Chapter 2
The snow had begun again by the time the carriage turned onto the long drive to Rosings.
A bitter wind sliced through the trees, piling fresh drifts atop the frozen ruts already carved into the lane.
Darcy shifted stiffly, joints aching from the jostling, and tugged his greatcoat tighter about his frame.
The lamps were already lit at the great house, glowing faintly through the flurry.
It was near dark, though not yet five o’clock.
His arrival was nearly three hours later than intended. A tree had fallen near Maidstone, forcing the post-chaise to take an abominable alternate route. His coachman had cursed under his breath most of the afternoon. Darcy had said little. His mind was already at Rosings—already with Anne.
If she truly is as ill as the letter had suggested…
He stepped down onto the packed gravel, his boots crunching as he crossed the drive.
The butler opened the door before he reached it, and he was ushered into the high-ceilinged entrance hall with no more warmth than the winter air behind him.
Lady Catherine was already striding down the marble staircase.
“You are intolerably late,” she announced, arms folded above the embroidered swell of her gown. “You were expected at four. It is past seven.”
“I apologize, Aunt,” he said with a bow. “A blockage on the road out of Maidstone delayed us longer than expected.”
“No excuse,” she said, waving him toward the drawing room. “Anne waited to see you. She was quite determined. But she grew tired, poor thing, and retired just before tea.”
Darcy removed his gloves and followed her into the room, catching sight of the same stiff-backed furniture and over-embroidered cushions that had plagued his memory of the place for years.
The fire burned hot in the grate, but the rest of the house held the damp chill of old stone and draughty windows.
Darcy frowned. “Is her condition so serious?”
Lady Catherine raised a handkerchief to dab delicately at the corner of her mouth. “It is not as dire as it might have been had you delayed further.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. A roaring fire crackled in the drawing room, but it did little to ease the chill that had settled into his bones.
“She has grown quite ill,” Lady Catherine continued. “Delicate. Her appetite is poor, but the physician insists she must avoid all strong emotion. I trust you will not upset her tomorrow.”
Darcy bowed his head slightly. “Of course.”
“And do not make her speak overmuch,” she added, her voice clipped. “You may sit with her. Offer comfort. She is, after all, your intended.”
Darcy froze. “My—pardon?”
“Intended,” she said again, sharply, as though daring him to object. “It is high time the connection was formalized. You are both of age. There is no obstacle.”
“It is not a connection to which I have agreed,” he said coldly.
“We can discuss all that when Mr. Collins arrives tomorrow.”
He looked at her blankly. Why does that name sound familiar? “Mr… Collins?”
“My new rector,” she snapped. “I understand he was introduced to you when you were visiting that tradesman friend of yours in Hertfordshire.”
A faint image of a tall, heavyset, bumbling man rose in his vision. “I vaguely recall him, yes.”
“Well, he will be calling tomorrow with his new wife.”
“Wife?”
“Indeed. He returned to Hertfordshire just long enough to fulfill his duty. I had sent him there with every expectation he would choose one of his cousins. The estate is entailed entirely away from the female line, you know. Five daughters—utterly unprovided for. I had hoped he would secure one of them, and I believe he did.” She sniffed.
“Though not the eldest, unfortunately. Perhaps the second. They were married last week.”
A chill swept through Darcy, far colder than any he had suffered during the long, snowbound ride. His racing pulse thundered in his ears.
“The second?”
“It might have been the third. I have no idea.”
“Do you know her name?” he asked carefully.
She glared at him over her cane. “Mrs. Collins.”
“I mean her given name.”
“Certainly not. I have never even laid eyes on the lady. One woman is as good as another, I imagine. I gave him strict instructions on what qualities he should look for when choosing amongst his cousins.”
Darcy stared into the fire, every muscle rigid. The flames blurred before his eyes.
Elizabeth.
He had thought her safe. He had thought her too clever, too discerning to ever accept a man like Collins. She had turned him down—had she not? At the Netherfield ball, she had danced with him only out of obligation. She had mocked him afterward with a glint in her eye.
