CHAPTER EIGHT
Hunsford
Charlotte Collins had arranged Hunsford Parsonage so that a husband might occupy it without occupying all of it.
Mr Collins possessed the front study, where he could observe Rosings through one window and the road through another. Charlotte kept the small back parlor overlooking the garden. The distance between them was not large, but it was sufficient for peace.
"He is happier when he believes every improvement his own idea," Charlotte told Elizabeth on the second morning of her visit. "I am happier when the improvement exists. We have therefore developed a useful method of conversation."
They walked between early rows of peas. Maria Lucas followed with a basket, listening solemnly.
"And are you happy?" Elizabeth asked.
Charlotte considered rather than offering reassurance. "I am secure. I am useful. Mr Collins consults me more often than he did when we married, and Lady Catherine has discovered that I can hear advice without obeying every syllable. Happiness visits. I do not demand that it occupy every room."
Elizabeth wished for more and knew the wish belonged to her.
"He treats you well?"
"Yes. Your father's conversation with him before the wedding had lasting effect. Mr Collins remains convinced that Sir Thomas may review his conduct in the same manner as the settlement."
Mr Collins returned from a parish call carrying two account books and a detailed grievance about the sexton. The complaint ended when he noticed Charlotte flexing fingers reddened by the cold garden air.
"My dear, you said yesterday that the chill settled painfully in your hands." He moved her chair away from the draught, laid his own wool gloves beside her workbasket, and rang for hot broth. "The sexton can remain mistaken until tomorrow."
Charlotte thanked him without astonishment, suggesting that such consideration had become familiar. Elizabeth lowered her eyes to her sewing and revised, by a small degree, what she believed possible within her friend's marriage.
Elizabeth laughed. "Papa would be horrified by his influence."
"Your father is a useful terror."
Lady Catherine summoned them to Rosings before noon.
She received Elizabeth with the curiosity due a specimen of known but questionable origin.
"So you are Sir Thomas Bennet's second daughter. I remember your father before his elevation. He spoke very little at a dinner in town."
"Papa often speaks least when he is least impressed."
Charlotte bent over her work. Maria looked terrified.
Lady Catherine's eyes sharpened. "You have courage."
"I have been told so."
"And presented at last. Why were you delayed? Illness? Some deficiency in preparation?"
"I chose to wait for my sister."
"Young women do not ordinarily choose the timing of such matters."
"In my family, we sometimes do."
Lady Catherine questioned her about masters, accomplishments, dowry, and royal invitations. Elizabeth answered what courtesy required and declined the rest with a smile.
"Your father has no son," Lady Catherine said. "Netherfield will pass according to the terms of the grant?"
"To whichever of his daughters he designates by will, or in equal shares if he does not. Longbourn remains entailed upon Mr Collins."
Mr Collins bowed from his chair as if the entail were an accomplishment.
"Five women cannot manage one estate," Lady Catherine declared.
"Then it is fortunate we have been taught arithmetic."
Charlotte coughed into her handkerchief.
The arrival of Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam three days later altered every visit.
The colonel called at the parsonage within an hour of reaching Rosings. Darcy accompanied him, though Lady Catherine had surely not commanded such haste.
Elizabeth sat near the window with Charlotte when the gentlemen entered. Darcy's gaze found her immediately.
"Miss Elizabeth. I did not know you were in Kent."
"We arrived last week."
"How long do you remain?"
"Nearly a month."
Relief flickered in his face. "I hope Hunsford is comfortable."
Mr Collins launched into praise of the chimneys. Darcy endured it while Colonel Fitzwilliam seated himself near Elizabeth.
"My cousin has spoken of nothing but drainage since the drawing room," the colonel said. "Your father has ruined him for ordinary conversation."
Darcy looked offended. "I mentioned it once."
"At breakfast, again during the journey, and when we crossed the stream."
Elizabeth smiled. "Papa will be gratified."
Darcy's eyes warmed at having earned it.
He called again the next morning alone. He sat for twenty minutes, spoke to Charlotte about the parish, asked Elizabeth whether she preferred Kent to Hertfordshire, and left having explained nothing of why he came.
"He is in love with you," Charlotte said when the door closed.
Elizabeth stared. "He spoke six sentences."
"Five were to you."
"Mr Darcy is often silent."
"Not with his eyes."
Elizabeth turned toward the window. Darcy crossed the garden path without looking back.
