Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The day had passed with reading and light conversation after the funeral planning was complete.
The new rector had departed, as had the solicitor and the undertaker.
Miss de Bourgh had returned to the receiving room, along with Mrs Jenkinson, though she did not make eye contact with Elizabeth, which pleased her.
Even so, she felt out of sorts in Mrs Jenkinson’s presence.
She had gone to the library after their conversation, but had been so distracted that she had picked up the first book she had laid her hands on, which turned out to be a history of the Visigoths, a subject that did not interest Elizabeth in the least.
She had finally set the book aside and asked to speak with her father privately. Mrs Jenkinson’s and Elizabeth’s eyes were locked as father and daughter left the room, and having sustained her own glare gave Elizabeth a modicum of satisfaction.
“Papa,” said Elizabeth, once they had reached the music room.
“Yes, my dear?”
Elizabeth paused, crossed back to the door, closed it, and gestured for her father to sit.
She perched across from him on the edge of a chair, which had red brocade fabric and elaborately carved gold armrests and legs.
Elizabeth had no doubt the chairs in this room were expensive, but they were too fussy.
Then she wondered if Pemberley was as overly decorated as Rosings, and then wondered why she cared, and then knew precisely why, which was the reason she had brought her father into this room.
“Lizzy?” her father asked. “What have you to speak with me about?”
Elizabeth brought her mind back to the task at hand, and nodded. “Papa,” she said, meeting his warm gaze, “Lady Catherine died because of me.”
“What?”
“She… Mrs Jenkinson told her information about me, and Lady Catherine raced to Longbourn to confront me, and…our conversation was not friendly. I believe the shock of my response to her attack is why her heart stopped.”
“What kind of attack?”
She looked to the painted ceiling. Angels peeked out from fluffy clouds, each holding a different instrument: flutes, clarinets, harps, and the like.
Eyes still averted, she said, “Mrs Jenkinson… The last time I was here…” She clamped her lips tight, unable to describe such intimacies to her father.
He reached out and patted her hand. “Tell me.”
She looked down at their touching hands and pulled hers away, folding them. She did not deserve his affection. “Mr Darcy and I…”
“What about Mr Darcy?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
Her father was a calm man, but he was still a father, and leaving her last statement unfinished while she behaved as if something awful had occurred had set him on edge. She could not continue with her foolishness. She had to confess. Looking directly at him, she said, “We kissed.”
He waited for more, and when she did not add to the story, he offered a small chuckle. “Young people kiss. It is natural.”
“That is not what others say.”
He shrugged. “The rules of society are too stringent.”
“They say it means engagement.”
“They say many things.” He chuckled. “And in this case, did it?”
Elizabeth pulled in a long breath, but did not speak right away.
What was she willing to tell him? Not of how Mr Darcy’s kisses made her feel.
Not of how she would have liked to remain in the shadows kissing him for all eternity.
Not of attempts at asking for her hand, as neither conversation had come to a true conclusion.
She settled on a different part of the story.
“Mrs Jenkinson desires to blackmail me now, saying she will tell you of my behaviour in the hopes of making me look like…like a-a wanton woman. She hopes that, to protect my reputation, I will beg you will take me away from here, and that I might never speak to Mr Darcy again.”
He pulled at his chin. “That is quite a lot she desires. You know, blackmailers typically only ask for money. She seems not very good at it.”
“Papa!”
“Yes, yes. It is not a time for my jokes.” He straightened up. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“She hopes Mr Darcy will marry Miss de Bourgh.”
He guffawed. “The sickly one? No, that cannot be. Anyone with sense knows she is no match for him.”
She nodded. “But Mrs Jenkinson desires it to be so, and claims she will stop at nothing to make him see that he and Miss de Bourgh must marry.”
Her father wrapped his large, warm hands around Elizabeth’s and squeezed. “She cannot shock me with her gossip, so you need not fear.” He rose and then paused. “You did not answer my question though. Was there a proposal?”
As Elizabeth stood, she decided to offer the simplest version. “No.”
He nodded. “Perhaps not yet.”
“After I tell him I killed his aunt, he might never want to speak to me again.”
He put out an elbow. “Lizzy,” he said with irritation, “you did not kill his aunt.” She threaded her arm through his, and he added as they began to walk, “That woman’s anger must have been eating her from the inside for years. She was a very unpleasant woman.”
Elizabeth shushed him. “You mustn’t speak ill of the dead.” As they left the music room, she whispered, “Especially in her own house.”
“Do you think,” he whispered back, “her ghost will get me?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Now you sound like your mother.”
As they entered the receiving room, Mary was chatting with Miss de Bourgh and Mrs Jenkinson. Mrs Jenkinson met Elizabeth’s challenging gaze, and her shoulders dropped. She knew Elizabeth had confessed to her father, and all was still well for Elizabeth.
Before Elizabeth could glory in her victory, a servant opened the door to allow in a guest.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” said Papa, and all bowed and curtseyed in greeting.
Mr Bingley shook the colonel’s hand, and asked after his journey, which was said to have been easy.
The colonel said, “Miss Elizabeth, how lovely to see you again. Mrs Collins.” He bowed to her.
Mary’s face turned ashen.
Elizabeth took her sister’s hand and studied Mary.
She was frozen, and Elizabeth was overcome with concern.
She did not wish to offend her hosts, but needed to remove Mary from the colonel’s presence.
“We have been here most of the day,” she said, and began to lead Mary out.
“I apologise for leaving so soon after your arrival, but we ought to rest before tomorrow’s gathering. ”
“Shall I accompany you?” asked Mr Bingley, and Papa stepped towards them.
“Do not fret, gentlemen,” said Elizabeth, working to appear cheery.
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked as though he wished to say something, but then closed his mouth and bowed his head.
Mary, who had seemed so much herself, was sluggish in her steps and leaned on Elizabeth as they left the room.
“Come now, Mary, the fresh air will do you good.”
Footsteps behind them made her turn.
Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Take Lady Catherine’s coach to the Parsonage. It is only right in her…condition.”
Elizabeth replied, “It will take too long to prepare. I believe she shall be restored once we are on our way.” The colonel’s face was suffused with sorrow, and though Elizabeth suspected he was thinking of the night of Mr Collins’s death, she said, “I am sorry for the loss of your aunt.”
“Oh,” he said, straightening up. “Yes. Yes. That. Thank you.” Brow still furrowed, he returned to the receiving room.
“Mary,” said Elizabeth after a servant had shut the grand front door behind them, “what a lovely evening it is.”
Mary nodded, but her mind still seemed elsewhere.
“I answered the colonel hastily,” Elizabeth said. “Would you like to ride home?”
Mary shook her head. “Look at the lilies.” She pointed at a giant pot of stark white lilies being unloaded from a cart for Lady Catherine’s funeral. “It seems like they should not be so beautiful on such a sad day.”
“Sometimes beautiful things on a sad day are especially special.” Elizabeth looped her arm through Mary’s and they walked on.