Chapter 19 Rosings Park
ROSINGS PARK
The sun was low when, after swinging east to skirt the traffic of London, we clattered and clanked into Kent and crossed a stone bridge into Rosings Park, the estate of Lady Catherine.
The trees lining the road became uniformly spaced and trimmed. From Charlotte’s letters, I imagined her ladyship lectured every crooked branch into submission.
The parsonage came into view—bits of it, at least. I had to bounce on my seat to catch glimpses through the narrow window. There was a garden, a small home of fieldstone, laurel hedges, and a pretty white gate.
Our horses stopped, blowing with relief. Charlotte and Mr. Collins emerged. I fumbled the locks open, and Charlotte and I hugged. The awkwardness that had struck with her engagement fell away, defeated by absence, or distance, or our mutual trials.
Mr. Collins, however, was profoundly unchanged. After minutes of roadside platitudes, I was grinding my toe in the gravel. Finally, he invited me to tread the stone path to their house.
We passed an uncovered rectangle of bare earth. Their empty draca house had been removed.
Mr. Collins demonstrated the door. The entryway was meticulously noted. Then we almost collided in the parlor due to another spate of bows.
“Would you like tea?” Charlotte asked, dodging with evident practice.
“Indeed, cousin,” chimed Mr. Collins, “after such extensive travel, passing near the noise and parching smoke of London, refreshment is most recommended. May we offer…” He stopped, flummoxed by the need for a concrete thought.
“Tea?” suggested Charlotte again.
“Tea would be nice,” I said.
Tea grew into a light supper. I learned such humble offerings could not properly be called supper in the shadow of the sumptuous feasts of Rosings.
My face was becoming sore from suppressing raised eyebrows and eye rolls.
Charlotte peered out the window. “How the shadows are lengthening.”
“Oh! My lettuce!” Mr. Collins excused himself, for he had a row of lettuce sprouts to weed, and, if that row was not weeded today, the task would cascade into tomorrow’s weeding, and thus onward until catastrophe.
After he vanished backward through the parlor doorway, Charlotte suggested a stroll.
I was determined to show no hint of amusement or disapproval, so we started stiffly, but in fifty yards we were chattering like any of our walks back home.
But not all the news was happy. Charlotte asked about the attack at the meadow. I had not written that I was present, so when I told her that—nothing more—we were silent for a time.
I decided to put the difficult topics behind us. “Charlotte, I am very sorry you did not bind.”
“I am honestly relieved. I am uncomfortable with draca. Everyone has been most considerate. Mr. Collins as well, after a few days of disappointment.”
Other than my sisters, there was no one else I would dare ask my next question. But Charlotte was my most intimate friend, and I was curious. “Had you no marriage gold?”
“Lady Catherine provided five guineas, which was extremely generous.” Charlotte had more to say, so I waited while leaves crunched under our steps.
“Not all the Church approves of binding. But Lady Catherine does approve, and in Kent, she is a force. Our wedding was officiated by a neighboring rector. We touched the gold while the priest blessed us and said words to summon a draca. It seemed certain. But later…”
“Later?” I prompted.
“That night, we prayed for a successful binding.”
Her tone was odd, but her expression was hard to make out in the dusk. I said cautiously, “Prayed?”
“Yes. Exclusively.” There was no question. I heard her ironic smile.
“Only prayed?”
“I was prepared, you know. I am not a romantic, Lizzy, but I understood what happens on a marriage night.”
That was extremely direct. I was not at all sure I understood what happens. “And what happened was… praying.”
“Yes. I even mentioned tales my mother told me, of the great bindings and their passion.” I was quite impressed she said that to me, let alone Mr. Collins. “But of course, those stories are not in the Bible.”
“I see.”
We walked a little way while my face cooled in the evening air.
“Do you wish to bind when you marry?” Charlotte asked.
“I think so.”
I had hesitated, but not because of Charlotte’s concerns. I neither sought nor condemned the status, although I thought it was silly to grant it for binding. And I was fascinated by draca themselves.
But, if binding was involuntary, it was cruel. The more I found draca mysterious and remarkable, the more disturbing it would be to entrap one for life.
“You are such a wonderful friend,” Charlotte said, “that I am inevitably surprised when we differ on anything. I am very content with my life—no, I am very happy. But we are different, Lizzy. You overflow with passion. You should marry for love.”
That was a remarkable thing to be told, and a little frightening.
Lady Catherine’s invitation to Rosings arrived the next morning.
Mr. Collins was more than excited. “I should not have been surprised by her ladyship’s inviting us to tea. But who”—his hands rose to invoke divine omniscience—“who could have foreseen an invitation to dine at Rosings so immediately after your arrival!”
