Chapter 13
Thirteen
The following morning dawned bright and cool, the sky above Hunsford a pale, washed blue.
It was Sunday, and before long, Elizabeth found herself walking the familiar lane that led to the parish church.
Mr Collins strode ahead with pompous energy, while Jane and Charlotte followed behind him, murmuring quietly to one another.
Elizabeth remained at the rear, her steps measured, her mind far from the path beneath her feet.
Her thoughts continued to return to the previous day’s conversation with Mr Darcy, to the fury in his countenance and the shocking revelations he had shared about Mr Wickham.
In truth, she had scarcely thought of anything else these last four and twenty hours, and her dreams had been all the more unsettling for it: Mr Darcy’s dark gaze, Mr Wickham’s smooth lies, both men’s faces dissolving and reforming until she had startled awake with her heart hammering in her chest.
Elizabeth had just begun to steady her thoughts when a memory rose up with such force, it stole the breath from her lungs.
It began with a faint spark—the crunch of gravel beneath her boots, the distant bleating of sheep from a nearby field—and all at once, she was somewhere else entirely.
She saw herself in a carriage beside Charlotte, their knees lightly bumping each time the wheels hit a rut in the road.
Charlotte chattered cheerfully of seeing Jane again, while Mr Gardiner, who had come to see them safely to Hunsford, sat opposite, glancing out of the window with quiet amusement.
There had been a brief stop at the Bell in Bromley, where she had sat with Charlotte in the warm parlour, sipping tea from porcelain cups while waiting for the horses to be changed.
And then, at last, the parsonage. She could see it clearly: Jane standing in the doorway with Mr Collins at her side, her expression warm with welcome.
The memory was so sharp that Elizabeth stumbled slightly over a root in the path. But soon, more recollections pressed in.
Mr Darcy, she recalled, had arrived not long afterwards with his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Her thoughts conjured them easily, Mr Darcy tall and distinguished, the colonel with his open, ready smile.
Their first evening in company had been spent in the drawing room at Rosings.
She remembered the brief spark of interest in Mr Darcy’s eyes, how his gaze had lingered as she took her place at the pianoforte.
Or had he come to stand beside her at the instrument, teasing her lightly about past encounters?
A frisson of alarm ran through her.
Disconcerted, she cast her thoughts back to the previous autumn in Hertfordshire, willing her old life to take shape.
Mr Bingley had come to Netherfield—of that much she was certain.
There had been eager anticipation, invitations, dancing…
and yet, no matter how hard she struggled, the images would not form.
It was as though her memories had been painted over, the original strokes hidden beneath some new and unfamiliar hand.
She could recall sensations but not their cause.
The particulars of her first acquaintance with Mr Darcy, once so clear, now slipped away like mist the instant she tried to pin them down.
She barely noticed when they arrived at the church.
Stepping inside, Elizabeth took her place between Charlotte and Jane, her posture rigid.
Before long, the Rosings party entered, settling across the aisle with studied formality.
Lady Catherine assumed her position with stately self-importance, her daughter wan and withdrawn at her side.
Beyond them, Mr Darcy sat between his intended and his sister, turning now and again to murmur a word to each.
Mr Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam contented themselves with seats beside Mrs Annesley and Mrs Jenkinson in the pew behind.
Some moments later, Mr Collins’s voice rose from the pulpit, solemn and sonorous, yet Elizabeth scarcely heard a word.
Her thoughts whirled. How could both versions of her life feel so true and yet so utterly at odds?
And if the older memories were slipping away, what did that mean for their veracity?
She folded her hands tightly in her lap, willing herself into stillness.
At last, the service drew to its inevitable conclusion.
As the final hymn faded and the congregation began to stir, Elizabeth watched Lady Catherine rise with regal deliberation.
She leaned over to speak to Mr Darcy, saying something that caused his jaw to tighten, before sweeping past him and drawing Mr Collins aside for a private word.
The congregation began to disperse, spilling slowly into the aisle.
Once out of doors, Elizabeth, Jane, and Charlotte crossed the churchyard to meet the Rosings circle.
Mr Darcy nodded to each in turn, his gaze lingering when it met Elizabeth’s.
She gave him a muted smile, though her thoughts remained unsettled.
The moment fractured as Lady Catherine swept towards them.
Fixing her eyes on Jane, she began without preamble, “You are expected at Rosings after dinner.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Charlotte and Elizabeth.
“All of you.” Without pausing for a reply, she turned to her nephew. “Darcy, see Anne to the carriage.”
Mr Darcy bowed and offered Miss de Bourgh his arm, while Colonel Fitzwilliam attended to Miss Darcy. As the Rosings party moved towards the gate, Mr Collins bustled from the building, hurrying over to address Jane in lowered tones.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, noticed that Mrs Annesley had remained behind. Drawn almost against her will, she walked slowly in the older woman’s direction.
“I see you are troubled,” Mrs Annesley offered as soon as Elizabeth approached. “It is natural. The mind resists what it cannot reconcile. But the threads are realigning, even now.”
Elizabeth started. “I do not understand… You speak as if you know what is happening to me.”
Mrs Annesley studied her for a long moment. “I know what I see. And I see a young woman standing at a crossroads between what was and what may be.”
Elizabeth’s forehead tightened in confusion. “Then…I am not imagining it? These memories?”
Mrs Annesley merely smiled before saying gently, “The power of choice is still yours, but be cautious, Miss Bennet. Once a memory settles, its roots grow deep. One path will become truth, and the other will fade. See that you choose yours wisely.”
Elizabeth stared, but before she could form a reply, Mrs Annesley gave another faint, knowing smile and turned to follow the others.
Elizabeth stood motionless as the carriage door was shut behind her and the coach rolled away.
