would be bound only to sit and wait upon my aunt’s visitors and tour her estate. I find myself much relieved to make new acquaintances during our visit to Kent,” the colonel said with ease. “Is your acquaintance with my cousin a long one, Mrs Collins?”
“No, sir,” Charlotte replied with perfect gentility. “We were introduced in Hertfordshire, where I hailed from before my recent marriage.”
Elizabeth added, “We met Mr Darcy last autumn, while he visited his friend, Mr Bingley, who leased an estate near to my father’s.” She turned to Mr Darcy and said, “My sister has been in London these last three months. Have you never happened to see her there?”
Her question had two motives. She was eager to see if her sister had crossed paths with Mr Bingley. And further, she was eager to see if Mr Darcy was willing to acknowledge that theirs was more than a passing acquaintance.
But Mr Darcy said nothing; it was Colonel Fitzwilliam who replied, “Is that so? I doubt Darcy has seen your sister in London, Miss Bennet, for I have spent the last three months complete attempting to compel my cousin to join in some society with nary a success.”
Mr Darcy looked on the conversation with an expression of surprise and discomfiture. Could he not enjoy a little teasing?
“My cousin is correct. I have not had the pleasure of seeing your sister in London,” Mr Darcy finally replied.
“I had it from Jane in my last letter that she called upon Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley,” she added. “Perhaps you have word from your friend?”
Mr Darcy murmured he had not.
“As I was telling you before, my cousin has been something of a recluse this winter,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, tossing a grin at Mr Darcy. “I was shocked enough when he summoned me to his study to inform me we would make our annual pilgrimage to Kent. It was only with two days’ notice that he deigned to tell me when we would depart.”
A sound emerged from Mr Darcy that could only be described as a groan. Elizabeth thought it boded well for Mr Darcy to have such a cousin. Even a man of his standing would need someone in his life who added some levity.
Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the tea cart. “Eliza, will you pour?” Charlotte asked, and while surprised, Elizabeth did as asked.
Three lumps of sugar for Mr Collins and a splash of milk for Charlotte. She remembered how Mr Darcy preferred his tea as well; though he seemed surprised when she delivered a cup into his hands exactly as he favoured it before asking the colonel how he should like his tea.
Mr Darcy showed no more signs of liveliness than he had in Hertfordshire, sitting quiet and still with scarcely a sign of life to him. He had hardly uttered a word, though perhaps that was because her cousin had begun to speak too much to allow for others to contribute. He did, however, stare, his gaze jerking away when he caught her attending it.
She considered Charlotte’s words, inferring the attention she received from Mr Darcy implied interest. Elizabeth knew this man thought her far below his notice. His intent gazes were most likely designed to find fault, if indeed they had any purpose at all. Almost certainly, they were a mere absence of thought.
But why had he come at all? It truly was an honour for the gentlemen to call so quickly upon their arrival. Perhaps it was merely a courtesy because of their recent acquaintance in Hertfordshire. Once they completed this visit, it was improbable she would see the gentlemen anywhere but church. It was unfortunate, too, because Elizabeth especially enjoyed the colonel.
Darcy stood at the appropriate hour to depart the parsonage, thankful their visit was completed. He enjoyed seeing Miss Elizabeth once again, but her presence always mystified him. Each time he saw her, he felt his confidence in her unsuitability for him waver.
She was so different from other ladies of his acquaintance. The ladies of the ton —deemed well-born and gently-bred—seemed lacking in the face of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s unique charm. Her fine eyes were expressive, her air honest and generous…and her intellect—well, she consistently outshone all others in cleverness.
He knew he had a dreadful habit of watching her intently. Even when she was arguing a point against him, he was bewitched. Her arch kindness made it impossible for him to be offended by her.
Darcy always knew how he was meant to behave. Governesses, tutors, and professors had ingrained in him what a gentleman should say to certain persons and in particular situations. He had long been schooled in how to maintain control; but this woman confounded him, and he reacted likewise—mute and muddled .
Matchmaking mothers across the country spent years putting forward their daughters and introducing their many accomplishments in the hopes he would at last show one of the ladies preference. He had been guarding such notice assiduously for many years now, knowing that the wrong attention at the wrong time might lead to the unintended engagement of his honour. To no degree did he plan to allow himself to be forcibly attached to some excessively flattering and otherwise vapid woman, and if such an abundance of caution led to the general opinion that he was haughty and too reticent, then so be it.