The afternoon was clear, so we walked the half mile to Rosings. Mr. Collins alternated astonishment at her ladyship’s affability with extensive notes about the park and manor—how many ash trees in that grove, how many pounds it cost for the lead glazing of her ladyship’s windows.
The gardens were expansive, but stiff and formal. The manor, though, was remarkable. The building was large but modern, free of the rambling extensions that distorted many old homes. The famously expensive windows were wide and tall.
I had a particular interest, so I looked for the draca house. But there was nothing. Was it behind the manor? That would be strange.
We were led, with Mr. Collins rapturously commentating, through the entrance hall and antechamber, then into a sitting room.
Her ladyship rose with royal grandeur to receive us. On our walk, Charlotte had insisted that she introduce me. She did so with refreshing simplicity.
Lady Catherine was a tall, weighty old woman with strong features grooved by deep frown-lines. She wore full ball attire, a satin-and-silk golden gown with an ostrich feather in her hair. The effect was of aged majesty.
I learned why Charlotte wrote of her formidable opinions. They began to roll forth even before we sat, each pronouncement ending in dramatic tones followed by a huge indrawn breath, and then, an instant before anyone else dared to offer a topic, the start of the next.
Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, was around my age but thin and scrunched, and so different from her mother I would have guessed she was a distant relation. She greeted us in a whisper, lifting her fan as if it would be rude to reveal moving lips.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said.
Guiltily, I looked up, for my mind was wandering. Thus far, the only audience participation had been enthusiastic nods by Mr. Collins. “Yes, madam?”
“Your trip was satisfactory.”
That seemed a statement, not a question, so I replied, “Correct.” She frowned, but I was reconsidering my answer. “Noisy, though. I rode in an iron-barred carriage, and the bolts kept coming loose.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We stopped several times, and the driver attempted to tighten them. He even tied some joints with leather straps. It seemed most inefficient to me.”
“Upon my word. You give your opinion very decidedly.”
“It is just that the purpose is unclear. People claim fear of feral draca, but the bars are…” I showed the gap with my hands.
“Most draca could squeeze through. And the carriage itself is wood, so if a draca threw fire, a few bars will not stop it. In fact, I have seen a roseworm throw fire with the express intent of tearing open a metal cage, and it did so easily.”
“My word.” Her ladyship seemed stunned.
“It was remarkable,” I agreed. Her frown deepened.
Had I misunderstood? “Of course, bolts are the real issue. The debate over the standardization of screw threads.” I had read essays while researching blacksmithing.
Despite Mary’s skepticism, I was still intrigued by the idea of commodities like wheels and bolts.
“What do you say, Darcy?” her ladyship asked.
My ears had played a trick. “What?”
“Miss Bennet has an interest in smithing,” came a baritone voice behind me.
“My nephew is obsessed with such things,” Lady Catherine said. “Come, Darcy, introduce yourself. I gather you know the Collinses?”
I turned in my seat, astonished to see Mr. Darcy bowing over Charlotte’s hand. “Mrs. Collins. I offer you my best wishes.”
He turned to Mr. Collins, who appeared terrified. I remembered the disaster of Mr. Collins approaching Mr. Darcy at Netherfield.
“Mr. Collins,” Mr. Darcy said, with a slight chill but a nod. Mr. Collins bowed back, vastly shorter and close-lipped for once.
I rose as Mr. Darcy approached.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said. There was a pause between each word. It gave the scene an odd sense of import, or perhaps unreality.
“Mr. Darcy,” I answered as I curtsied. He was Lady Catherine’s nephew, so it was hardly impossible to meet him here. But it was a surprise. My heart was racing.
“Do not stand and stare,” Lady Catherine said, irritated. “What is this bolt nonsense, Darcy?”
“Bolts are difficult to fabricate,” he said. He still had not looked away. I began to feel disconcerted. He turned to his aunt. “Imprecision in the threads loosens them.”
“They should be precise, then,” Lady Catherine said, lifting her nose.
Conversation proceeded. I half-listened, annoyed at myself for being surprised. No, annoyed at Mr. Darcy. It had not been necessary to lurk behind me like that.
True to form, Mr. Darcy had fallen silent. He was dressed for riding, and dusty. I was surprised he did not go to change. I had never seen him other than perfectly attired. I had guessed he was one of those well-dressed gentlemen who are more fastidious than ladies.
He might be with us the entire evening. Even for dinner. Here I thought I had escaped him when I left Netherfield. But at last, he said he had to greet a friend and departed solemnly.