Chapter 3
Elizabeth was not amused.
At first, it had been nearly comical—stepping into the drawing room of Rosings and finding its mistress every bit as imperious, overbearing, and self-satisfied as Mr. Collins had breathlessly described.
Elizabeth had expected grandeur, hauteur, and some degree of foolishness from Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
But she had not expected this.
To speak so, she thought furiously, in front of me. In front of Charlotte.
Elizabeth stood rigid beside her friend, her hands folded tightly in front of her to keep from clenching them. Charlotte’s face had paled; her chin quivered just slightly despite her best efforts. Mr. Collins, for his part, looked as though he might sink into the floor.
And Lady Catherine went on blithely, tearing through them all with the precision of a blunt axe. “You were to mend the injury done to the Bennet ladies by uniting the estate and family through marriage,” she declared. “That is what a conscientious clergyman would do. That is what I expected.”
Elizabeth’s vision blurred at the edges. It was not merely offensive—it was monstrous. She glanced toward Darcy, still standing stiffly in front of the chair nearest the hearth, only to find him watching the entire exchange with an unreadable expression.
His features were still, almost grim.
Of course, she thought bitterly. He must be just as disgusted as his aunt. How dare the lowly parson marry a woman of his own choosing and not that of his patroness?
Her cheeks flamed.
Charlotte looked on the verge of tears.
And Mr. Collins—of all people—was gaping at her.
Elizabeth’s fury snapped into place like a well-fitted glove. If no one else would speak, she would.
She stepped forward, her voice clear and composed. “He did propose to one of his cousins, your ladyship,” she said evenly. “Sadly, she declined.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Lady Catherine blinked. Mr. Collins let out a strangled sound, part cough, part whimper. Charlotte's breath hitched audibly beside her.
Elizabeth did not waver.
Lady Catherine recovered first, her features tightening into a mask of affronted dignity.
“She declined?” she repeated, as if the word itself were offensive.
“Yes, your ladyship,” Elizabeth said with perfect calm. “It was not a good match.”
Across the room, Darcy stirred slightly, but Elizabeth refused to look at him. She could feel his gaze pressing at the edge of her vision like an itch she would not scratch.
“She would rather remain a burden on her family,” Lady Catherine said with a sneer, “than secure a respectable living and provide for her future?”
“It was not, I believe, the living she objected to,” Elizabeth replied. “Nor the security. Rather, the two people were so different in character that the match would not have been a happy one.”
Mr. Collins gave a soft wheeze, his color shifting toward puce.
Lady Catherine turned a withering glare upon him. “You did not tell me any of this.”
“I—I did not believe it relevant, your ladyship!” he squeaked. “The refusal was most unexpected—and swiftly followed by my second proposal—to Miss Lucas—who, of course, accepted me at once!”
Charlotte flushed deeply but said nothing. Elizabeth felt her own temper start to burn again. She had to look somewhere else, anywhere to calm her feelings, and so she glanced—just briefly—at Darcy.
He was still watching her.
No, not watching—studying. His brow was slightly furrowed. His posture was tense, but not hostile. Confused, perhaps. And if she were not mistaken, troubled.
What right did he have to look troubled?
Turning her attention back to Lady Catherine, Elizabeth said, “And I can assure you that all of my sisters and I are very happy that our dear friend will one day be the mistress of Longbourn.”
Lady Catherine's mouth tightened into something between a grimace and a sneer. Mr. Collins blinked rapidly, uncertain whether he had just been complimented or shamed.
Charlotte looked as though she might either cry or fall to the floor.
Elizabeth reached out and took her friend’s hand.
"Charlotte—that is, Mrs. Collins—is a good woman with a kind heart and practical nature. She will make Mr. Collins a much better wife than any of my father’s daughters could have. ”
She felt Charlotte squeeze her hand tightly. The room was silent as the occupants all watched Lady Catherine closely for a reaction.
Darcy, though she did not dare look again, shifted slightly on his feet.
Lady Catherine's fan snapped open with unnecessary force.
“Well,” she said at last, voice cutting, “I suppose some women must be content with what their temperament and circumstances allow. Though I cannot approve of disobedience in daughters.”
“No more can my father,” Elizabeth replied sweetly. “Which is why he will not force any of us to marry against our inclinations.”
