Chapter 5
If Elizabeth had ever questioned the capacity of people to change, she found the answer that had tormented her for weeks—ironically enough—within only ten minutes of stepping into her friend’s house.
Mrs Collins had little in common with Charlotte Lucas, the girl Elizabeth had known since infancy, with whom she had shared all her secrets until the day her friend had followed her husband to Kent, two months ago.
They were received with great warmth, and for a moment, Elizabeth allowed herself to imagine that she had found the same friend, the one who had simply adopted the role of wife while remaining, at heart, the witty, good-humoured, and kind young woman she had always been.
The one who had chided her when she was indifferent, combative, or too proud.
The one who had urged her to set aside her grudge and dance with Mr Darcy, who had rightly observed that Jane had been too reserved with Mr Bingley.
But as soon as they settled into the drawing-room of the Parsonage, that hope crumbled, leaving Elizabeth with profound disappointment.
Before her, after scarcely two months, stood a married woman for whom house and husband were all that mattered.
Charlotte’s transformation was so striking that it took Elizabeth some time to accept it and find a way not to express or show her bewilderment.
The drawing-room, though spacious, was furnished in the heavy style of past centuries.
Although immaculately kept, it seemed to carry the imagined dust of bygone times.
Enormous, impractical pieces of heavy furniture, blocking the light from outside, and dreadful paintings—once the subject of their shared amusement—all contributed to an atmosphere of antiquated gloom.
Charlotte had written that Lady Catherine, with genuine generosity, had allowed them to make whatever changes they desired in the house.
But, when Elizabeth asked her how she contemplated changing the drawing-room, Charlotte lifted her gaze in mild surprise and assured her, with genuine conviction, that they liked the house exactly as it was.
Later, when Elizabeth recounted, in her usual playful manner, the latest events in Meryton, not once did a smile appear on Charlotte’s face.
Elizabeth had come to Kent in search of a change from Meryton, and indeed, she had found something different—only for the worse.
And from that moment, all her hope turned towards Rosings.
She did not doubt that Lady Catherine was as arrogant as her nephew, Mr Darcy, yet between arrogance and the appalling dullness of the Parsonage, she preferred the sharp glances and the not-always-courteous words of those who belonged to the ton .
Ultimately, a battle of wits was far more stimulating to her mind than the lethargy induced by Charlotte-the-wife.
The only redeeming quality of the Parsonage was that conversation revolved incessantly around Rosings and its inhabitants, fuelling Elizabeth’s curiosity. All her questions were answered even before the first dinner at Rosings, which, according to Mr Collins, would take place very soon.
“Did you have the chance to admire Rosings?” was the first question Mr Collins asked his guests at the dinner table, his eyes shining with anticipation as if that house was his.
Indeed, Sir William had requested that the carriage stop at the entrance to the estate, following the instructions of Mr Collins, who had hoped they would arrive before nightfall to witness the grand spectacle.
“Yes, it is indeed charming,” said Sir William, though he seemed far more preoccupied with the food on his plate than the view of Rosings.
“Charming?” Mr Collins almost shouted in indignation. “It is magnificent! You should see the park in spring and summer, while the house is fit for a prince. It has at least thirty rooms, and the ballroom on the ground floor can accommodate a hundred people, at the very least.”
“And are there many balls at Rosings?” Maria asked, and Elizabeth concealed a smile, for it was so easy to extract details.
“Balls?” Mr Collins repeated, somewhat perplexed.
He had arrived the previous spring to take up his position, but there had been no such event since.
“No, at least not in the way they are held in Meryton. Lady Catherine hosts dinners, and sometimes, there are over twenty guests. But I do not believe she holds annual balls. Perhaps due to Miss de Bourgh.”
“She is unwell, I believe. Charlotte wrote as much,” Maria spoke again, and Mr Collins cast a reproachful look at his wife for having shared such matters with her relatives, though he answered, nevertheless.
“Yes, she has a delicate constitution, but I hope she is much improved now. Charlotte has seen her once or twice, shortly after she arrived.”
“She visited us just once,” Charlotte corrected. “She did not step down from her carriage the second time.”
Mr Collins nodded approvingly at the precision of his wife’s speech, which he greatly valued, before continuing, “Miss de Bourgh has gone to London to stay with her aunt, the Countess of Matlock.” He pronounced the name with such reverence that he might as well have been speaking of the king himself.
“Oh!” Maria exclaimed, visibly impressed that her relatives lived near a family of such high nobility.
“Lady Catherine hopes that after two months in London, her daughter will have regained her health and will make a remarkable return to Rosings, accompanied by her cousins Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Charlotte said.
Her words bore such similarity in tone and deference to her husband’s that they might well have been his own.
Then, Mrs Collins turned to her father and Elizabeth and said, “You know Mr Darcy, the friend of Mr Bingley, who rented Netherfield.”
Elizabeth looked at her in surprise; they had met Mr Darcy many times, and he had often been the subject of their conversations, yet Charlotte was speaking as if they barely knew each other.
But she soon understood her friend’s reticence when she saw that her remark was not well received by Mr Collins, who hastened to interject, “It is not certain that Mr Darcy will even remember—”
“You are mistaken,” Sir William interrupted, perhaps feeling slighted by his son-in-law’s assumption. “Mr Darcy has been my guest on several occasions, and as for our meetings, they were countless in Meryton. Though I would not call him a particularly talkative gentleman.”
Elizabeth barely managed to suppress a satisfied smile at Mr Collins’s grimace, for it was clear that he could not bear to hear anything less than reverential praise for the family from Rosings.
Yet, on the other hand, his father-in-law was beyond his influence and entirely outside his power ; he had no authority over his words or opinions.
Nevertheless, he felt compelled to retort, “I assure you that all members of their family are people of impeccable politeness and true decorum.”
