CHAPTER 2 – Shadows Over Rosings
The ascent to Rosings Manor was as arduous as it was foreboding.
Although the distance from the parsonage to the great house was not far, the steep incline and uneven terrain made the journey slow and wearying.
Elizabeth, ever eager for exercise, relished the climb, as did the Collinses, accustomed to frequent walks.
However, for Sir William, who was not an avid walker, the journey proved far more taxing.
He laboured slightly behind them, pausing now and then to catch his breath, though he bore the effort with good humour.
“This is the perfect setting for a Gothic novel!” Elizabeth murmured, in awe at the imposing structure.
Dark stone walls, aged and weather-worn, jutted against the grey sky like the remnants of a forgotten fortress.
The narrow path twisted through thorny hedges, and in the distance, the restless sea crashed violently against the cliffs below.
The manor was a bastion built to withstand the onslaught of both time and men, yet Elizabeth doubted it provided its occupants with the warmth and comfort of a real home.
“Beyond that cliff lies a private beach reserved for the family,” Mr. Collins said with great reverence. “Her ladyship has, on occasion, granted me permission to walk along its shores.”
“How generous of her,” Elizabeth said dryly.
Charlotte offered her a knowing look but said nothing. The parson, however, went on to describe the private beach and its charming harbour as one of the most beautiful places in the entire region.
Upon reaching the gates, they were promptly admitted by an elderly butler whose stern countenance offered no welcome.
The air inside was close and faintly musty as he led them through dimly lit passages covered with dark, wood-panelled walls.
Ancient tapestries hung in heavy folds, their intricate designs dulled by time and neglect.
The morning room where Lady Catherine de Bourgh awaited them was no less imposing.
So many details had been included to observe and to admire—if only they were better cared for.
The widows, the elaborate carvings and faded paintings, all spoke of a bygone splendour.
A faint melancholy stirred within Elizabeth’s soul at the idea of such beauty left to decay.
Had it been better preserved, it might have been one of the finest morning rooms in Wales.
Matching the timeworn solemnity of the hall, her ladyship occupied a high-backed chair, her piercing eyes scrutinizing each guest as Mr. Collins performed his reverent introductions, which were somewhat in excess of the necessary formalities, as was his wont.
Beside her, Miss de Bourgh sat as if she had a poker up her spine, her pale features drawn, while her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson, hovered nearby with quiet solicitousness.
“Miss Bennet.” Lady Catherine addressed Elizabeth at last, her voice imperious. “I trust you are well acquainted with the expectations of proper society?”
Elizabeth met her gaze steadily. “I should hope so, your ladyship.”
Lady Catherine’s lips pursed. “I am seldom disappointed in my expectations, Miss Bennet. I presume you are proficient in all the accomplishments a young woman ought to possess.”
“I play and sing tolerably well, I draw occasionally, and I am particularly fond of reading,” Elizabeth replied, her tone laced with quiet amusement as she recited her supposed accomplishments.
“Hmph.” Lady Catherine’s scrutiny did not waver. “I suppose that will have to do. You shall play for us later, and I shall judge for myself.”
Dinner was a strained affair. Lady Catherine dominated the conversation, pausing only to request more wine or deliver sharp rebukes to the Collinses over various trifles no one else would have deemed worth mentioning.
Charlotte appeared to endure them with practiced composure, a quality Elizabeth admired—though not without pity.
Surely it was tiresome to face such critique at every visit without the liberty to reply.
Mr. Collins, predictably, met each remark with obsequious agreement, whether to curry favour or to shield his wife from further attack.
Her Ladyship grew more insidious as the evening wore on.
Prudence, for once, won out over debate, and Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed on her plate, speaking only when directly addressed.
There was little sense in crossing swords with a woman whose glass had been refilled too often—and none at all when every word might be turned against her friends.
Like the others—with the exception of Sir William, whose appetite remained intact—she barely touched her food.
A shame, really, for the cook’s efforts had been entirely wasted.
The dishes were excellent, yet her Ladyship’s relentless diatribe turned each course into a trial of endurance rather than a pleasure.
At one point, Miss de Bourgh turned to Maria. “Miss Lucas, I hope you are enjoying your stay at Rosings. I imagine you must find it somewhat rugged compared to the meadows of Hertfordshire. Mrs. Collins always speaks so fondly of her homeland,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Anne, do not burden our guests with such idle observations.” Lady Catherine said in a loud voice before Maria could reply. “You know nothing of Hertfordshire. Rosings’ landscape is quite unique and cannot be compared with any other part of the country.”
Miss de Bourgh fell silent at once, her cheeks colouring. Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Maria, already pitying the young lady’s situation.
Her curiosity deepened as she continued to observe the young heiress.
Miss de Bourgh possessed a skittish energy that set her apart in a way Elizabeth could not quite discern.
She moved with restless apprehension, as if bracing for reproach at every turn.
Like the Collinses, she seemed quietly fearful of Lady Catherine, enduring her mother’s tirades with flushed cheeks and a posture held in constant tension, as though restraining some impulse that threatened to break through, her lips twitching whenever the strain grew too great.
Mrs. Jenkinson, ever vigilant, remained close by, ready to soothe or intervene should the young lady falter.
Elizabeth could not but respect her steadfast devotion.
The elder woman appeared impervious to her Ladyship’s barbs and knew precisely how to manage Miss de Bourgh without drawing notice, a skill she must have honed over years of care since the young lady’s childhood.
As the evening wore on, Lady Catherine’s superciliousness took a sharper turn. “You said your uncle lives in town. What precisely is his profession?”
“He owns warehouses and deals in fabrics and imported goods,” Elizabeth replied.
