Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Aweek after the wedding, a chaise and four approaching Longbourn unannounced set the household into a frenzy.
It was too early in the morning for visitors.
Neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them.
Servants were running, needlework was stowed, aprons were pulled off, and dresses straightened.
Mama was shrieking for the family to come to the parlour, and all made haste.
Through the window they watched Lady Catherine step out, and none could have been more surprised than Elizabeth.
Then panic struck her. Could there be ill news of Mary and the baby?
No. A messenger might have been sent for that…
unless Lady Catherine saw it as her duty to inform them of a tragedy in person.
She could not think such things.
Since Mr Collins’s death, her mind leapt to tragedy over and over. She had to cease this way of thinking.
Lady Catherine was announced and entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, and made no other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight inclination of the head. She sat down without saying a word.
“Welcome to Longbourn,” offered Papa.
Lady Catherine said, “You have a very small park here.”
Mama lifted her chin. “It is larger than some and smaller than others.” She looked to Elizabeth with distress that bordered on panic.
Elizbeth cleared her throat. “May I take the liberty of asking your Ladyship whether you left Mrs Collins well?”
“Yes, very well. I saw her Sunday last.”
Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from Mary, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling, but no letter appeared, and Elizabeth was completely puzzled.
Mama, with great civility, begged her Ladyship to take some refreshment, but Lady Catherine scoffed, and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth, “Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.”
Her mother opened her eyes wide and tipped her head in an absurd pantomime. Elizabeth knew she was to depart, but was reluctant to leave the comfortable bosom of her family to speak with the officious lady on her own. “Lizzy, show her Ladyship about the different walks.”
Elizabeth obeyed.
Lady Catherine’s carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-woman was in it. So this was to be a short visit. Whatever could this be about?
They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the copse. Elizabeth was determined to make no effort at conversation.
“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither.”
Elizabeth ran her mind over any memory or incident that might invite such a visit. “Indeed, you are mistaken, madam. I cannot account for the honour of seeing you here.”
“Miss Bennet,” snapped her Ladyship, “a report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would, in all likelihood, be soon united to my nephew, Mr Darcy.”
She united with Darcy? Who would have said such a thing? And did she hear correctly? Had Lady Catherine use the word “alarming” to describe this potential match?
Lady Catherine continued, “Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, I came to make my thoughts on the matter clear to you.”
Elizabeth felt her fists clench. This supercilious woman could not believe for a moment that Mr Darcy could love her? How dare she.
“Has my nephew made you an offer of marriage?”
“Matters of the heart are of a private nature.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “You might have used your feminine arts to lure him, and in a moment of infatuation, you might have made him forget his station and his responsibilities. You might have enchanted him so he forgot that his family is more important than anything or anyone.”
“I did not need to enchant him to convince him otherwise.” She ought not speak to a great lady, and an elder, in such a fashion, but she could not keep silent in the face of such insult.
And what powers did Lady Catherine assume she had?
Elizabeth was no witch. And how did she know of Mr Darcy’s infatuation with her?
True, they had been careless at Rosings, not endeavouring to hide their attraction to one another, but no remarks had been made.
What had Lady Catherine seen? No—she said she had heard something.
“Do not speak to me as if I were not your better.”
Elizabeth gasped. “You are no such thing.”
Lady Catherine inched forward, her face murderous. “Miss Bennet, do you know who I am?”
“Yes, and I do not care.” Her racing heart betrayed her, but she hoped not to show her true anxiety at this exchange.
“I am entitled to know all of my nephew’s dearest concerns.”
“I do not know to what you are referring.” And yet Elizabeth did know.
Mr Darcy had begun to ask for her hand. Twice in fact.
The first time, Lady Catherine had interrupted, and the second time she had run away.
What had possessed her to run away? She was so angry, so hurt on Mary’s behalf.
Was that her motivation? Yes. But also no. She was—
Lady Catherine’s voice tore her out of her musings. “Are you engaged?”
She would not answer. “If Mr Darcy cared for you as much as you claim he ought, he would have told you himself.” Elizabeth’s impertinence was beyond forgiveness, but she could not contain her fury in the face of such insult.
“You presume to aspire to this match, yet it can never take place. Never. Mr Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now, what have you to say?”
“If that is true, you cannot fear that he has made an offer to me.”
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied, “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. In their infancy, his mother and I arranged it.”
An engagement to that sickly daughter? It could not be. No two people were less suited to one another, and Mr Darcy had never mentioned such a thing. He had pursued Elizabeth at Rosings with his aunt and cousins mere feet away.
Though she had until moments earlier thought of Mr Darcy only with anger, she was emboldened by the recollection of their stolen embraces coupled with Lady Catherine’s rudeness to her and her family.
“There is no affection between Miss de Bourgh and Mr Darcy, and I will not sacrifice my happiness or his due to a promise made by sisters when the concerned parties were too young to protest.”
“Is this your gratitude for my attentions to your sister? Is nothing due to me on that score?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Would this heated discussion lead to a still-grieving Mary’s life being made more difficult? Already in her last letter, Mary mentioned the need to move since a new rector had been secured.
“Your family is unsuitable in both rank and behaviour. Only Mrs Collins has demonstrated that she might rise above the absurdity of the Bennets, and even she wallows in mourning to a degree that is beyond what is appropriate for a marriage so short-lived.”
By some miracle Elizabeth was able to restrain herself, and did not reach for Lady Catherine’s neck as she wished to do. All she could manage was to say through gritted teeth, “You ought to return to Rosings.”
“Miss Bennet, I shall not leave until you promise that no match has or shall be made.”
“I will make no promise of the kind.”
“You are—” Lady Catherine clutched her chest. Her eyes flew wide and she stretched a hand out to Elizabeth then lurched forward. Elizabeth instinctively reached out to catch her but missed, and Lady Catherine crumpled to the ground.
“Lady Catherine? Lady Catherine!” She shook the great lady’s shoulder and then rolled her onto her back.
Lady Catherine’s eyes were fixed to the sky.
Elizabeth stumbled back and fell, all the while staring at the figure lying like a doll discarded in the dust. Still no movement.
She attempted to scream but no words came.
She scrambled to her feet and ran for the house, but it seemed as if the door grew farther away.
“Help!” she rasped so softly she knew no one could hear her.
“Help!” she tried again, and this time more of her voice came forth.
“Help!” At last, her voice was her own. She repeated and repeated that word as she ran.
The waiting-woman’s head poked out the chaise, the footman leapt off the bench, and her entire family tumbled out the front door.
“What is it, Lizzy?” asked her father, rushing to her.
Elizbeth could only point towards the copse and say, “Lady Catherine.”
The men raced in the direction Elizabeth had indicated, and after exchanging a glance with her mother, Elizabeth hurried after them.
“What did you do to her?” the footman asked angrily.
Elizabeth came up short. “I did nothing. She was bellowing at me and then—” She gestured to Lady Catherine, who lay in the same position in which she fell. Elizabeth both desired to stare and to look away.
Papa asked Lady Catherine’s maid, who stood with her hands over her mouth, “Did she have any troubles with her health?”
Wide-eyed, the young woman said, “None that I know of, sir.”
“What was she angry about, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth shook her head. She would not say, not in front of servants. Perhaps not at all.
Her father turned to the footman, and the two men nodded to each other. Each reached to lift her, but Lady Catherine was too substantial. Elizabeth stepped forward to assist, but the footman waved her off, running for the coachman.
“Lizzy,” said Papa, “go back to the house.”
Though she was not aware of agreeing or telling herself to do so, Elizabeth felt herself walking.
Had she killed Lady Catherine?