Chapter Eight #2
The candelabras positioned along the table’s centre threw wavering light across the assembled company, their multiple branches holding candles that had burned down unevenly, creating shifting shadows.
The flames reflected in the crystal glasses and caught the gold rim of the fine china, each piece bearing the de Bourgh crest. Everything in this dining room existed to impress, to remind guests of Lady Catherine’s consequence and the long history of the de Bourgh family’s position and wealth.
Lady Catherine’s attention had shifted from Collins to Elizabeth, and Darcy saw his aunt’s expression tighten with unmistakable displeasure.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said, her voice carrying the sharp edge of someone who had been observing unacceptable behaviour and could no longer contain her criticism.
“I notice you have been monopolising Mr. Darcy’s attention throughout the meal.
Perhaps you might consider that conversation at dinner ought to be more generally distributed, not focused so exclusively in one direction. ”
The rebuke was direct enough that several people shifted uncomfortably. Mr. Collins made a small sound that might have been agreement or simple anxiety. Fitzwilliam paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, his expression suggesting he was preparing to intervene if the situation escalated.
Darcy waited for Elizabeth’s response, for the flash of spirit that such a remark would inevitably provoke.
He expected her to defend herself with wit, to point out that conversation required two participants and perhaps Mr. Darcy bore equal responsibility, or to turn the criticism back on Lady Catherine with some observation about the freedom of dinner guests to speak with whom they pleased.
Instead, Elizabeth simply smiled and turned her attention briefly toward Lady Catherine before looking back at Darcy. She did not respond at all, did not acknowledge the rebuke beyond that momentary glance.
The deliberate dismissal was so complete that Darcy saw Lady Catherine’s face flush with genuine anger.
His aunt was not accustomed to being ignored, particularly not at her own table, particularly not by young women of no particular consequence who were present only through her sufferance.
Lady Catherine’s fingers tightened further on her wine glass, and for a moment Darcy thought she might actually throw it.
“I do not believe Miss Bennet heard me,” Lady Catherine said, her voice rising slightly with barely controlled fury. “I was commenting on the impropriety of focusing one’s attention so exclusively on a single dinner companion. Such behaviour suggests a forward nature that I cannot approve.”
Forward. The word hung in the air like an accusation, carrying implications of improper pursuit, of scheming unbecoming to a gentlewoman.
Darcy felt his own jaw tighten at the insult, felt an instinctive urge to defend Elizabeth even as he acknowledged that his aunt’s observation was not entirely inaccurate.
Elizabeth had been behaving with unusual focus.
But this time Elizabeth did respond, though not in the way Darcy expected. She looked at Lady Catherine with that same pleasant smile and said, “How kind of you to concern yourself with my behaviour, Lady Catherine. You are always so thoughtful.”
The words were perfectly civil, perfectly polite. They were also completely wrong, carrying none of Elizabeth’s characteristic spirit, no hint of the independence that would have bristled at being corrected like a wayward child. It was as though she had not registered the insult at all.
Darcy watched his aunt’s face cycle through several expressions, confusion and increased anger among them.
Lady Catherine opened her mouth to deliver what would undoubtedly be an even more cutting remark, then seemed to think better of it.
She turned her attention to Anne instead, demanding to know whether her daughter had eaten sufficient dinner, her voice containing the forced solicitude of someone redirecting frustration.
Further down the table, Mr. Collins had been watching this exchange with an expression Darcy could only describe as grimly satisfied mixed with obvious disapproval.
The parson’s small eyes moved from Elizabeth to Lady Catherine and back again, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Darcy had observed Collins watching Elizabeth throughout the meal, had noted the frequency of those disapproving glances, but now the man seemed unable to contain himself.
“Miss Bennet,” Collins said, his voice carrying pompous authority.
“I must say I am surprised by your conduct today. First this morning’s impropriety, and now this display at dinner.
I had not thought you so lost to propriety as to require such correction from Lady Catherine, but it seems my concerns were well-founded. ”
Darcy’s attention sharpened. This morning’s impropriety? Collins had interfered with their walk earlier, had lectured Elizabeth about walking with him and Fitzwilliam without proper chaperonage. But the way Collins spoke suggested something more, some additional grievance.