“Ah. Trade. A most ignoble profession,” Lady Catherine said. “Unlike my daughter, who shall inherit a vast fortune and an estate, you have little to recommend yourself in the way of marriage.”
Elizabeth held her composure. “I consider myself fortunate in many ways, your Ladyship. I am a gentleman’s daughter, and I believe my chances of making a good match are as good as any other lady in my sphere.”
Lady Catherine smirked. “Fortunate, indeed. Beauty is a fleeting matter, Miss Bennet. A young woman who is too captious in her youth may find herself quite alone in her later years. Many unmarried ladies become a burden to their families or are compelled to a life of servitude. I say, it was most imprudent of you to have rejected Mr. Collins’s proposal, considering the entail on your father’s estate.
Though, in truth, your recklessness has been to my benefit.
The current Mrs. Collins is a more suitable choice for him.
You are too opinionated to be a parson’s wife. ”
Elizabeth’s face grew warm, but she refused to rise to the insult. It was a needless humiliation to remind everyone that Charlotte had been Mr. Collins’s second choice, and to respond or argue with Lady Catherine would only deepen her friend’s mortification.
By the time Lady Catherine finally dismissed them, several hours and half a bottle of sherry later, Elizabeth could hardly disguise her relief.
That her Ladyship did not offer a carriage despite the late hour came as no surprise.
The guests began a slow walk to the parsonage in silence, their footsteps heavy, their thoughts heavier still. At last it was over.
***
Sir William’s departure the following week was marked by bittersweet farewells.
The parting between father and daughter was tender, and his discomfort at leaving Charlotte in such uncertain circumstances was impossible to miss.
Ever the jovial one, he drove himself to appear cheerful, but sorrow clung to his features as he boarded the ship back to the mainland.
Charlotte, calm as ever, reassured him with gentle words and steady hands.
Yet a tightness settled in Elizabeth’s chest at the scene.
For all of Charlotte’s steadfast appearance, her eyes betrayed a lingering disquiet. If only her words of comfort rang true.
Two days after Sir William’s departure, on a Sunday after the morning services, the Hunsford party was required at the mansion. Lady Catherine had found the parson’s sermon inadequate and made her objections known in the harshest of ways.
“Mr. Collins,” said Lady Catherine in her severest tone, “your last sermon did not live up to my expectations. It lacked the fire and brimstone necessary to inculcate the fear of the Lord in the sinful heart.”
“Of course, madam, I shall take note of your request and be more imperative in my next sermon,” Mr. Collins replied with a vehement nod that almost made Elizabeth want to laugh. But she did not, not in front of Lady Catherine.
“Be sure you do. Peasants will never understand their Christian duty if they are not warned about the evils that might befall them should they disregard the Lord’s will.
I wish flogging and physical chastisement were not so disparaged these days.
A good whack is the best way to erase unholy thoughts and straighten the path of those who go astray.
” Lady Catherine continued, her eyes fixed on the parson. “Or to make one’s point come across.”
The response in both Mr. Collins and Miss de Bourgh caught Elizabeth’s attention. Their stiffness, the brief flicker of discomfort in their gazes: This was not mere rhetoric on Lady Catherine’s part, rather, it was a reflection of practice at Rosings. How could someone be so vicious?
That night at the parsonage, as she lay in the bed she shared with Maria, Elizabeth could not help but overhear a conversation that was without a doubt not meant for her ears.
The night air, damp and restless, carried voices from the open window of the next room.
Mr. and Mrs. Collins, usually so guarded in their discussions, seemed to have reached the breaking point.
“I cannot stand her abuse any longer, Charlotte, I cannot!” Mr. Collins’s voice was strained and raw.
“Pray, do not distress yourself,” Charlotte said. “We must endure just a little longer. You have already written to the bishop requesting another parish. I am hopeful we shall be granted a new living soon enough.”
“I wish I could share your hope, my dear. I waited more than a year for a good vicarage. This one was offered to me suddenly, and with little recommendation, and I was imprudent enough to accept it without question. It seemed too good to be true, and now I understand why. What a fool I was! How could I not have seen it?”
Elizabeth turned her head towards the window, her pulse accelerating. Never had Mr. Collins spoken with such despair.
“You are not to blame, my dear.” Charlotte’s tone was gentle. “You could not have known.”
“But I am! My ambition brought us here. I was only a young curate eager to improve his station in life. I never imagined we would find ourselves ensnared in this wretched place.”
A gust of wind stirred the trees outside, masking part of Charlotte’s reply. When Mr. Collins spoke again, his voice was filled with barely restrained frustration.
“I cannot live under her tyranny much longer. I will not expose you to her mistreatment! God help me, wife, but I swear I shall lose my temper if she continues to torment us. I will not be responsible for my actions!”
“Hush! Do not say such things!” Charlotte chided him, her voice edged with concern. “If matters grow worse, I shall write to my father. . .”
The wind rose again, carrying their voices away. Maria’s muffled sobs broke the silence inside their room. She too had been an unwilling listener of her sister’s misfortunes and grief.
Covered to the chin by the counterpane, Elizabeth lay restless, her mind unsettled. Mr. Collins—so endlessly deferential, so absurdly devoted to Rosings and his patroness—had revealed a side of himself she had never imagined: that of a man utterly desperate, a man who saw no escape.
Had he been deceived? The whole idea unsettled her deeply. That Lady Catherine wielded power over Rosings and the parish was no surprise, but if she could orchestrate the placement of a vicar and silence a bishop’s response, how far did her influence truly reach?
A chill ran through her, and she shut her eyes tightly, unwilling to dwell on what else Lady Catherine de Bourgh might be capable of.
Despite her initial opinion of Mr. Collins, she condoled with him. He and Charlotte were trapped in a nightmare with nowhere else to go.