Chapter 2
2
E lizabeth sat stiffly in Mr. Collins’ small carriage, staring out the window as the fields of Kent passed in a blur of green and gold. The journey to Rosings Park had taken the better part of two days, and the closer they came, the more her stomach twisted into knots.
She had thought, perhaps foolishly, that her decision to accept Mr. Collins would settle something within her. That once her fate was sealed, she might find peace in resignation.
She had been wrong.
Her heart was a restless, beating thing, and the memory of Mr. Darcy’s gaze upon her at the assembly refused to fade. Their two sets together had been the best of her life, and his attention had not faltered for the remainder of the evening. He’d danced with no other and waited for her after every set. The whole town would have been expecting a courtship had she not already accepted Mr. Collins.
She shook her head slightly, willing away the foolish thought. He was nothing to her. A man she had met once, whose name had passed on the lips of every guest at the assembly, but whom she had thought she would never see again.
And yet, something in her chest ached with the knowledge that she was wrong about that, too.
Because he was at Rosings.
She had learned it only the day before their departure. Mr. Collins, positively thrumming with excitement, had revealed the news as though announcing a royal visit.
"Mr. Darcy has arrived early this year, my dear! Lady Catherine was gracious enough to share that he intends to stay through Easter! Why, what fortune! You shall have the honor of meeting him again properly under the most elevated of circumstances."
Elizabeth had felt the air leave her lungs.
It should not have mattered. Why should it matter?
But it did.
Now, as the carriage bumped along the final stretch of road, she curled her gloved hands into tight fists.
She was not traveling to Rosings for pleasure, nor merely as a guest. She was traveling there to earn Lady Catherine’s final approval.
The great woman had insisted upon meeting her future parson’s wife before the wedding could proceed.
Mr. Collins had assured her it was a mere formality—that Lady Catherine had all but endorsed the match already. But Elizabeth was not so certain.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh was a woman of great power and influence, and though she had approved of Elizabeth’s engagement, that approval was conditional.
If she disapproved of her manners, her conversation, her presence, she could just as easily withdraw her patronage—and the money that Kitty so desperately needed.
Elizabeth’s chest tightened.
She had come to Rosings to be inspected, to be judged, to prove her worth.
And for Kitty’s sake, she could not fail.
The gates of Rosings Park loomed ahead, iron and imposing, flanked by stone pillars that bore the crest of the de Bourgh family. As the carriage passed through, Elizabeth saw the manor itself—a sprawling estate of gray stone and endless windows, its grandeur heavy with centuries of aristocracy.
Mr. Collins nearly vibrated with excitement, barely able to contain himself as the footmen assisted Elizabeth from the carriage.
"You must be on your very best behavior," he whispered fervently. "Lady Catherine will be eager to observe you, my dear. She values a proper woman above all things."
Elizabeth’s lips pressed together tightly. Proper. Was that what she was now? More like a woman who traded herself for security, for duty?
She did not have time to dwell on the thought, for the great doors of Rosings swept open, and a tall, regal woman in deep violet silk descended the steps like a queen upon her throne.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Her eyes swept over Elizabeth like a judge preparing her verdict.
"So," she said, her voice sharp as steel. "This is the young woman who will marry my parson."
Elizabeth did her own surveyance of her hostess and found her to be half as imperious as she’d been expecting. Indeed she was commanding in tone but if one chose to ignore her domineering attitude, she was nothing but an overly dressed most bony creature.
She did not mean to be critical. But the thought did give her courage. Lizzie was a woman of great value, intellect and wit. She was most certainly worthy of Mr. Collins and the post as the wife of a man of the cloth.
Dinner at Rosings was a performance. The servants entered and left with great pomp. The courses were delicious and many.
Elizabeth sat at Lady Catherine’s right, enduring an interrogation disguised as conversation. The woman had an unshakable belief in her own wisdom, correcting even the most minor observations, declaring her opinions law.
Elizabeth had prepared herself for this. She had expected it.
What she had not expected was the presence of Mr. Darcy quite yet.
She had been midway through a polite response to one of Lady Catherine’s self-important remarks when she had felt him—a gaze upon her.
It had been different than at the assembly, where he had glanced at her from across the room, fleeting but deliberate.
This was heavier, unavoidable, impossible to ignore.
And when she lifted her gaze, he was there.
Seated across the table, his expression unreadable, his features carved from something too solid to break.
Her breath caught.
He is here.
He is watching me.
“Oh nephew. I see you have joined us. I trust you have been introduced to Miss Elizabeth?”
“Yes indeed.” He nodded, his eyes saying much more, things she didn’t dare fully interpret.
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass.
Lady Catherine continued speaking, but Elizabeth did not hear a word.
She finished their meal with no mishaps, which was remarkable given she hadn’t a clue what was discussed and knew very little about what she ate.
Mr. Darcy, his movements, the direction of his gaze and his many expressions cleverly aimed in her direction had consumed all thought. This visit would be the most diverting of her life or the most torturous. Time would tell.
Later that evening, Elizabeth sought a moment of solitude in the gardens. The walls of Rosings had begun to feel too tight, the air thick with expectations she did not want to meet.
She wandered down a gravel path, the cool evening breeze pressing against her cheeks.
And then—a shadow in the lamplight.
She turned swiftly, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"Forgive me," Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth exhaled, willing herself to remain calm. "You startled me," she admitted, her voice softer than she intended.
He inclined his head, his gaze never leaving hers.
"I had not realized you were here," she continued, though she was certain he had known exactly where she was.
"You had not realized," he repeated slowly, "or did you hope to happen upon someone else?”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched.
A pause. Long. Tense. Charged.
"Lady Catherine is pleased with your engagement," he said at last.
Elizabeth let out a sharp, breathless laugh. "I am pleased that she is pleased.
Something flickered in his gaze—something frustrated, something unresolved. "Are you?" His expression demanded no false response.
Elizabeth did not answer.
She could not.
The truth—the terrible, shameful, unspoken truth—was that she wanted to tell him he was exactly who she hoped to see.
That she was not pleased. That she felt trapped. That she had spent the last weeks convincing herself she had no other choice.
That seeing him again—his eyes, his voice, his presence—made her feel as though she were standing on the edge of something dangerous and deep, and she did not know if she wanted to step back or fall.
She turned away. "I should go inside," she murmured.
"Miss Bennet."
She paused, his voice a tether, pulling her back before she could flee.
He was standing closer now, his presence warm despite the cold air, his expression unreadable. "Goodnight," he said at last, his voice low.
Elizabeth turned, walking swiftly up the path toward Rosings, her breath uneven.
And behind her, Darcy did not move.