Chapter Seventeen #2
Darcy held her gaze. “You mistake distraction for reflection.”
“On what?”
“On the dangers of overinterpretation.”
Bingley chuckled. “You see? Perfectly himself, Caroline.”
Darcy nodded once, as if to seal it. “Exactly.”
He took up his glass again, posture composed, expression schooled—every inch the man at ease among friends, engaged in the pleasant business of an evening well-spent.
And if his attention strayed, if his replies came a heartbeat late, if his thoughts refused to settle—
Well.
No one could be blamed for that.
Miss Bingley’s voice drifted across the room—some speculation about what she might wear, a remark on the tiresome habits of neighbouring families who thought calling weekly was the norm—and Bingley, who was now canvassing the subject of a menu for the ball with such enthusiasm that it required no effort at all to let it pass around him rather than through him.
Darcy stood near the mantel, one shoulder braced against it, glass untouched in his hand. He nodded when expected. He smiled when politeness demanded it. He even answered once or twice, briefly, with enough presence of mind to avoid remark.
The knock at the door was sharp enough to cut through conversation without apology. Bingley turned at once. “Good Lord—what now? We are not besieged, are we?”
The footman entered with unusual haste, crossing directly to Darcy without waiting for invitation. “A letter for you, sir. By express.”
Darcy set his glass aside. “From whom?”
“Your steward, sir. At Pemberley. The messenger did not stay for a reply.”
He did not open it at once. He turned slightly away from the hearth, unfolding the page with deliberate care, his posture composed even as his eye moved rapidly across the hand he knew as well as his own.
Sir,
I beg leave to trouble you with a matter that has arisen in the ordinary course of estate management, and which I would not press upon your attention were it not, in my judgment, time-sensitive.
Our stores remain sufficient for the present, though they have begun to draw down more quickly than anticipated.
In seeking to supplement them, I have made inquiry among our usual correspondents in Derbyshire and the neighbouring counties, only to find that many report shortages comparable to our own, and some far worse.
Requests that in other years would have been answered readily have met with delay, apology, or refusal.
It has been mentioned to me—indirectly, and with some caution—that Hertfordshire did not suffer the same deficiencies this season. I do not know whether this is mere optimism born of rumour, or a fact grounded in account, but the suggestion has arisen more than once.
As you are presently in that county, and in company with Mr Bingley of Netherfield, I thought it prudent to ask whether there is any truth to the report, and if so, whether it might be possible—discreetly—to ascertain whether a limited arrangement could be made before wider notice is taken.
I would not wish to invite attention where none is needed, nor to impose upon hospitality, but it seems wise to consider the matter while the opportunity remains quiet.
I await your direction, and remain, as ever,
Your obedient servant,
Nigel Granger
Impossible.
Darcy read the letter again.
Then again.
Miss Bingley’s voice intruded faintly. “Is everything quite all right, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy folded the letter, but his gaze had grown muzzy, distant.
Bingley had risen now. “Darcy?”
He looked up. For a moment, he considered saying nothing. Of treating the matter lightly—of dismissing it as a steward’s over-caution, the sort of anxious accounting that always followed a middling harvest. It would be easy enough. Comforting, even.
Instead, he found he could not.
“A matter for tomorrow, I daresay. No doubt some accounting error—Bingley and I may investigate it tomorrow.”
Miss Bingley tilted her head. “You cannot mean here at Netherfield? I assure you, Mr Darcy—”
He slid the letter into his pocket. “My steward writes that supplies are drawing down faster than expected. He has been attempting to secure additional grain and finds that very few counties have any to spare.”
Bingley’s expression sobered at once. “I had heard the harvest was poor in places, but—”
“So had I,” Darcy said. “I did not suppose it was so general.”
“And yet,” Bingley said slowly, “you speak as though this concerns us.”
Darcy met his gaze. “It may. There are… reports now circulating abroad that Hertfordshire did not suffer in the same way. And there is truth to it, for Mr Bixby told me that your stores were nearly overrun this year.”
Miss Bingley laughed. “Really, Darcy, one would think we were sitting on a dragon’s hoard.”
“I would prefer,” Darcy said, “that we not discover whether that is how it will be described.”
Bingley frowned. “Do you mean to suggest—”
“I mean only that attention, once drawn, is not easily redirected,” Darcy replied. “And that generosity, when misunderstood, can become obligation.”
Bingley was silent now, considering. At last, he said, “You think people will come asking.”
“I think,” Darcy said, after a moment, “that they already are.”
“My dear Mr Hill, are you certain? Oh! Mr Bennet, he is here! Mr Collins… oh, look at that carriage—why, he must have a wealthy patroness, indeed. You said nothing of that, my dear. Jane! Where is Jane? Kitty, stop hovering—Lydia, do not run—Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth looked up from the book she had been pretending to read and exchanged a glance with Jane.
“That,” Jane said mildly, “sounds decisive.”
“That,” Elizabeth replied, closing the book, “sounds inevitable.”
Papa appeared in the doorway at that moment, eyes alight with the quiet delight of a man who sensed excellent sport approaching. “Ah, there he is. Two minutes early, for I should have expected no less.”
Mama was already at the door, peering through the glass nearby. “There he is! Mary, my dear, put down that book, for you must be ready to receive him. Elizabeth, you will attend as well. Kitty—Lydia—where are you?”
Lydia skidded into the room, nearly colliding with Kitty. “Is he young?”
“Is he handsome?” Kitty demanded at the same time.
Papa smiled benignly. “He is, I believe, neither. But he is quite determined to be admired nonetheless.”