The remainder of the day passed for Elizabeth in uneasy contemplation. Although she made a show of attending to her book or engaging in light conversation, her thoughts continued to return to Mrs Annesley’s words outside the church.
“The threads are realigning… One path will become truth—the other will fade.”
What could it mean? And how could the woman know so much?
With every passing hour, Elizabeth’s agitation deepened.
She needed answers, and the only person who might be able to supply them was Miss Darcy’s companion.
Thus, when Lady Catherine’s carriage drew up at the parsonage gate at the appointed hour, Elizabeth was among the first to don her pelisse and gloves, her eagerness concealed only by the forced smile she offered Jane and Charlotte.
The ride to Rosings seemed interminable, though the horses moved at a lively pace.
Elizabeth sat motionless, her gaze focused on the gathering darkness beyond the window.
She must speak with Mrs Annesley. She must discover how much the woman truly knew, and whether she held the key to restoring the life Elizabeth feared was slipping away.
At last, the carriage rolled to a halt beneath the grand portico.
Ushered inside, they were shown directly into the drawing room, where the residents were already assembled.
Mr Darcy stood near the hearth, his posture taut; Miss Darcy sat between Mr Bingley and Miss de Bourgh upon a brocade settee.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had been seated in a club chair nearby, rose at their entrance with a cheerful greeting, while Lady Catherine, with great condescension, inclined her head.
As they took their seats, Elizabeth’s eyes instantly sought Mrs Annesley.
The older woman stood at the sideboard, assisting Mrs Jenkinson with the tea tray.
Their gazes met briefly, long enough for Elizabeth to catch a flash of something measured, almost knowing, in the older woman’s expression.
But before she could devise a way to draw her aside, Lady Catherine rose, clearing her throat with unmistakable authority.
“I have an announcement,” she declared, her voice cutting through the air. “I have summoned you all here to inform you that the wedding of my daughter, Anne, to Mr Darcy will take place tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”
The room fell into stunned astonishment.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was the first to recover. “Tomorrow morning?” he repeated. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I understood the rest of the family were not expected until the afternoon.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Darcy, his voice taut. “As was previously agreed, the wedding is to take place on Wednesday, once all our relations are assembled.”
Lady Catherine dismissed this with a flick of her wrist. “I see no need to delay further. Mr Collins has assured me the church is available, and all those of significance are already present.” Her gaze swept the company before settling, pointedly, on Elizabeth. “There is no merit in postponement.”
From his chair, Mr Collins nodded eagerly. “A most prudent resolution,” he intoned.
A ripple passed through the room. Jane turned a wide-eyed glance on Charlotte, who responded with a lifted brow. Across the way, Miss Darcy looked to her brother in mute bewilderment. Miss de Bourgh kept her lashes lowered, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Elizabeth remained still, though her pulse thundered in her ears. She could not account for the dread that gripped her so suddenly, nor for the constriction in her throat.
Mr Darcy remained frozen for a moment before striding across the carpet to his aunt, his face dark with barely restrained fury.
“I have indulged your expectations until now,” he said, his voice pitched low, “but this is beyond anything I ever consented to.”
Lady Catherine lifted her chin, unmoved. “You are being dramatic, Nephew. The date is of no consequence.”
“It is of consequence to me,” he snapped, his composure fraying. “You presume too much.”
“You will marry Anne tomorrow, as is my wish,” she replied coldly. “There is nothing more to discuss.”
Mr Darcy inhaled sharply, his jaw tight. “On the contrary, madam. This conversation is far from finished. We will speak again—privately.”
With that, he turned on his heel. As he passed Elizabeth, his gaze caught hers, and in that fleeting look she glimpsed not only anger and humiliation, but something deeper that made her stomach twist.
The pause that followed was suffocating. At last, Colonel Fitzwilliam stood, his voice tight with forced cheer.
“Well! Perhaps we might all benefit from a little music. Georgiana, would you care to play for us?”
Miss Darcy started and shook her head, her expression stricken.
He turned with a smile to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet? Might we prevail upon you instead?”
Elizabeth blinked, disoriented. “Oh, I…I had not—” But with the weight of every eye upon her, she gave a faint nod and rose, moving towards the pianoforte as if in a dream. Her limbs felt leaden, her thoughts in disarray.
Seating herself at the bench, she placed her hands upon the keys as Mr Bingley came over, offering to turn her pages. She nodded numbly, her fingers beginning to move through the familiar motions of a piece, but her mind was elsewhere.
Married. Tomorrow. The words rang in her ears like a funeral knell, over and over.
She continued to play, but her composure was slipping. It was not merely the shock of Lady Catherine’s pronouncement but the chilling awareness that she was on the verge of losing something she had only just begun to value.
The room dimmed at the edges, the steady rhythm of her fingers the only thread keeping her upright.
When at last she rose from the bench, her eyes immediately sought Mrs Annesley again. But before she could devise a way to approach, Lady Catherine stood, ordering a footman to ring for the carriage. The company was swept towards the front hall with little ceremony.
Elizabeth loitered behind the others, her gaze fixed on Mr Darcy, who stood at one of the tall windows, his fists clenched at his sides. She had just turned towards the threshold when Lady Catherine stepped into her path.
“You ought to know, Miss Bennet,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper, “that I am not to be trifled with. Do not imagine your ambitions will be gratified. Mr Darcy is engaged to my daughter, and the wedding will take place tomorrow morning, as I have decreed. If you are at all sensible of your own good, you will quit the neighbourhood at once. You are no longer welcome at Rosings Park.”
Elizabeth could only stare, too stunned to form a reply.
Lady Catherine turned away without another word, issuing brisk orders to the footmen as though nothing had passed between them.
Mutely, Elizabeth followed the others out into the night. The cold air bit at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill that had settled deep within her bones.