But then came her. And now—in her presence—he had to remind himself not to stare! Not to watch her every move and observe her every facial expression! After all these years of carefully constructed reserve, numerous parties where he avoided eye contact, and balls spent dodging dance partners, he had been finally, in essence, trapped—even if it was unintended by the lady. He had been entrapped by his own fascination.
How frustrating to be so infatuated with each arch of her eyebrow and every quirk of her lips! The ladies of his sphere were typically demure and docile, but not Elizabeth. She was the embodiment of life—giving and joyful and vibrant. Even her hair did not appear to behave. Her wild, chocolate curls—auburn when the sun hit them, to be exact—were always pushing out of the confines of her hairpins to reveal rebellious locks with no intention of being forced into submission. What he would not give to touch one of those blessed coils…
So lost in his thoughts was he that it took nearly the entire visit to notice Miss Elizabeth appeared more reserved than usual. He thought, perhaps, she was nervous to be in his presence again. He ought to be careful not to raise any expectations. Charmed as he was, he still could not offer for her. She was not for him.
Thankfully, Fitzwilliam was good enough to accompany him that morning. His cousin had nearly spit out his tea when Darcy suggested they accompany Mr Collins home to greet the ladies of his household. Darcy knew he could not condescend to visit the overly flattering Mr Collins on his own. He was already tongued-tied enough in Miss Elizabeth’s presence. That parson and his insistent rambling only rendered communication more difficult. How was a man to respond to his fawning and deference?
Once they were safely beyond the parsonage gardens, Fitzwilliam clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “Dare I ask why we made this call? Surely it could not have been for your friendship with Collins. That man is infuriating. Always bowing and grinning and droning on.”
He theatrically shook his shoulders as if to shake off the experience. His broad smile widened to show he was quite amused.
Darcy frowned. Had his design been so obvious? “It was the correct thing to do. I made the acquaintance of Mr and Mrs Collins, as well as Miss Bennet, while I was in Hertfordshire with Bingley and thought to honour that connexion.”
Fitzwilliam gave him a sceptical glance. “Was that the only reason?”
“You would rather be spending time with our aunt and cousin?”
Fitzwilliam put his hands up in defence of the statement. “I can admit the ladies present were entirely welcoming and kind, but that man! I cannot offer a guess as to whose company I prefer between Lady Catherine and Mr Collins!”
“I know.” Darcy smiled. “’Tis a poor choice, to be sure.”
“I do believe that man smelled of onions! ”
Darcy suppressed a chuckle.
“How long must we stay in Kent? I cannot imagine finding consistent excuses to miss Sunday services.” Fitzwilliam grinned. “And certainly, Lady Catherine will not stand for it more than once or twice.”
“My plans are not fixed.”
“By all means, please fix our plans to suit yourself. I do not require any particular consideration or notice,” Fitzwilliam teased.
“Is she not aunt to us both?” Darcy asked. “We both have some duty to perform here.”
“Yes, but I am more willing to shirk that duty than you are.” Laughing, Fitzwilliam said, “Pray allow me to defer all decisions to you, Cousin. I am at your leisure. Until I am not, that is. I could be called back to Spain on a moment’s notice.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. Fitzwilliam did enjoy reminding him rather frequently of his impressive war history. To Darcy, the idea of Fitzwilliam off fighting in Spain brought him sadness, though his cousin’s time spent with him while off-duty was a comfort. He had ever been more a brother than a cousin.
Darcy’s fondest memories of boyhood all included his cousin—climbing trees, getting into mischief, and even being punished side by side. Without him, he would have been very much alone. With Fitzwilliam, he was not ‘Master of Pemberley’ or ‘Potential Suitor’—he was just himself.
For several days following Mr Darcy and his cousin’s arrival in Kent, Elizabeth and Charlotte were limited to indoor pursuits due to a succession of rain. They were days that wore long, particularly for Elizabeth who was increasingly discomfited by her hosts.
As she sat with Charlotte one grey afternoon, Elizabeth read an unengaging page of her book five times before she set it down and let her mind wander to the inhabitants of the great house across the lane. She still could not account for Mr Darcy having called at the parsonage on Tuesday. It argued against every belief of him, that he should condescend to recognise the Collinses in such a way. And then to sit so silently! He was, as ever, impossible to comprehend.