And yet—if her family’s situation were truly desperate… if she had been made to feel it her duty…
His mind reeled. He had made Bingley question Jane’s affections.
Perhaps she had come to believe comfort was more valuable than compatibility. Perhaps she had given up waiting for anything better.
A dull ache bloomed in his chest.
Elizabeth… the wife of such a man.
He could not bear it.
“Excuse me,” he said abruptly. “The journey has left me fatigued.”
Lady Catherine waved him off without lifting her gaze. “Breakfast is at nine. Be punctual.”
He escaped to the corridor, passed the portrait of the late Sir Lewis without a glance, and climbed the stairs two at a time.
It was only once his valet, Bates, had left and the candles were extinguished that he sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded beneath his chin, and whispered the truth aloud to no one.
“I left her.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had never before felt so thoroughly a guest and so thoroughly out of place.
It had been two days since she arrived at the parsonage, and though she had taken pains to be cheerful and helpful, the awkwardness of the situation had already begun to settle into her bones.
She had never in her life spent such intimate time in the company of a newly married couple—and she hoped never to do so again.
The wedding breakfast, at least, had taken place at Lucas Lodge, which spared her the exquisite discomfort of being beneath the same roof as Charlotte and Mr. Collins on their wedding night.
But the next morning, her friend had fetched her with a blush and a forced smile, and Elizabeth had done her best to return both with equal civility—though the words maidenhood and Mr. Collins had no business occupying the same thought at once.
She had not known where to look as the carriage drove them southward. Charlotte’s contented composure clashed strangely with Mr. Collins’ constant preening, and Elizabeth could not decide which was worse: the cloying boasts of the husband or the resigned serenity of the wife.
She could not blame Charlotte, not really. Her friend had made a practical choice. And Elizabeth had agreed to come, had nodded with all apparent willingness when her father gave his consent.
But now, walking down the stairs of Hunsford Parsonage, she felt keenly how very not at home she was.
Mr. Collins had been effusive in his eagerness to show off the house, pointing out every chair, every servant, every stick of furniture that Lady Catherine had either provided or approved.
He had, with unmistakable satisfaction, paused before the fireplace in the drawing room to mention how this very hearth might have belonged to another, had circumstances aligned differently.
He even hinted, with a sanctimonious smile, that some ladies knew not their own best interest.
Elizabeth had smiled as one might at an overfed cat, said nothing, and blessed heaven when he left shortly after to present himself to his patroness.
Once he was gone, the house felt lighter.
Charlotte, free from her husband’s hovering presence, decided to tour the home again, properly this time.
They met the maid-of-all-work—a shy girl with red cheeks and capable hands—and the cook, a middle-aged woman who doubled as housekeeper and greeted Charlotte’s arrival with something like audible relief.
It was clear the staff had not quite known what to expect in a mistress, and the discovery that she was practical, composed, and nothing like her husband was received gratefully.
Together, the ladies walked through the modest gardens, now dormant beneath frost. They inspected the hen coop, visited the kitchens, and reviewed the linens.
Elizabeth listened with real pleasure as Charlotte began to speak of routines and improvements, of how the small parlor off the back would be made her private sitting room.
“It appears to be the quietest part of the house,” Charlotte said, half-smiling as she pushed open the door. “I believe I shall move a few of my books and keep my correspondence here. Mr. Collins may have his study, and I… I shall have this.”
Elizabeth turned slowly, taking in the small square room with its single window overlooking the hedgerow. “It is an excellent idea. You deserve a space of your own.”
Charlotte flushed. “I hope my husband will approve.”
The day passed in relative ease, broken only by Mr. Collins’ return before dinner.
He burst into the parlor flushed with success, announcing that they were all invited to Rosings on the morrow for the formal presentation of his wife to Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter—and, as he added with particular pomp, to a nephew of her ladyship, presently visiting Rosings, though he could not say which one, for she had several.
“One of the sons of her brother the earl, no doubt,” he declared.
“Or perhaps her late sister’s eldest child.
Such fine connections, and always gracious to her humble servants.
Her ladyship said nothing of the holidays, but I suspect a Christmas dinner or musical evening shall be proposed in the coming days. ”