Chapter Five Doubts and Interrogations
THE SMALL, NEAT PARLOUR of the Hunsford parsonage was, for a brief hour, peaceful.
Mr Collins had departed to inspect a leaning fence post at the edge of his property, viewing the task with the gravity of a general surveying a compromised fortress.
Sir William was resting his eyes in his bedchamber, and Maria was in her own chamber, attempting to pen a letter to her mother without spilling ink on her cuffs.
Elizabeth and Charlotte sat opposite one another at a small table, engaged in the domestic task of untangling and sorting a box of ribbons Charlotte had purchased from a travelling pedlar the day before.
The ribbons were a riot of cheerful colours—rose pinks, canary yellows, and cerulean blues—that were at odds with the imposing gloom that characterised the nearby Rosings Park.
"I think the blue for your new muslin, Charlotte," Elizabeth mused, winding a length of silk around her fingers.
"It will bring out the clarity of your eyes.
Though I dare say, if we were to take our fashion cues from Lady Catherine, we ought to trim all our gowns in ermine and gold fringe, regardless of the season. "
Charlotte smiled, a knowing expression that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I shall stick to the blue, Lizzy. I fear gold fringe might clash with the wallpaper, and Mr Collins would be forced to redecorate the entire room to accommodate my hem."
Elizabeth laughed. "A narrow escape. We must be ever vigilant against inciting a decorative disaster.
" She paused, her mind wandering back to the bizarre events of the previous days.
"Though speaking of crises, I am still attempting to unravel the mystery of the gentlemen's behaviour yesterday.
Colonel Fitzwilliam is a delight, naturally.
But Mr Darcy! To actively encourage your husband's dissertation on chimney masonry...
I am convinced the man is attempting to punish us all for the crime of breathing Kentish air. "
Charlotte's hands stilled over a spool of green ribbon. She looked at Elizabeth, her expression uncommonly serious. "Has it not occurred to you, Lizzy, that Mr Darcy's strange behaviour might spring from a different source than pride?"
"Different source?" Elizabeth snorted, tossing the blue ribbon into a neat pile. "What else could it be? Indigestion? An allergy to pleasant company?"
"Admiration," Charlotte said.
Elizabeth stared at her friend for a full three seconds before bursting into a peal of laughter.
"Admiration! Oh, Charlotte, you are too good.
Admiration! The man looks at me as though I am a stain on his carriage wheel.
If that is his method of demonstrating admiration, I shudder to think how he treats his enemies. "
"He treats his enemies, I imagine, with indifference," Charlotte pointed out reasonably, resuming her winding. "He does not ignore you, Lizzy. Quite the opposite. He observes you. Constantly. Even when you are engaged in conversation with the Colonel, Mr Darcy's attention is fixed on your face."
"He is waiting for me to breach some obscure point of etiquette so that he might report me to his aunt," Elizabeth said dismissively, though a strange, uncomfortable flutter stirred in her chest. "Besides, Charlotte, you know his character.
You know the history with Mr Wickham. A man who could so callously ruin the prospects of his childhood companion, abandoning him to poverty out of jealousy—such a man does not have the capacity for genuine admiration. He only has consequence."
Charlotte sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a pragmatic woman dealing with a romantic one.
"I only know what Mr Wickham has chosen to tell the whole of Meryton, Lizzy.
And while he is a very handsome, charming man, it is perhaps not the most prudent course to take the word of a disgruntled party as gospel without hearing the defence. "
"The defence is written in Mr Darcy's haughty silence," Elizabeth countered fiercely, her loyalty to Wickham flaring.
"And it is not only Wickham. I have my own suspicions, Charlotte.
Suspicions that grow heavier by the day.
I firmly believe it was Mr Darcy who orchestrated the separation of Charles Bingley and my sister Jane.
He was always whispering to Bingley at Netherfield, steering him away, looking down on my family. "
Charlotte tied a neat knot at the end of her ribbon. "Charles Bingley is a grown man, Lizzy. He has five thousand a year and his own free will. He cannot be physically stuffed into a sack and dragged to London against his wishes."
Elizabeth bristled. "He is easily influenced! Darcy preyed on his malleable nature."
"Perhaps," Charlotte conceded calmly. "But if a man is truly in love, he does not vanish because his friend suggests the roads in Hertfordshire are muddy.
