CHAPTER 4
On Sunday morning, the Hunsford villagers and several inhabitants of the neighbouring town of Westerham gathered in the small yet elegant church, awaiting the new vicar’s first sermon with lively anticipation.
The pews filled gradually, with subdued greetings, the rustle of garments, and the occasional clearing of throats lending a quiet animation to the sacred space.
A pale light filtered through the narrow windows, softening the severity of the stone walls and lending the scene an air of solemn expectation.
Lady de Bourgh and her daughter Anne occupied the front row, their distinguished attire drawing the attention of all present. Just behind them sat Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth, and Mr. Collins, who fidgeted as he whispered to Elizabeth about his expectations for the new clergyman.
“Mr. Wickham has certainly generated quite a stir among the parishioners,” Mr. Collins said, his words trailing off as he glanced at Lady de Bourgh’s imposing figure. “I trust he shall meet the approval of our esteemed patroness.”
“Indeed, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, her eyes twinkling with restrained amusement. “It would be most unfortunate if he failed to do so.”
There was, in the general disposition of the congregation, a curiosity not wholly free from admiration; for novelty, when accompanied by recommendation, seldom wants for favourable expectation.
When at last Mr. Wickham appeared, a slight movement passed through the assembly.
His clerical garments sat somewhat uneasily upon him, giving the impression less of habit than of assumption, as though the office had been adopted more readily than it had been grown into.
His manner, though composed, betrayed a degree of effort; yet Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins regarded him with evident satisfaction, as though his success reflected favourably upon their own judgement.
The service commenced, and Mr. Wickham ascended the pulpit with a confidence that appeared to belie his true composure.
His voice rang clear and strong throughout the church, captivating the congregation with his eloquence and animation.
Despite her reservations, Elizabeth could not help but admire his command of language, even as she remained cautious of his character.
His expressions were chosen with care, his gestures measured, and for a time, all seemed to justify the expectations that had preceded him.
From the subdued whispers among those present, including several of the town’s dignitaries, it was evident that many shared her impression.
“He does have a way with words, does he not?” murmured one elderly gentleman to another, nodding with satisfaction. “A fine addition to our parish, I daresay.”
“Indeed,” agreed his companion, casting a sidelong glance toward Lady de Bourgh’s composed yet watchful expression. “Though whether Lady Catherine finds him agreeable remains to be seen.”
As Mr. Wickham continued his sermon, Elizabeth observed her companions.
Mr. Bennet, ever the detached observer, appeared lost in distant reflection, his expression one of mild curiosity rather than engagement, while Mr. Collins, in studied serenity, gazed at Mr. Wickham with an expression of attentive approval, as though each sentence confirmed some long-cherished expectation.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins whispered, leaning closer than discretion might recommend, “do you not think Lady Catherine appears rather… displeased?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, with careful neutrality. “But then again, our patroness is known for her discernment.”
“Ah, yes,” he sighed, nodding gravely. “One can only hope that Mr. Wickham’s performance shall meet with her approval. As you know, a vicar who fails to satisfy Lady Catherine de Bourgh does not fare well in this parish.”
Elizabeth could not help but wonder how long the new vicar might remain in Lady de Bourgh’s favour—and what consequences might arise should he disappoint her exacting standards.
There was already, she thought, something in his manner too dependent upon that favour, as though success were not merely desired, but required.
The congregation remained attentive as Mr. Wickham expounded upon the meaning of the Parable of the Lost Son.
Elizabeth followed his argument with interest; yet it was not long before she perceived a change.
His voice, once steady, began to falter, and his words lost something of their earlier coherence.
“Y-yes, the f-father, you see, welcomed his l-lost son with open arms,” Mr. Wickham stammered, beads of perspiration forming upon his brow, “Just as… just as the father did… did in the parable.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed with concern. Her attention, wholly engaged, moved from the struggling vicar to Lady de Bourgh, whose expression grew increasingly severe, and then to Anne, whose compassionate gaze remained fixed upon Mr. Wickham.
