Chapter 6
Six
The days that followed Elizabeth’s walk in the grove passed in a strange kind of stillness, as though she drifted through the world at a slight remove.
The air was warmer now, the gardens blooming in earnest; yet she felt as though she remained suspended in some season of her own, poised between reality and a distant dream.
She did her best to adjust, to observe the rhythms of this altered existence and participate where she could.
Charlotte—dear, unchanged Charlotte—had been both discreet and steady, seeming to understand Elizabeth’s unease without ever pressing her to speak of it.
Jane was kindness itself, full of calming words and sisterly attentions, and if Elizabeth thought her smiles occasionally over-bright or her silences slightly too long, she said nothing.
There were calls to be made, letters written, books borrowed and returned. The routines of the parsonage unfolded around her, offering their ordinary comforts, but Elizabeth could not shake the sense that she was inhabiting another’s life while her own continued elsewhere.
She was mending by the parlour window one afternoon, her thoughts drifting, when the door burst open and Mr Collins swept in, breathless with eager anticipation.
“Mrs Collins! Cousin Elizabeth! Miss Lucas! You will scarcely credit the honour that has been bestowed upon us.” Clasping his hands with something like reverence, he continued, “We have been invited to dine at Rosings Park this very evening! Her ladyship wishes to receive us at five o’clock sharp!”
Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who looked up from her needlework with a serene smile and offered the sort of agreeable reply Mr Collins always expected.
Elizabeth frowned. Although her recollections were still hazy, she knew this was not the first such summons, nor even the second. “I believe, sir, that we have been honoured in this way many times since my arrival,” she said mildly. “Surely dinner at Rosings is no cause for so grand a display?”
Mr Collins blinked, then straightened his spine. “Ah, but never on so momentous an occasion! Who could have foreseen that I, a humble clergyman, should be included in a gathering of such consequence?”
He paused dramatically, prompting a brief, puzzled silence. Jane regarded him expectantly as Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Oh!” Mr Collins exclaimed, shuffling forwards.
“In my eagerness to convey Lady Catherine’s most gracious invitation, I quite forgot the happy news!
Tonight’s dinner is to be a celebration of a most blessed event—the engagement of Lady Catherine’s only daughter, the heiress of Rosings Park, to her esteemed nephew Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy! ”
Another silence fell. Jane gave a soft exclamation before offering warm congratulations, while Charlotte murmured something along similar lines.
Elizabeth said nothing.
Mr Collins, however, clearly noting the change in her countenance, instantly turned to her with overbearing concern.
“Pray, do not distress yourself, Sister. Although I know it is unlikely that you have ever attended an event of this magnitude, Lady Catherine is most forbearing. I am certain she will overlook any lapses in deportment, particularly given your recent, and most unfortunate, blow to the head.”
Heat rose up Elizabeth’s neck, part outrage, part mortification. She could not decide what was more intolerable—his smug assurance that Lady Catherine would forgive her supposed failings, or the revolting familiarity with which he had addressed her.
Sneaking a sidelong glance at her most beloved sister, Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. It pained her more than she could express that Jane, of all women, should be bound to such a man for life.
The weather being fine, they set out at the appointed hour for the half-mile walk across the park.
Mr Collins led the way, keeping up a steady monologue on the honour of being summoned to dine and Lady Catherine’s unsurpassed generosity.
His commentary was interrupted only by the occasional murmur of agreement from Jane, who walked beside him with her usual easy grace.
Charlotte and Elizabeth followed at a short distance.
For her part, Charlotte seemed content to admire the budding trees and tender spring grass, her gaze lingering on each new sign of the season.
Elizabeth, however, was less composed. Her mind, restless and overfull, circled again and again to the news of Mr Darcy’s engagement.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had warned her, had he not? He had spoken plainly—an alliance between Mr Darcy and Miss de Bourgh was expected. She had received the intelligence with outward composure. So why, now that the news was certain, did it press upon her with such unwelcome weight?
It was not as though she had any personal stake in the matter.
She had never sought Mr Darcy’s attentions, nor wished for them.
He was not a man she had ever considered with any real regard.
True, he had been kinder of late; since her accident, nothing in his manner had been wanting in courtesy.
But surely that could not erase all that had come before?
What of his conduct in Hertfordshire? His role in separating Mr Bingley from Jane? His disgraceful proposal, so supercilious and full of insult? And what of poor, ill-used Mr Wickham, deprived of the living promised him by Mr Darcy’s late father?
Yes—yes, it did her good to remember those things. They bolstered her sense of justice and gave her a clear reason to feel as she did.
Or they ought to have.
But the difficulty lay in this: here, in this altered reality, none of those things had actually occurred. Or, if they had, she had no way of proving it.
There had been no insult at the Meryton assembly, no slight to her family, no interference between Mr Bingley and Jane. As for Mr Wickham, she had neither seen nor heard of him since waking to this strange new world.
Could it be, then, that circumstance alone had shaped her former opinion? Could a man’s character alter so completely, merely by removing a few key events?
No, surely not. Pride, once rooted, did not so easily wither. People did not change so profoundly. At least, not in essentials.
Did they?
She looked ahead to the great house, visible now across the green sweep of the park, and resolved to make a careful study of Mr Darcy.
If he was indeed the same man she had so firmly rejected, it must become evident.
She would watch him closely and dispassionately, and determine, once and for all, whether he remained the proud, disagreeable figure she so clearly remembered.
The great double doors of Rosings Park swung open with their customary fanfare, and they were ushered into the echoing front hall.
A footman in stiff livery bowed them onwards into the drawing room, where Lady Catherine rose from her seat with a regal sort of bustle, her hand extended in a gesture that conveyed command rather than welcome.