“My dear Mr Collins,” Sir William replied, “I assure you that we are the same, and decorum is identical in all places where gentlemen and titled individuals reside.”
The dinner concluded in relative quiet, interrupted only by comments on the quality of the meal, which had indeed been excellent, and discussions about life at the Parsonage, a subject in which Elizabeth was keenly interested.
However, if she had expected Charlotte to visit her before bed for a few moments of light and interesting conversation, her hopes were in vain, based on another life when their friendship was intimate and entertaining. They all retired rather quickly, and soon, silence settled over the house.
That evening, she wrote a letter full of wit to her aunt; the sarcasm she had learnt to wield with mastery from her father was the only way she could retaliate against what she had found at the Parsonage and the disappointment of having lost her lifelong friend.
Had her sole purpose been to see Charlotte, she was certain that her stay at Hunsford would have ended in less than a week; she would have asked her uncle that night to send the carriage for her return.
Yet, the events about to unfold across the road at Rosings were sufficiently intriguing to compensate for any loss.
At the end of November, when Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, and the other guests had departed Netherfield, it had seemed to her that a chapter of their lives had drawn to a close.
Jane had continued to see Mr Bingley’s sisters; however, with great disappointment, even her shy and too trusting sister had come to realise that they had no intention of maintaining their acquaintance with her nor of encouraging any connection between her and their brother.
From that moment on, the inhabitants of Netherfield faded into memories—pleasant or otherwise, depending on the circumstances in which she happened to recall them.
Their conversations had been engaging, some lively, others deliciously contradictory.
Their elegance had left a favourable impression upon the residents of Meryton and Longbourn, many of whom had made efforts to imitate them.
But too often had Mr Darcy or the two ladies regarded them with open disdain, which had only served to deepen Elizabeth’s aversion towards them.
She could not forget the evening of the Meryton assembly, when Mr Darcy had declared, loudly enough for her to hear, that she was not handsome enough to tempt him.
It had been the greatest affront of her life.
No one had ever imagined how deeply it had wounded her, for in the days that followed, she had recounted the incident with such humour that she had won the admiration of all who listened.
Her composed manner, which could turn an embarrassing moment for herself into an infamous one for Mr Darcy, had led to his being widely perceived as a man devoid of manners despite his unquestionable place in high society.
But the truth was different. She had been profoundly wounded—and not only by his words but also by his evident intention to ensure she heard them.
These were two distinct matters that had troubled her for a long time.
She was not a beauty like Jane, but she had always been admired.
If Jane resembled a fair-haired angel, Elizabeth had secretly wished to be seen as a figure of classical beauty, an Artemis, ever poised with her bow and arrows, a lover of confrontation and wildness.
The opinion of this man, newly arrived from London, shocked and hurt her to the very core.
Those around her had sought to console her, calling him arrogant, conceited, or proud, all adjectives that drew the scorn of people accustomed to politeness and civility.
Yet such reassurances did not comfort her.
On the contrary, they angered her all the more.
Without hesitation, Mr Darcy had included her in the disdain he had so openly displayed towards everyone in that assembly room.
She had wished for him to admire her—that was the truth—and that he had spoken loudly enough for her to hear only confirmed her worst fear: that he had seen her as ordinary, a forgettable figure unworthy of notice, and wanted her to know his opinion. And that had wounded her.
How he behaved towards her thereafter, the glances he cast her way or the explicit manner in which he sometimes took her side no longer mattered; the damage had been done.
He had wounded her; his pride a flaw she could not easily overlook no matter how witty his conversation was, with that touch of sarcasm she appreciated.
Slowly, the memory of him had faded. Or so she had believed, for the moment she learnt Mr Darcy was to travel to Kent, everything reappeared, vivid and undeniable.
Suddenly, she found herself eager to see him again.
Yet a change had taken place, and it amused her, she who sought answers about people’s capacity to change.
The two months that had passed had led her to reconsider certain events of that autumn, to regard Mr Darcy with more lavish indulgence, seeing in him an intelligent and elegant man, yet ill-mannered, displaying a pride that did not do credit to any man, regardless of rank.
At times, despite herself, she recalled a remark her father had made when she recounted the incident at the Meryton assembly.
In his subtle manner, steeped in sarcasm, her father had said, “Between what men feel and what they say, there sometimes lies a ditch of foolishness.” At the time, his words had held little interest for her.
However, as the months passed, their meaning became more precise.
Mr Darcy often regarded her with a gaze she could not quite decipher because she refused to believe it was admiration.
Pride was, after all, a sin. Yet if Mr Darcy had altered his demeanour towards her, Mr Bennet’s insight into the nature of men explained that he had leapt over the ditch of foolishness and revealed his feelings for her.
In that case, such an unexpected encounter with him might be more than merely interesting.
But this time, it was not only he who interested her but his entire family, for they were representatives of a world she had yet to comprehend—one she was curious to explore. Just as her aunt had hoped to do after meeting her friend Diana.
Diana from Derbyshire would not have succeeded in blending into London society or being as much at ease as her aunt had observed had she not found, beyond the love of her husband, understanding and support within the household of his parents.
“ They are wonderful ,” she had told Mrs Gardiner. “ Both my husband’s parents and his brother, and I feel welcome wherever I go in London. ” And she had been talking about Mr Darcy’s close relatives and friends.
Elizabeth’s interest in those people was a fact she could not deny any longer.
It was her nature to be curious, and what truly mattered to her was travelling and meeting new people, for she felt her life experience was limited.
She needed to move beyond her old way of thinking, be more open and temper her prejudices regarding people she encountered.
However, she was unsure whether to include Mr Darcy in that circle.
She needed to meet him and appraise his mood in the present.