Chapter 12
Twelve
The carriage ride back to the parsonage was every bit as tedious as Elizabeth had feared.
Mr Collins’s unrelenting stream of praise—of Lady Catherine, of Miss de Bourgh, of the weather, and even of the arrangement of the tableware—filled the small space with hollow exuberance.
Yet it was not only his voice she wished to escape.
Across from one another, Jane and Charlotte shared a look of quiet concern.
Elizabeth felt their eyes turning to her with increasing frequency, plainly curious about what they had witnessed between her and Mr Darcy.
Jane’s expression was gently searching, Charlotte’s more guarded, but both carried unspoken questions Elizabeth had no desire, or ability, to answer.
She leaned her head against the window, closed her eyes, and feigned sleep. The ruse did little to silence Mr Collins, nor did it prevent the occasional hushed remark between Charlotte and Jane. But it offered Elizabeth a fragile semblance of solitude, and for the present, that must suffice.
Inwardly, her thoughts continued to return to Fairbourne Grange, and to Mr Darcy.
When had her feelings for him begun to alter?
She could not say precisely. The change had crept in gradually, until she could no longer summon the image of the haughty, fastidious gentleman she had first encountered in Hertfordshire.
The man who had spoken slightingly of her at the Meryton assembly, who seemed always to find fault and hold himself apart, had been replaced by one who revealed his affection in unexpected ways: in the gentle encouragement he gave his sister, the easy fellowship he shared with Colonel Fitzwilliam, the forbearance he showed Miss de Bourgh, and, most especially, in the way he looked at her, as though he saw her more clearly than anyone ever had.
But what had brought about so material a change? Was Mr Darcy truly a better version of himself in this altered existence? Or had she, perhaps, never troubled herself to understand him as he really was?
She thought of his steady gaze during those early days at Netherfield, when Jane was ill. At the time, she had assumed he was scrutinising her, searching for faults. But now she wondered: Was it admiration all along?
The notion made her heart skip, unsettling in its swiftness, and she continued to turn it over in her mind. Did he admire her still—even now, in this strange new world where nothing seemed quite as it should be?
Before she could pursue the thought to any conclusion, the memory of Mr Wickham intruded, sharp and unwelcome.
She recalled his bitter accusations against Mr Darcy, and most distinctly his disdainful remark about that gentleman’s sister: “I wish I could call her amiable…but she is too much like her brother—very, very proud.”
Having now met the young lady, Elizabeth saw how cruelly unjust that judgment had been. Georgiana Darcy was shy, gentle, and endearingly earnest, nothing at all like the creature Mr Wickham had described.
And if he had so thoroughly deceived her in this, how many other falsehoods had she too readily believed?
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Mrs Annesley and the words she had uttered with such solemn certainty: “You have glimpsed more than one path but have not yet chosen your own.”
The echo of those words unsettled her still. What had the lady meant by them? And how could she possibly know so much?
The rocking of the carriage grew more pronounced as they jostled over the uneven road, until Elizabeth’s thoughts became heavy and slow. At last, true sleep claimed her. It was not restful, but it was, at least, an escape.
By the time they arrived at the parsonage, her head ached, and she felt no nearer to understanding than when she had first closed her eyes. If anything, she was more uncertain than ever before.
Elizabeth awoke the next morning after another night of restless dreams. One in particular clung to her with startling clarity—Jane’s wedding.
The sights, the sounds, even the faint scent of winter greenery twined through the ribbons on her sister’s bonnet had seemed so distinct, so precise, that Elizabeth had jolted awake with a start, her hands trembling and her nightdress clinging damply to her skin.
She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to steady. It had only been a dream, she told herself, yet the certainty with which she had known each detail—the chill in the church, the pale blue of Jane’s gown, Mr Collins’ smug expression as he accepted his bride—left her deeply unsettled.
At the first hint of daylight slipping through the curtains, Elizabeth rose and dressed.
She descended the stairs quietly, hoping solitude and fresh air might clear her mind.
But when she stepped into the dining room, she found Jane already there, seated alone by the window with a steaming cup of tea cradled between her palms.
“Good morning,” Jane said gently. “You are up early.”