Charlotte stirred beside her. It was subtle—but Elizabeth saw it. The flicker of gratitude in her downcast eyes. The faint lift of her chin.
Lady Catherine, apparently deciding she had been insulted but unable to isolate the particulars, waved her hand again. “Very well, then. Why are you all standing about? Take your seats. Where is the tea? Why has it not yet come?”
The assembled party began to shift and murmur with renewed stiffness. Mr. Collins scrambled toward a chair as if fearing he might be accused next. Charlotte followed more slowly, her composure returning by degrees, though her hands still trembled slightly as she reached for her gloves.
Elizabeth sat last of all, choosing a place near the hearth—but not beside Mr. Darcy.
He had not moved since Lady Catherine’s dismissal. Still upright. Still silent. His gaze was not on her, but she felt it nonetheless.
He was no longer watching her with disapproval. That had been her first assumption—of course it had been, after that scene. But now she wondered.
Was he surprised? Offended?
Ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding?
She shook the thought away. It hardly mattered. Whatever Mr. Darcy’s opinion, it was no concern of hers.
The door opened at last, and the tea tray arrived, carried by a footman with an expression carved from marble. He placed it on the low table and retreated at once. Another maid followed with a plate of pale, dry biscuits.
Lady Catherine made a great show of inspecting the tray before motioning for Charlotte to pour. “Come, Mrs. Collins, show me what manners your mother has taught you.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek.
Charlotte served the tea with quiet dignity. Elizabeth took her cup with a polite nod, then sipped in silence as Lady Catherine began what could only be termed as an inquisition.
“So, Mrs. Collins,” her ladyship began, lifting her own cup with exaggerated care, “you have been mistress of the parsonage for—what? Two days?”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
“Hmph. And have you found the kitchen tolerable? The last cook I sent was not a complete fool, but she had a tendency to oversalt the sauces. I trust you have corrected this.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “Mrs. Trant seems quite capable. We have not yet had occasion to judge her sauces, but the morning rolls have been excellent.”
“You must not allow her to bake unsupervised,” Lady Catherine warned. “She is given to laziness. You will need to rise early, of course—no later than six—and make yourself acquainted with every inch of that kitchen. The firebox in particular must be scrubbed weekly.”
Charlotte murmured her agreement, her tone serene.
Lady Catherine continued without pause. “Have you begun your inventories? You must count the linens yourself, not merely take the word of the staff. And you are keeping a proper housekeeping book?”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
“You must make note of every farthing. If you require a format, I shall send you a copy of Miss Jenkinson’s. Her method is not elegant, but it is thorough.”
Elizabeth took another sip of her tea, managing not to choke. Across from her, Miss de Bourgh sat in silence, blinking slowly at nothing in particular.
Lady Catherine went on. “Have you rearranged the furniture? You must not. The sideboard in the dining room must remain as it is—Sir Lewis had it placed precisely for the light. You will find the right-hand drawer tends to stick, but it must not be forced. The key is to press slightly to the left as you pull.”
Charlotte gave a gentle smile. “I shall remember, ma’am.”
“And the servants,” Lady Catherine added, “must never be permitted to sit while polishing silver. It is the beginning of idleness. I insist upon it.”
Elizabeth stared into her teacup, forcing her features into bland attentiveness. She dared not look at Charlotte, for fear she would either laugh or weep on her friend’s behalf. It was a masterclass in maternal tyranny masquerading as magnanimity.
She let her gaze drift—just momentarily—toward Mr. Darcy.
He had not spoken a word since they sat. His posture remained formal, but his expression… not quite indifferent.
He looked as if he were taking notes. Or making calculations. Or perhaps attempting not to intervene.
Good, Elizabeth thought with some venom. Let him sit in silence and listen to what his noble relations think is the proper lot of a married woman.
Lady Catherine had launched into a new subject—the conduct of the maids—and Elizabeth prepared herself to endure what she was sure would be a tedious evening.
∞∞∞
Darcy stood before the mirror in his dressing room, slowly knotting his cravat for the second time. The first attempt had been too tight; the second was now too loose. He had retied his neckcloths with perfect efficiency since he was fifteen—but tonight, his fingers seemed foreign.
He scowled at his reflection, then gave up and let the valet finish the task.
His thoughts were elsewhere, circling back again and again to the drawing room, to Elizabeth Bennet, to everything that had unfolded that afternoon.