“There you are at last,” she declared, though the clock on the mantel showed them to be precisely on time. “We had begun to think you lost.”
Mr Collins bent so low his head nearly grazed the carpet. “Your ladyship is graciousness itself to overlook our humble pace.”
Lady Catherine waved this aside. “It is of no consequence. In any case, you have arrived just in time to hear the arrangements I have put in place for Anne’s wedding.
The engagement, as you know, has long been understood, so I see no reason for delay.
The matter will be settled by licence within a fortnight. ”
Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath, the sudden chill in her fingers belying her outward composure.
Meanwhile, Mr Collins bowed again in reverent delight. “A most excellent decision! I daresay no one could arrange it more efficiently. I should be honoured to perform the rites myself, on whatever day best suits your ladyship’s convenience, of course.”
Lady Catherine accepted this as no more than her due, granting him a perfunctory flick of the wrist in acknowledgment. Beside her, Miss de Bourgh sat pale and silent, her hands folded upon her lap with studied propriety.
From his place near the hearth, Mr Darcy frowned slightly. “I believe Anne should be permitted to determine whether such timing suits her.”
“Nonsense, Nephew,” Lady Catherine replied, her smile tight. “She has no objections. Do you, Anne?”
Miss de Bourgh made the tiniest motion with her head. Satisfied, Lady Catherine turned back to the company.
“Now, let us go in to dinner. The hour grows late, and I despise cold soup.”
With that, they were led into the dining parlour, where the table glittered with glass and silver, and a dozen candles shimmered in tall gilt candelabras.
Mr Darcy, as expected, had been placed at the foot of the table, opposite his aunt, and Elizabeth soon found that she had been seated to his right, though whether this had occurred by chance or design, she could not say.
On her other side sat Charlotte next to Mr Collins, who had angled himself halfway towards Lady Catherine at the head of the table, eager to catch every syllable.
As soon as they were settled, Mr Darcy leaned over, saying in a low voice, “I trust you are continuing to recover, Miss Bennet. You look very well this evening.”
The simplicity of his words caught her off guard, and she had only a moment to murmur, “thank you,” before Colonel Fitzwilliam added his own well wishes from across the table.
None of this passed without notice, and it was scarcely a moment before Lady Catherine called out, “What is it you are speaking of? What are you saying to Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
Mr Darcy merely frowned, while Colonel Fitzwilliam replied with a genial air, “Darcy was enquiring after Miss Bennet’s health following her recent accident, ma’am.”
“Ah, yes,” Lady Catherine said, lifting her chin.
“A knock to the head is no trifling matter. You must rest often, Miss Bennet. No late-night reading or excessive conversation. And no walks longer than a quarter of a mile for at least a fortnight.” She nodded once, as though issuing a physician’s orders, then turned to address the table.
“Now, as I was saying to Mr Collins, the wedding will take place on Wednesday, two weeks hence, so there is no time to spare.”
Mr Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I see no necessity for haste,” he replied. “There are matters still to be discussed with my solicitor. Settlements to be drawn up, documents to be reviewed—”
“Nonsense,” Lady Catherine interrupted. “All of that is well in hand. I have written to Mr Denbigh already. He will arrive early next week.”
“You have written to my solicitor?” he asked, though his tone remained carefully composed.
“Certainly. I have known Mr Denbigh for years,” said Lady Catherine briskly. “I have explained what is required. You may review the terms with him at your leisure, but the date is settled.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze as a footman stepped forwards with a bowl of tepid consommé.
As conversation resumed around her, she tried to fix her attention on the food.
The duck that followed was rich but cloying, and the potatoes, though creamy, had been left too long on the sideboard.
Beside her, Mr Darcy also ate sparingly.
Halfway through the meal, a pause in the discussion gave Jane the chance to speak, and in her gentle way, she turned towards Miss de Bourgh.
“It must be a comfort to have so much settled,” she offered. “Have you chosen your gown? I imagine you would favour lighter colours for the season.”
Miss de Bourgh looked up briefly, eyes wide and unblinking. Her voice, when it came, was scarcely above a whisper. “I-I had not given it much thought. I do have a pink gown I am fond of…”
In truth, it was the most Elizabeth had ever heard her say in a single breath. But before the lady could continue, Lady Catherine broke in, her voice rising like a gavel.
“Anne has very delicate tastes. Far too refined for the vulgar fashions one sees these days in town. She will wear ivory, with Honiton lace at the sleeves and hem. I have already written to Madame Latour.”
Mr Collins, as expected, took up the theme at once.
“And I have no doubt she will shine like the brightest of jewels! I have always believed it an admirable quality in young ladies to refrain from forming strong opinions of their own—a virtue I have ever sought to encourage within my own household.”
Jane’s smile faltered, and she lowered her gaze as Elizabeth’s grip tightened on her fork.
Determined not to speak hastily and repent later, she shifted her attention to Charlotte, who was engaged in easy conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam across the table.
Charlotte’s smile was warm, the colonel’s manner attentive, and their voices companionable.
A faint pang stirred in Elizabeth, though she could not have said whether it was for Charlotte, for the colonel, or for herself.
Her gaze returned to Mr Darcy. He was watching her, his expression unreadable.
“I hope,” she said, her voice low, “that your aunt has not left you with too little say in the arrangements, sir. One might almost believe the wedding to be her own.”
A faint smile touched his lips, though it was more weary than amused.
“There are moments,” he said quietly, “when I wonder how much say any of us truly have in our own destiny, or whether some paths are set long before we begin to walk along them.”
Elizabeth blinked. The words were unexpected, and they settled over her like a chill. But before she could summon a reply, Lady Catherine’s voice rang out, announcing that the meal had concluded, and the company rose as one to adjourn to the drawing room.