"He admires me," she admitted. "Or did in London."
"And you?"
"I do not know."
That was the difficulty. She had known when she disliked him. She had known when anger over Jane demanded distance. But he had admitted fault, aided Bingley's return, welcomed Mary to Georgiana, and looked at Elizabeth as if her wit were not performance but invitation.
She had also not forgotten Wickham, though Sir Thomas's inquiries had raised grave doubts.
The documents confirmed the three-thousand-pound settlement.
Colonel Fitzwilliam's letter described debts and dishonesty.
Yet some part of the story remained hidden, and Darcy's secrecy made room for suspicion.
At Rosings, Darcy's aunt displayed the world that had formed him. Lady Catherine interrupted, judged, instructed, and called it benevolence. Darcy sometimes resisted her; sometimes he fell silent with the habit of long practice.
One evening Lady Catherine insisted Elizabeth play.
"You will find my instrument superior to Mrs Collins's. Darcy, move that screen. Miss Elizabeth, sit straight."
Elizabeth played tolerably and without Mary's feeling. Darcy stood near enough to turn pages.
"You mean to frighten me," she said softly, "by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister plays so well."
"I know you find great enjoyment in professing opinions which are not your own."
She looked up. "And you find great enjoyment in discovering them?"
"Only yours."
The page beneath her fingers blurred for one beat.
Lady Catherine called from across the room, "What are you saying to Miss Elizabeth, Darcy?"
"That she plays with expression."
"She would play better if she practiced."
Elizabeth finished the piece. Darcy's hand rested upon the edge of the pianoforte near hers, not touching. When she rose, the distance between their bodies was improper only in sensation. She stepped aside.
The colonel joined her the next day on a walk through the grove. He spoke of younger sons, army expenses, and Darcy's character.
"He takes prodigious care of those he loves," he said. "Sometimes more care than they request."
"Mr Bingley might agree."
The colonel glanced at her. "Ah. You know."
"That Mr Darcy separated my sister and Mr Bingley? Yes."
"He rejoices in their engagement now."
"Repentance is useful after damage. Less useful before it."
"You are severe."
"Jane cried."
Colonel Fitzwilliam's expression sobered. "Then perhaps not."
They returned to find Darcy waiting at the parsonage gate. His gaze rested upon Elizabeth's face, then moved to his cousin with unmistakable unease.
That evening he came again.
Elizabeth was alone. Charlotte and Maria had gone to the village, and Mr Collins dined at Rosings to assist with a list of chimney repairs. Darcy entered, learned the circumstances, and ought to have departed.
He did not.
For several minutes they spoke of Jane's wedding plans. Then silence expanded.
Darcy stood. He walked to the window, turned back, and looked at Elizabeth with an intensity that made her heart strike once against her ribs.
"In vain I have struggled," he said. "It will not do."
Elizabeth's hand tightened on the book in her lap.
He took one step toward her.
"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
Every uncertainty became still.
* * *
Darcy spoke for several minutes before Elizabeth understood that he expected gratitude.
His love was plain. So was the struggle preceding it.
He described the inferiority of her connections without calling them inferior, the recent origin of her family's consequence, Lady Bennet's want of quiet, the entail that left Longbourn to Mr Collins, and the objections of relations who valued ancestry beyond royal favor.
He praised Sir Thomas, then made the praise another obstacle overcome.
"Your father's conduct and stewardship command my respect," he said. "Yet Netherfield has belonged to your family only a decade. My duty to Pemberley, to Georgiana, and to the expectations attached to my name required consideration. I have considered. I can resist no longer."
He stopped before her.
His face held hope, fear, and a confidence so deeply rooted he did not recognize it.
Elizabeth rose because she could not refuse him while seated beneath his gaze.
"In such cases as this, I believe the established mode is to express a sense of obligation," she said. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears. "If I could feel gratitude, I would thank you. But I cannot accept your proposal."
Darcy stared.
He had prepared for emotion, perhaps hesitation. Not refusal.
"You cannot?"
"No."
Color drained from his face and returned in a hard line across his cheekbones. "May I ask why I am rejected with so little effort at civility?"
Elizabeth's hurt ignited.
"I might ask why, with so evident a design of offending me, you chose to say you liked me against your reason, your character, and the judgment of everyone connected to you."
"I spoke honestly of difficulties that would have existed whether named or not."