There was in Miss de Bourgh’s countenance a mixture of concern and something more difficult to name—an uneasiness which seemed to anticipate rather than merely respond to the scene before her.
“Pray do continue, Mr. Wickham,” Lady de Bourgh said, her tone cool and unyielding.
“Of course, m-my lady,” Mr. Wickham replied, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
A murmur passed through the congregation as several exchanged uneasy glances.
At that moment, however, a gentleman—whose entrance had gone largely unnoticed—advanced quietly down the aisle and took a seat beside Miss de Bourgh.
His bearing was composed, his manner assured, and his attire bespoke a degree of consequence not easily overlooked.
There was nothing in his appearance to solicit attention, and yet he commanded it entirely.
“Who is that gentleman?” Elizabeth whispered.
“I cannot say with certainty,” Mr. Collins replied softly, “but he appears most distinguished.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, studying him more closely. “He seems remarkably at ease amidst the present disorder.”
“Perhaps his presence will prove reassuring to Mr. Wickham,” Mr. Collins suggested, with hopeful gravity.
Elizabeth, however, formed a different impression.
The vicar’s agitation appeared, if anything, to increase.
As the gentleman inclined himself to speak softly with Anne, Elizabeth’s curiosity deepened; she could not but wonder at their connection, nor at the effect his presence might yet produce.
Miss de Bourgh, though she listened, did not appear relieved; rather, her composure seemed to require greater effort than before.
“Let us pray,” Mr. Wickham said, attempting to recover himself, wiping his brow with an unsteady hand. “For the lost… the lost son, who returns… returns home.”
Elizabeth sighed inwardly, her sympathy awakened despite her doubts. She could only hope that the service might conclude without further distress.
“Is it not Mr. Darcy?” whispered a lady behind her, her voice animated with excitement.
“Yes, it must be,” another replied. “For who else could possess such an air of distinction?”
Elizabeth’s gaze lingered upon the gentleman.
As though aware of her attention, he turned, and for a moment their eyes met.
There was in his expression a gravity that arrested her, before he returned his attention to the pulpit.
His countenance, though composed, suggested neither surprise nor displeasure, but something more deliberate—an attention directed not to the performance, but to the man who struggled within it.
“Pray, continue, vicar,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice carrying through the subdued church, his manner combining quiet authority with measured restraint.
The effect upon Mr. Wickham was immediate. His distress deepened; his words faltered; his composure, already shaken, seemed altogether beyond recovery.
“The… the lost son, who wandered… wandered far from home, and… and…”
“Dear heavens,” Mr. Bennet murmured, scarcely audible, “this is most unfortunate for the new vicar.”
Elizabeth could not but agree, though her compassion was tempered by reflection.
Whatever the nature of the connection between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy, it was evident that the presence of the latter had unsettled the former to a remarkable degree.
It was not merely embarrassment she witnessed, but something nearer apprehension.
“Father, what shall we do?” she asked softly.
“Patience, my dear,” Mr. Bennet replied. “There is little to be done but observe.”
Elizabeth, though inclined to pity, could not deny that her own composure had been affected; for the entrance of Mr. Darcy had introduced into the scene a new and unaccountable influence, the consequences of which she could not yet foresee.
She felt, with increasing certainty, that what had begun as curiosity might soon require judgement.
“Surely, the father… the father welcomed… welcomed him back,” Mr. Wickham persisted, his voice breaking as he struggled to conclude.
“Perhaps it would be best to conclude here,” Mr. Darcy said, with quiet consideration.
“Indeed, sir,” Mr. Wickham said, seizing upon the suggestion with evident relief. “Let us pray.”
As the congregation bowed their heads, Elizabeth’s thoughts did not readily follow.
Though her eyes were lowered, her mind remained engaged; and when, at length, she allowed herself one more glance toward Mr. Darcy, she felt that his presence, so composed and so commanding, concealed more than it revealed.
“Perhaps,” she thought, “there is more here than I yet understand—and more, perhaps, than I ought not to overlook.”
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