Her mind full of such musings, she spoke to her friend as she would have back in Hertfordshire. “Which gown shall I wear to church for Easter, Charlotte? I am aware of Lady Catherine’s strong opinions, and I hope to endure her condescension with the finest my trunk may offer,” Elizabeth said theatrically, raising an eyebrow and grinning at her friend. “Though, of course, the distinction of rank must and shall be preserved.”
Immediately, Elizabeth noted the narrowing of Charlotte’s brows while she kept her eyes on her mending. Sadly, it was another tease gone terribly wrong. Charlotte truly has lost her ability to laugh in Hunsford.
“I care not what you wear to Easter-day services, Eliza. You must know that I do not extend friendships based on one’s similarities to a fashion plate, nor would Lady Catherine. She is all that is honourable,” Charlotte replied, keeping her attention on the needle and thread. “And should we be invited to dine at Rosings, I am certain that what you wear will have no impact on the pleasantness of our visit. Are you dressing for one of her nephews? I should warn you to temper your expectations and be on your guard, for the sake of the gentlemen, of course. As you say, the distinction of rank shall be preserved. You are a guest in our home and family to my husband. I should think you would take our position in this community more seriously. Perhaps you could show a bit more gratitude for your great fortune.”
Elizabeth barely refrained from sighing and rolling her eyes. Though Charlotte’s speeches were becoming tiresome, in truth, they were more concerning than vexatious. Charlotte sounded as though she was mimicking her husband’s thoughts and words, too afraid to voice any opinions of her own.
Elizabeth watched intently as Charlotte kept a steady rhythm with her needle and thread—in and out and in and out. She was a shell of her old friend—keeping up appearances and watching her tongue, day in and day out. Marriage had significantly altered Charlotte, and Elizabeth did not think it was for the better. She wished Charlotte would speak to her of it.
Lost in thought as she was, she nearly leapt out of her skin when Mr Collins came rushing into the parlour shaking a single piece of paper in his hand. Rage emanated from him. As shocking as it was humorous, Elizabeth could not smile when it appeared he would ring a peal over her.
“Cousin! What can you possibly have to say about these abusive lies outlined in this communication?” He placed his bulky person directly in front of her, and she sat further back in her chair. His fierce brandishing of the page meant he nearly struck her with it. “I shall not abide a sharp-tongued serpent in my home!”
Elizabeth looked to Charlotte for some assistance but found no help therein. Charlotte had gone still and pale, wild desperation in her eyes, and appeared unwilling to meet her gaze. Elizabeth turned back to Mr Collins. She raised her chin to look him in the eye. “I am not certain what you speak of, sir. ”
He shoved the piece of paper at her, and Elizabeth took it, glancing down to see her own handwriting—with horror, she recognised it was the letter she had been penning to her father. She gasped. “Mr Collins, this is my letter! How have you come to be in possession of my personal correspondence?”
“You are in my home, and as such, your possessions must be within my purview,” he proclaimed. “How dare you utter such loathsome and contemptuous words about a woman so vastly superior to you! Lies, all of them! The Bible tells us that the Lord detests lying lips, Cousin Elizabeth—what can you have to say to that?”
“You had no right to enter my bedchamber and look at my letter,” she replied.
His face red with rage, Mr Collins continued speaking as if he had not heard her. “I should have known after your undutiful actions at Longbourn that you would require much instruction. I am thankful your father sent you here to me, for I can lead you to true repentance. Naturally, should Lady Catherine extend an invitation, you shall not be allowed to dine at Rosings on the morrow. I shall not allow it. If you show some notable remorse, you may, at a later time, be welcome in the presence of those of such high standing. At this time, I find that possibility unlikely. One must earn the privilege of an audience with their betters.”
Mr Collins ripped the letter from her hand, tore it, and tossed it into the nearby flames burning in the hearth.
“Mr Collins!” Elizabeth exclaimed, astonished by his audacity. But there was nothing for it; the flames consumed her words eagerly. No matter; it was nothing that could not be rewritten or told at a later time. It was, rather, his behaviour that surprised her most. “You are behaving in a very shocking way, sir. To enter the bedchamber of a young lady in your care is improper, much less to remove possessions therein and burn them!”