Elizabeth turned to look at Collins, and Darcy watched her expression shift into something approaching contrition. “I apologise if my behaviour has been inappropriate, Mr. Collins. I certainly did not intend to cause offence.”
The meekness of her response struck Darcy like a physical blow. Elizabeth apologising to Collins, accepting his pompous criticism without challenge? It was perhaps the most impossible thing yet in an evening full of impossibilities.
Collins appeared somewhat mollified by her submission, though suspicion remained evident in his expression.
He made a sound of grudging acceptance and returned his attention to his plate, though Darcy noticed he continued to direct frequent glances toward Elizabeth throughout the remainder of the meal.
The servants had begun clearing the previous course when Darcy’s gaze drifted toward the head of the table where Anne sat in her usual position beside her mother.
His cousin appeared even more pale than usual, her face nearly translucent in the candlelight, and as Darcy watched, he saw her hands trembling where they rested on the table’s edge.
Anne was frightened. Not merely uncomfortable or anxious, which would be unremarkable given her delicate constitution and the tension that had characterised dinner.
She looked genuinely terrified, her pale eyes wide and fixed on Elizabeth with an intensity that suggested she was witnessing something deeply disturbing.
Darcy studied his cousin more closely. Anne’s breathing had become rapid and shallow, her chest rising and falling with visible effort.
A sheen of perspiration had appeared on her forehead despite the dining room’s moderate temperature.
Her fingers clutched at the table’s edge as though it were the only thing preventing her from collapsing entirely.
What could possibly account for such a reaction?
Anne had met Elizabeth before, had been present at previous dinners.
She had never shown any particular interest in or distress about the parson’s guest. Yet now she stared at Elizabeth with what looked remarkably like fear, or perhaps horror, her expression suggesting she was seeing something invisible to everyone else.
The candelabra nearest Anne cast harsh shadows across her face, emphasising the hollows beneath her cheekbones, the dark circles under her eyes. She looked ill, worse than her usual fragile state, as though the effort of sitting through dinner had exhausted her beyond her capacity.
Lady Catherine noticed Anne’s distress and leaned toward her daughter, murmuring something Darcy could not hear. Anne shook her head slightly but did not look away from Elizabeth, her gaze remaining fixed with that same terrible intensity.
Darcy’s attention was drawn across the table by a slight movement.
Charlotte Collins had been sitting quietly through most of the meal, participating in conversation when addressed but otherwise maintaining pleasant neutrality.
Now, however, she was watching Elizabeth with an expression that suggested deep confusion mixed with growing concern.
Charlotte’s gaze moved from Elizabeth to Darcy, and their eyes met briefly across the table. In that moment, Darcy saw his own puzzlement reflected back. Charlotte’s expression said clearly that she too found Elizabeth’s behaviour wrong, inexplicable, fundamentally at odds with the friend she knew.
The moment of shared recognition lasted only seconds before Charlotte looked away, her attention returning to her plate.
But it was enough. Elizabeth’s closest friend, the person who knew her best of anyone present, had silently confirmed what Darcy had been thinking all evening.
Something was profoundly wrong with Elizabeth Bennet.
The servants presented the next course, the elaborate dishes arranged artfully on serving platters.
Crystal and silver gleamed, china clinked softly, and the dinner proceeded with scripted formality.
On the surface, everything appeared as it should, another evening at Rosings following its predictable pattern.
But beneath that surface, wrongness festered.
Lady Catherine sat rigid with barely suppressed anger, her periodic glances toward Elizabeth sharp with disapproval.
Collins watched his guest with obvious displeasure.
Anne stared at Elizabeth with frightened eyes, her hands trembling against the table.
Charlotte observed her friend with troubled confusion.
And Fitzwilliam sat in unusual silence, his typical good humour dimmed by Elizabeth’s inexplicable coldness.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth again, this woman who wore a familiar face but possessed none of the spirit that made that face remarkable. She smiled at him across the table, warm and encouraging, and he felt his stomach turn with the wrongness of it.
Whatever was happening, whatever impossible thing had transformed Elizabeth Bennet into this pleasant stranger, Darcy was no longer alone in sensing it.
The conviction settled over him with grim certainty.
Multiple people at this table knew something was profoundly amiss, even if none of them could articulate what it might be.
And the evening was far from over.