If Mr Bingley left, he either chose to leave, or he was convinced by arguments he found sound.
A grown man cannot be dragged. There must have been a reason, Lizzy. "
Elizabeth opened her mouth to issue a passionate rebuttal, but the words died in her throat.
The ribbon slipped from her fingers, pooling on the table.
Charlotte's logic pierced straight through the centre of Elizabeth's indignation.
Was it possible Jane's heartbreak was not the work of a villainous puppet-master?
Was it possible Bingley's own doubts had played a part?
She looked down at her hands, troubled. If she was wrong about how Bingley had been persuaded... was it possible she was wrong about other things as well?
Before Elizabeth could delve too deeply into the uncomfortable chasm Charlotte had just opened, the parlour door swung open.
Sir William ambled into the room, thoroughly refreshed from his nap, followed closely by his daughter Maria, who scurried to a chair as if she feared being intercepted by a predatory footstool.
"Ah, the ladies are engaged in industry!" Sir William said jovially, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. "A delightful sight. It puts one in mind of the industrious weavers of Spitalfields, though naturally, your work is of a much more refined, elegant nature."
"We are untangling ribbons, Papa," Charlotte said with a placid smile. "Hardly the stuff of industry."
"Nonsense, my dear Charlotte, nonsense! Every task undertaken with grace is a marvel.
" Sir William wandered to the window, peering out over the parsonage garden to the distant tree line of Rosings.
"And with this view in front of me, I must confess my admiration for the gentleman who resides at Rosings. A very fine young man, that Mr Darcy."
Elizabeth's spine stiffened. "Mr Darcy, Sir William? Fine?"
"Indeed, indeed!" Sir William nodded vigorously towards the glass pane.
"He is a most gentleman-like man. He has a certain gravity, a solemnity that speaks of consequential thought.
He may lack his cousin's dash and easy banter, but he has the bearing of a statesman.
One could easily envision him at St James's, conferring with ministers of the Crown. "
"I am afraid I must disagree with your assessment, Sir William," Elizabeth said, striving to keep her tone polite but failing to mask the fierce edge in her voice.
"A man may have all the gravity in the world, but if he lacks the basic manners to speak amiably to his neighbours, his consequence is of little use to anyone but himself. "
"Oh, yes, I agree," Maria squeaked from her corner, nodding her head so fast her curls fluttered. "He is very disagreeable. So tall and frightening."
"Now, now, Miss Elizabeth," Sir William said, turning from the window with a paternal, forgiving smile.
"You judge him too harshly. A man of his fortune and station must naturally maintain a certain reserve.
It is expected. Why, a gentleman with ten thousand a year cannot chatter like a magpie! He is a very fine figure of a man."
"Oh, yes, a very fine figure indeed!" Maria reversed course, nodding just as vigorously. "Very handsome. If only he would not scowl."
Elizabeth took a breath, preparing to launch into a spirited defence of affability over wealth, when the hallway door flew open with such force that it rebounded off the wall.
Mr Collins stood on the threshold, his face a mask of trembling horror. He clutched his hat to his chest as though trying to staunch a mortal wound.
"Do my ears deceive me?" Mr Collins gasped, his voice trembling with absolute scandal. "Is it possible that within the hallowed walls of my own parsonage, the nephew of my esteemed patroness is being subjected to... to critique?"
"We were discussing the gentlemen's differing temperaments, Mr Collins," Elizabeth said dryly.
"Temperaments! To speak of the nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh with anything less than reverence is a moral failing of the highest order!
" Mr Collins marched into the room, his eyes wide with conviction.
"Mr Darcy is a paragon of virtue! A beacon of aristocratic perfection!
If he chooses to remain silent, it is only because his thoughts are too elevated, too magnificent for common ears!
I must insist—nay, I must demand—that his name be spoken here only in tones of gratitude for his existence! "
Elizabeth bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, fighting the urge to dissolve into hysterical laughter.
Even Sir William looked taken aback by the clergyman's zealous defence.
Charlotte picked up another ribbon, unbothered, as though her husband's outbursts were as natural and unavoidable as the rain.
THE UNIVERSE, IT SEEMED, had a wickedly ironic sense of humour. Scarcely had the parsonage recovered from Mr Collins's morning sermon on the divinity of Mr Darcy when the afternoon brought the man himself to their door.