Chapter 3
Three
The carriage rattled slightly as its wheels struck a rut in the road, the sound of iron-bound rims muffled beneath the weight of weeks-long travel.
Outside, hedgerows stood dry and sun-worn beneath the August heat, while beyond them, the soft rise and fall of distant hills broke the flatness of Kentish farmland.
Elias Bennet shifted the curtain aside and glanced out—then let it fall again with a thoughtful hum. “We passed Littlebourne a few minutes ago,” he said. “If I am not mistaken, there are three or four miles left.”
James gave a noncommittal grunt, though his boots tapped faintly against the carriage floor—an unconscious rhythm that betrayed some inner restlessness.
With a sidelong glance at his brother, Elias noted the familiar sign of unease and remarked quietly, “You have worn that same expression since we crossed Blackheath.”
James let out a slow breath through his nose. “It is not every day one is invited to a great Assembly where the presumed purpose is to parade before the niece of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
“Parade?” Elias echoed, arching a brow in gentle amusement. “A strong word, considering we were neither ordered to wear livery nor carry calling cards etched in gold.”
The dry retort came low and swift from James: “Yet I can feel the auction block beneath my feet, brother.”
A faint smile curved Elias’s lips as he regarded his brother with fond tolerance. “Your imagination is as dramatic as Mother’s when the post is late.”
“I suspect you exaggerate,” James muttered, settling back against the leather squabs with a resigned sigh that drew a soft chuckle from Elias.
“Not nearly enough,” he replied, his tone light yet sympathetic, “though I confess the prospect does carry its own peculiar weight.”
James’s reply came dry and low: “Miss Darcy—if she is anything like the description our cousin so reverently scrawled—must be a terrifying creature. Accomplished, modest, faultless, and no doubt blessed with a jaw tight enough to sharpen a pencil.”
Elias snorted, his eyes sparkling with quiet humour as he shook his head. “You forgot rich.”
“Yes, I did. Thank you. Add to that: wealthy, well-connected, and probably under the impression that any gentleman from Hertfordshire still keeps chickens in the parlour.”
A pause, then Elias asked, more mildly, “And do you truly believe she will be so dreadful as all that?”
James tilted his head, as if willing himself into fairness.
“I believe she is likely to be everything her aunt admires. And Lady Catherine’s admiration does not extend to warmth or whimsy.
Therefore, I expect the niece to be cold, particular, overly correct, and—” his mouth quirked, “—probably plain.”
His brother looked amused. “Do you include that last solely for your own protection?”
“I include it because it follows, logically. A handsome woman might still be endured if she is warm, or clever, or kind. But if she is merely accomplished and frigid in manner, then surely her beauty is the sort to freeze a room.” He shifted again.
“No, Elias. I do not fear Miss Darcy. I merely resent the assumption that a fortune must be matched to an heir—as if we were specimens in some moral museum. Cousin Collins might have good intentions, but—”
“I doubt you are alone in that sentiment,” Elias murmured. “But I suspect you are being premature. There will be other young ladies present. An Assembly hosted by Lady Catherine is not likely to include only her niece. And besides—” He hesitated.
James gave him a pointed look. “Yes?”
Elias spoke more slowly. “It is not only the dancing that matters. A gathering such as this means influence. Connections. Half the solicitors in Kent bow to the Darcys and de Bourghs, and I would wager one or two of their family counsel may attend.”
James understood at once. “You think it might lead to something. Probably to a job position for you, brother. Keep dreaming.”
“I think,” Elias said, “that a man of moderate income, good reputation, and useful experience might make a favourable impression, if he keeps his head. And perhaps that man—if he makes himself known—might be remembered when the next junior partner is needed.”
“You are speaking of yourself, of course, Elias.”
“I am. Uncle Phillips has been generous, and I value what I have learned. But if I am to advance beyond property settlements and quarterly rents, I must eventually attach myself to a more substantial practice. Canterbury, perhaps. London, if I am bold.”
James regarded him for a moment. “So, Elias, you do not mind this little expedition into society so long as it leads you to the right study lined with ledgers and arguments.”
“Precisely. Though I would not object to meeting a few pleasant ladies in the process—ones whose conversation does not revolve solely around pianoforte practice or lace samples.”
James grinned. “Now who is describing unicorns?”