Elizabeth hesitated before returning the greeting, then crossed the room to take some tea and join her sister at the table. For a few moments, they sat in quiet equanimity, the faint clink of porcelain the only sound between them.
At last, unable to suppress her unease, Elizabeth set down her cup and asked carefully, “Jane…could you—will you tell me about your wedding day?”
Jane looked back at her, her expression cautious. “What would you like to know?”
“Everything,” Elizabeth replied, striving for a lightness she did not feel. “Where it took place. What you wore. How you felt.”
Jane tilted her head, a faint crease forming between her brows, but she obliged without question.
“It was held at the church in Meryton, of course. Mama did lament the lack of flowers, as it was early January, but I was perfectly happy with the sprigs of holly you gathered from the garden. And Papa…” Her voice softened.
“Papa walked me down the aisle with such solemnity. I think he was more overcome than I was. He held my hand so tightly.”
Elizabeth drew in a quick, unsteady breath.
“Your gown was pale blue,” she murmured. “With pearl buttons down the back.”
Jane gave a surprised laugh. “Yes! It was. Mama wanted us to go to London to visit the warehouses, but in the end, we managed well enough in Hemel Hempstead. Mrs Palmer, the seamstress there, made up the gown in less than a week, and quite beautifully, I think.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “And I stood up with you. I wore ivory—one of your old gowns Mrs Hill made over. And Lydia and Kitty quarrelled in the vestibule over who would sit closest to the aisle.”
Jane’s eyes widened, a smile forming. “Lizzy, have you remembered all of this? Are more memories returning?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I—yes. Perhaps. I dreamt about your wedding last night. Only…it did not feel like a dream. I knew every detail before you began to speak.”
Jane reached across the table, her hand warm atop Elizabeth’s. “Then this is good news, surely? Perhaps all your memories are beginning to come back to you.”
Elizabeth managed a faint smile, but the reassurance that glowed so clearly in her sister’s face did not reach her own heart.
She had not only remembered; it had felt lived, as if she had been there again.
But how could that be, when she also remembered a different wedding, with Charlotte Lucas as the bride?
The contradiction tugged at something deep and fragile within her.
If this memory was real, did that make the other one false?
It had not felt false. Nothing in her original past—her true past, her mind insisted—had ever felt more certain than the look on Jane’s face as she danced with Mr Bingley at the Netherfield ball.
The idea that Jane would never marry him, that she was now Mrs Collins, was not something Elizabeth could accept, even if her mind insisted otherwise.
She rose abruptly. “I believe I shall take a walk before breakfast.”
Jane stood as well. “Of course. Only—are you quite well, Lizzy?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered too quickly. “Simply a bit restless.”
She offered her sister a reassuring smile, then turned and slipped from the room.
Her steps were swift and sure despite her scattered thoughts.
Confusion pressed in from all sides, a tangle of memories she could not account for and emotions that refused to sort themselves into anything comprehensible.
The world felt tilted somehow, as though she had stepped through the looking-glass.
Without fully intending it, her feet carried her towards the open grove that edged Rosings Park.
Elizabeth reached the familiar clearing just as the early sunlight filtered through the tall branches, casting patterns on the mossy ground. The air was cool and still, touched with the earthy scent of dew-covered bark. She had just drawn in a steadying breath when a movement ahead made her pause.
Mr Darcy stood beneath one of the larger trees, his gaze focused on the copse beyond. At the sound of her approach, he turned, his expression brightening.
“Miss Bennet, good morning,” he called out to her. “I was just about to embark on a walk through the park. Might I have the pleasure of your company?”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before nodding.
“Of course. I should like that.” She fell into step beside him, surprised by how pleased she felt to be in his presence.
Once, such a meeting would have struck her as ill-timed at best and deliberately arranged at worst. But now…
now it felt as though she had stumbled across something precious.
They walked for a short time in easy harmony, the hush between them unforced and strangely comforting. At last, Elizabeth ventured, “I enjoyed the excursion yesterday.”
Mr Darcy glanced her way, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. “I am glad to hear it. I confess I was uncertain of how the gathering might unfold.”