Mr Collins entered as though making a presentation to a committee.
He was tall, solemn, and dressed with conscientious respectability, his coat brushed smooth and his expression arranged into something he clearly believed conveyed humility.
He bowed—deeply—then straightened with a faint air of relief, as though pleased to have executed the manoeuvre without mishap.
“Mr Bennet,” he said, advancing a step as he drew off his hat. “It affords me the greatest satisfaction to make your personal acquaintance at last.”
Papa inclined his head, amused already. “Mr Collins. You are very welcome to Longbourn. I trust your journey was tolerable.”
“Entirely so, sir. Entirely. I am most grateful for your willingness to receive me, particularly given the long interval that has, regrettably, passed between our families.”
Mama leaned forward, glowing. “We are delighted, I assure you. A cousin! And in holy orders! Pray, let us have your coat and come into the drawing room. You must sit—Jane, Elizabeth—”
Mr Collins turned then, evidently becoming aware that the room contained additional persons. His gaze passed over the assembled Bennets with careful neutrality, as though unwilling to hazard a guess.
“These,” Papa said mildly, “are my daughters. I shall spare you the trouble of learning all their names at once.”
Mr Collins bowed again, slightly less deeply, but with renewed solemnity. “Ladies. I am honoured.”
Jane returned the courtesy, and Elizabeth followed—though a faint pressure stirred just behind her temple, brief and unwelcome.
She dismissed it at once as the lingering consequence of too much movement too soon.
Mary inclined her head gravely. Kitty and Lydia performed something between a nod and a stare.
“I hope,” Mr Collins continued, folding his hands, “that my arrival does not impose upon your arrangements. I am most anxious that my visit should be conducted with perfect propriety.”
Papa gestured toward the chairs. “You find us at leisure, Mr Collins. Pray, sit.”
Mr Collins did so carefully, as though seating himself were a moral act requiring deliberation.
Mama clasped her hands. “And you must be quite fatigued after your journey. Tea shall be brought at once.”
“Tea would be most welcome,” Mr Collins said earnestly. “Lady—”
He stopped himself, coughed lightly, and resumed with visible effort. “That is to say—refreshment is always restorative after travel.”
Papa’s eyebrow rose a fraction.
Elizabeth, watching closely now, felt the distinct sensation of a sentence postponed rather than abandoned.
Tea arrived in a flurry of cups and polite fussing, Mama presiding with particular satisfaction as Mr Collins accepted his cup as though it were a sacrament.
“I am much obliged,” he said gravely. “Nothing fortifies the constitution so reliably as a properly conducted domestic table.”
Papa murmured something agreeable and leaned back in his chair.
Mr Collins cleared his throat. “I ought, perhaps, to begin by explaining the circumstances under which I have undertaken this visit,” he said. “Not merely as a relation, but as one whose position places him in a certain—ah—responsibility toward the family.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused halfway to her saucer. A faint pulse stirred at her temple again—there and gone before she could do more than notice it. She resumed the motion at once.
Mama brightened at once. “Responsibility! How very considerate.”
“Yes. Indeed.” Mr Collins inclined his head, pleased to be encouraged. “I am, as you know, in holy orders—and it is in that capacity that I enjoy the singular advantage of serving as rector to a most distinguished patroness.”
Papa lifted his teacup. “Ah.”
Mr Collins’s chest expanded. “Yes, I had the honour of writing of her to you, Mr Bennet, but I would very much like to indulge your family with the magnanimity of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. The name meant nothing—and yet Collins had spoken it as though it ought to. The pressure returned, no stronger than before, and she shifted slightly in her chair, attributing it to the stiffness of sitting so long after illness.
Mama, never one to leave a silence unused, leaned forward. “And Lady Catherine is—?”
“A lady of rank, fortune, and the most elevated sense of propriety,” Mr Collins supplied at once. “She resides at Rosings Park in Kent, where her benevolence is felt far and wide. Her interest in the moral improvement of those beneath her care is both constant and comprehensive.”
Papa’s mouth twitched. “Indeed! And such a person has taken an interest in your humble self, sir? Why, that is indeed a boon.”
“I am fortunate,” Mr Collins continued, warming to his theme, “to enjoy her guidance in all matters of conduct. Few men are so privileged as to receive instruction so… personally delivered.”
Mary leaned forward. “Does Lady Catherine take an interest in theological discourse?”
“Oh, most ardently,” Mr Collins replied. “Indeed, she frequently condescends to offer suggestions—not merely upon sermons, but upon household arrangements, decorum, and the proper regulation of family life.”
Mama looked faintly awed. “How very kind.”
“Yes,” Papa said. “Condescension is a rare gift.”
Mr Collins nodded and set down his cup carefully. “Precisely. It was at her encouragement that I resolved to renew acquaintance with my cousins. Family harmony is a subject she esteems greatly.”
Papa inclined his head. “A noble sentiment.”
“Quite.” Mr Collins hesitated—just a moment too long—then continued with visible restraint. “There are… connections, you see. Associations of some significance.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to his face. The faint ache returned once more, sharper only in its persistence, and she pressed her lips together, determined not to indulge it.
Connections to what?
Mr Collins seemed to feel the question pressing upon him from all sides—and resisted it, with a very great flourish. “But,” he concluded briskly, “such matters are best discussed when all parties are properly present. It would be quite premature to speak at length.”
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her teacup.
Mama, however, was already nodding. “Of course. One must never be premature.”
Mr Collins relaxed, satisfied. The explanation—postponed, not abandoned—settled into the room like a wrapped parcel set carefully aside. Tea was not going to be the most exhausting part of his visit.