His brother chuckled. “No, merely hoping for companions who speak without simpering.”
“Then I wish you luck.” James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “As for me, I will smile where I must, bow when required, and pray that no one sees through my polite indifference.”
“You would be more comfortable if Mother had not filled your ears with expectations.”
“She has made no secret of her wish for a fine daughter-in-law,” James said wryly. “But a daughter of Pemberley? That would be a coronation. She would parade through Meryton with a crown of laurel and never speak kindly to Sir William Lucas again.”
“I believe she would settle for a modestly rich baron’s daughter,” Elias offered, deadpan.
They shared a brief, conspiratorial laugh—dry, familiar, and without malice. Beyond the window, the road curved past a low hedge and a sign for a market town barely large enough to merit one. A stand of trees whispered in the breeze, their late-summer leaves fluttering faintly gold.
Elias looked ahead. “Look. A large house on the rise—there, beyond the hedgerow. That must be Rosings, I suppose.”
James followed his gaze, frowning faintly at the sheer scale of the structure just visible through the summer haze.
“If it is not,” he said dryly, “then I should like to see the house that dares to dwarf it.”
Elias smiled. “In that case, we are nearly at Hunsford. Prepare yourself.” He settled back into his seat. “Brace yourself, James—we are entering the lion’s den by way of the rectory.”
***
The carriage creaked as it turned off the main road, its wheels crunching over the rutted drive that curved past a row of wind-bent hedges.
A neat wooden gate, freshly painted and unnecessarily polished, stood open to welcome them.
Beyond it, Hunsford Parsonage emerged: a modest, well-kept cottage, brick-faced and ivy-framed, its garden trimmed to within an inch of military order.
James took one glance and murmured, “That hedge has been terrorised.”
Elias smiled. “Charlotte’s hand, no doubt. She hates cutting textile fabric—why would she enjoy cutting hedges? Mr. Collins may boast of it, but she is the steward here. He has two left hands when hand labour is involved.”
The carriage slowed and came to a halt. Before the driver could descend, the front door of the parsonage burst open, and Mr. Collins himself appeared, arms already extended in welcome, his entire countenance alight with the satisfaction of having important guests.
“Mr. James Bennet! Mr. Elias Bennet!” he called, approaching at an eager pace, one hand raised as though to bless them. “This is a signal honour, and a true joy to my humble home! Charlotte—my dear Charlotte, they are here!”
Mrs. Collins appeared a moment later, composed and unhurried, with one hand at her lower back and the other gently smoothing her apron. Her expression was tired but warm.
“James. Elias.” Her voice was calm, her eyes steady. “Welcome.”
Elias was first to step down and bow. “It is good to see you again, Charlotte—I mean, Mrs. Collins. You look well.”
He hesitated, noting the pallor behind her smile.
“As well as might be expected.” Her mouth curved.
“Which is to say,” her husband added philosophically, “as well as a woman can be in her confinement, married to a clergyman, and enduring Lady Catherine’s hourly opinions on the matter.”
James descended next, brushing dust from his coat and casting a sidelong look toward the looming silhouette of Rosings in the distance. “We passed a house on the rise—quite vast. We took it for Rosings.”
Mr. Collins swelled with pride. “Indeed, sir. Rosings Park is the architectural jewel of Kent. Her ladyship’s residence reflects not only her noble lineage, but also her refined sense of proportion and taste.
I have lost myself in its corridors more than once.
You will see it more closely tomorrow. But now—do come in! ”
They were ushered inside without further delay. The entry hall was small but spotless, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. A child’s voice echoed faintly from an upper room, followed by a muffled thump and a nanny’s firm shushing. Mr. Collins made a vague gesture upward.
“My son, Nathanael. He is—energetic. Very spirited. Alas, too young yet to attend the festivities, though he clamoured most vigorously to wear his boots.”
James raised a brow. “How old is he now?”
“Three in autumn,” Charlotte answered. “With the lungs of a choir.”
Mr. Collins led them to the front parlour, where a tray had been set with cooled wine, plum cake, and crisply folded napkins. He poured with solemn flourish, then sat with his hands folded upon his knee, adopting what he clearly believed was a statesmanlike pose.
“I am glad that you accepted to come,” he began.
“We did,” Elias said evenly. “With all its insight and… subtlety.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head, accepting the compliment at full value.