Chapter 2 #2
Elizabeth listened with a composed expression, noting silently that Charlotte appeared rather less enthused than her husband. It was a strange kind of triumph, to be dragged before Lady Catherine only days after one’s wedding, but it was clearly what Charlotte had expected.
When the clock struck nine and the lamps were trimmed, Elizabeth excused herself early, pleading fatigue from travel and cold weather.
In truth, it was not weariness that sent her upstairs but a quiet desperation to escape the subtle, unbearable reminder that Charlotte and Mr. Collins now shared a bedroom.
She took her candle and book, settled into the small chamber they had given her—plain, but tidy and warm—and tried to lose herself in Evelina.
The prose was charming, the heroine witty, but her eyes would not still.
They kept returning to Longbourn, to Jane’s soft, sad smiles, to the empty place where hope had once sat.
This was to be her Christmas: a parsonage in Kent, a pompous clergyman, and a strained silence. No Gardiners. No bustling children. No candlelit drawing rooms filled with music and cheer.
Only duty. And Charlotte.
She turned the page with a sigh and pulled the coverlet tighter.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth followed Mr. and Mrs. Collins up the long, winding path to Rosings. Her shawl—thick and warm, woven by her Aunt Gardiner two Christmases past—was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and she was very glad she had thought to bring her sturdiest boots from home.
The wind bit at her cheeks, and the sky hung gray and heavy with the promise of more snow. It was not terrible weather for walking, but neither was it entirely suitable for a visit to a baronet’s widow and her delicate daughter.
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed just slightly as she stepped over a patch of icy gravel. Surely, if Lady Catherine wished to make a proper impression upon her new rector’s wife, she might have thought to send the carriage.
But then again, Lady Catherine de Bourgh did not appear in company to please—only to be pleased.
At least from what I gather based on Mr. Collins’ information.
She watched as Charlotte leaned slightly toward her husband, murmuring something that caused Mr. Collins to straighten proudly and quicken his pace.
There it was again—that curious, subtle influence her friend had begun to exercise.
A word here, a gentle correction there. Charlotte was learning how to manage him, how to steer him without ever letting go of his reins.
From a practical standpoint, the match made perfect sense.
Charlotte was nearly seven and twenty, plain, prudent, and without fortune.
Mr. Collins was absurd, yes, but he also had a living, a patroness, and no vice except pomposity.
Already the parsonage was beginning to run smoothly under Charlotte’s quiet governance. She would make it her own.
But I could never have borne it, Elizabeth thought, her breath rising in white clouds. Not for all the patronesses in Kent.
If Mr. Bingley had not come to Netherfield—if Jane had been unprotected—might her mother have pressed Mr. Collins upon her instead? A chill crept through her not caused by the weather.
Thank heaven for Mr. Bingley. He will return soon. I know he loves her—there was admiration for her in all his looks.
As they reached the front steps of Rosings, Elizabeth glanced up at the towering facade. The great house loomed pale and still behind a veil of frost, its columns trimmed in icicles, the windows glowing faintly with candlelight. A footman admitted them without ceremony.
Inside, the entrance hall was grand but unwelcoming, all marble and echo. The butler took their wraps with cool efficiency, and a maid stood nearby with slippers for them to wear, as their boots were caked in mud and snow.
Elizabeth unpinned her shawl and smoothed her hair quickly, suddenly wishing the walk had been shorter. A few snowflakes clung to her lashes. She turned to speak to Charlotte—only to find that her friend had paused by the mirror to adjust a loose curl at her temple.
Elizabeth found herself suddenly at Mr. Collins’ elbow as they crossed the threshold into the drawing room.
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins,” the butler intoned. Then, with only the faintest pause, “And guest.”
Elizabeth stopped mid-step.
Mr. Darcy.
Her eyes widened before she could help it.
There he sat, in the opulently decorated room, perfectly composed, in a dark coat and buff waistcoat, watching her with unreadable intensity. His gaze swept over her once—briefly, sharply—and then returned to her face.
Something flickered there.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
Mr. Collins was already bowing and speaking effusively.
“Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh,” he intoned to the elderly woman seated regally beneath a portrait of the late Sir Lewis and the frail looking young woman next to her.
“If I may have the incredible honor of presenting to you—my wife, Mrs. Collins.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes turned to Elizabeth, who opened her mouth to correct the assumption, but Charlotte stepped forward at that moment, joining them at last with a small, steady smile.
The mistake was not addressed.
And Mr. Darcy continued to stare at her.
∞∞∞
Darcy rose with the others when the butler announced the parson and his party.
“Mr. and Mrs. Collins… and guest.”
He did not hear the final words.
His eyes had locked on the young woman walking just behind Mr. Collins. She stood with elegance, her figure unmistakably familiar beneath a plain but well-cut spencer. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and a dusting of snow clung to the dark curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet.
Elizabeth.
The shock landed like a blow to the chest.
It could not be. It should not be.
But there she was—standing beside Mr. Collins as the idiot beamed and bowed and proclaimed, “Lady Catherine, if I may have the incredible honor of presenting to you—my wife, Mrs. Collins.”
The words cracked through Darcy’s skull.
No!
He felt the floor sway slightly beneath him, though he did not move. His breath came short, but he forced it steady. Years of practice kept his face impassive, his shoulders square.
His eyes never left hers.
She looked surprised—just for a moment. Not alarmed. Not ashamed. But surprised to see him, seated so calmly beside his aunt, as though he were the specter, not she.
And then another woman entered. A second figure, smaller, with her hair in a tidy bun tucked under a cap, smiling quietly. She took Mr. Collins’ arm and gave Lady Catherine a composed curtsy.
Darcy blinked.
Who…? What…? She looked vaguely familiar, and Darcy could faintly remember Elizabeth speaking with her on several occasions in Hertfordshire. It was she who urged Elizabeth to play one evening at a dinner party.
Lucas Lodge… Miss Lucas… Charlene? Cherise?
His heart gave a sickening twist of relief—and something close to mortification.
Lady Catherine was now greeting the actual Mrs. Collins with a blend of scrutiny and condescension. Mr. Collins had not clarified, and Elizabeth had not corrected.
Of course she would not—not here, not in front of the room. She is too refined for that.
Yet Darcy had believed it. For a full minute, he had believed it.
But Elizabeth was not married. Not to Collins.
He nearly had to sit—he felt a bit faint. What a strain on my nerves, he thought, then flushed slightly at realizing he sounded exactly like Elizabeth’s mother in that moment.
Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes at the unfamiliar face beside the Collinses and pursed her lips. “What is this? I trust, Mr. Collins, that you have not returned with two wives.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched slightly. Mr. Collins turned red to the tips of his ears.
“No—no indeed, your ladyship!” he spluttered. “This is—this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, my cousin. She has been so good as to accompany us from Hertfordshire and spend the holiday at the parsonage.”
“Your cousin, and yet not also your wife’s sister?” Lady Catherine’s gaze narrowed at the sniveling man. “Does this mean you did not marry one of the daughters from whom the estate was entailed?”
Darcy stiffened.
“I—I did not,” Mr. Collins confessed with a nervous glance toward his wife.
“I gave specific instructions, Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine snapped. “You were to mend the injury done to the Bennet ladies by uniting the estate and family through marriage. That is what a conscientious clergyman would do. That is what I expected.”
Mr. Collins gulped and looked—inexplicably—at Elizabeth, who was now frowning and looking at her friend in concern.
What the devil is going on?