At this, Charlotte at last rose and entered the argument. She approached her husband carefully, laying a hand on his arm, “My dear Mr Collins, I am sure you did not enter Elizabeth’s chamber. Perhaps you found her letter in my parlour or the breakfast room, sir?”
Mr Collins appeared to consider this. Elizabeth could sense he was vacillating between being insulted by his wife’s suggestion and relief that she had provided him another path. “Ah, yes—I am sure my dear wife is correct. Please, Cousin, do be more considerate.”
“I did not leave it in the parlour,” Elizabeth asserted softly. She may have stumbled into Bedlam, but it did not follow that she would permit the inmates to have their way with her. “It was in my bedchamber.”
“Elizabeth, my dear, I am sure in your distraction your missive was left in a public room,” Charlotte insisted.
No matter how Charlotte’s defence of Mr Collins vexed Elizabeth, it did seem to mollify him. When again he spoke, he used his customary pompous gravity, looking down his nose at her. “I shall take my responsibilities as your superior and elder with the greatest solemnity. I expect better decorum from you in the future—beginning now. We shall spend more time in deep religious studies each night, and from this day, you are restricted to the parsonage.”
“You cannot—”
“Yes, I can,” he interrupted. “And I shall. I cannot neglect the opportunity to set you on the right path, madam, no matter how dearly you might like to continue in your wild, animal ways.”
At Elizabeth’s gasp, he added, “You may maintain only your morning exercise as a time of reflection—in order to recount and consider the scripture discussed in the evenings.”
With that, he left them, quitting the room with an air of satisfaction and sanctimony.
Elizabeth was frozen in place, perfectly still, her mind wild with anger and mortification. For several moments she stood in silence with Charlotte; when she glanced at her friend, Charlotte could not meet her eye.
At length, Elizabeth made her way to the door, intending to go to her chamber, but before she exited, she turned over her shoulder to say quietly, “Charlotte?” When she had her friend’s attention, she continued. “The letter I was penning for my father was in my room. But I daresay you already knew that.”
Elizabeth’s pace had quickened to almost a run by the time she reached the stairs, though she took care that the Collinses should not hear her fleeing them. After reaching her chamber, she poured some water from the ewer and splashed it on her face, her breath coming fast and her heart racing.
Elizabeth sat at the writing desk, finding the pen and ink well just as she left it. She had not blatantly insulted Lady Catherine in her letter, but it was not flattering either. Her father had always been her outlet for witty repartee. During her lonely first weeks in Kent, her quips collected for his reading pleasure had brought her some levity. It did not signify; her thoughts and impressions were her own, and her cousin had no influence, no matter what he believed.
Elizabeth lifted the lid of the delicate desktop to find letters from her father and Jane, which she had carried from home, and moved them to a pocket in the lining of her trunk. She would have to be more cautious about what she left out in the open .
Surely Mr Collins did not think he could keep her at Hunsford like some prisoner? She would not remain if she were to be treated like a naughty schoolgirl, rather than an esteemed guest. She came as a favour to Charlotte—to demonstrate her support of her marriage—not so that Mr Collins could correct her ‘wild’ behaviour. She did not doubt that her letters to her family could be closely examined, no matter how she protested against it.
Thoughts of Charlotte made her stop and swallow hard. Charlotte had lied, blatantly. Why? To subdue him? To appease him? What had happened in this house to so alter her friend? Every instinct within her urged Elizabeth to find her cousin and object to his strictures, but loyalty to her friend tugged against it.
Just then, the maid entered her room. Surprised, Hayes quickly curtseyed and apologised, “Pardon me for the intrusion, Miss Bennet. I was unaware you were here. I was returning a few of your gowns to your wardrobe.” She moved to put the garments away and enquired if Elizabeth needed anything.
“Please ask Mrs Montgomery to send a tray up to me this evening. I shall not be dining with the family,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. At least she would not have to pretend courtesy through a long meal.
Moving over to the bed to rest a while, she considered that the maid’s entrance had not been preceded by a knock. She knew enough about Lucas Lodge to know Sarah would never have dared perform her duties in that manner. Perhaps the great Lady Catherine appointed the servants at the parsonage for reasons more than simply preference?
The thought infuriated her, but it was less unsettling to imagine a stealthy, conniving maid than a dreadfully repulsive cousin.