Chapter 20 #2
The door opened, and Jane crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed, her hand hovering for a moment before settling lightly at Elizabeth’s wrist, as though she were unsure whether contact would be welcome.
“You left supper so suddenly,” Jane said. “Mama is quite vexed—and Mr Collins was—well, very attentive afterward.”
Elizabeth huffed, then winced faintly at the sound. “I am sure he was.”
Jane studied her face. “Is it your head again?”
Elizabeth considered denying it. The effort required seemed greater than the truth. “Only a little,” she said. “It is nothing.”
“You said that at Netherfield.”
“Yes, and I was correct. I survived the experience.”
“You look pale. And you have been so quiet these past days. I thought you were better.”
“So did I.” Elizabeth turned onto her side, propping her elbow beneath her. “Jane, truly, there is nothing to be done. I am tired. That is all. Supper was long.”
“And Mr Collins?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes… carefully. “Is eternal.”
Jane’s lips curved despite herself. “Papa asked me to come and see you.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, then dug her fingers into her eyes. “Did he?”
Jane nodded. “He would like you to come down when you feel equal to it.”
Elizabeth sighed and let her head fall back against the pillow. “I suppose I am to be set down for my behaviour at dinner.”
“I doubt it. He did not seem displeased. Only… concerned.”
Elizabeth sat up. The movement brought a faint echo of pressure, but nothing like before. She pressed her fingers briefly to her temple and then dropped her hand, determined not to invite further scrutiny.
“I am quite able to go downstairs,” she said. “I do not require a tribunal.”
Jane smiled, though her eyes remained watchful. “It is only Papa.”
“That,” Elizabeth said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, “is precisely the difficulty.”
Jane rose to give her room. “Shall I come with you?”
Elizabeth shook her head and reached for her shawl. “No. If I require an audience, I shall request one.”
Jane hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But if you feel unwell again—”
“I shall retreat with dignity,” Elizabeth said, standing. “Or at least with speed.”
Jane laughed softly and stepped aside as Elizabeth passed her, though she did not look away until Elizabeth had reached the door.
The corridor beyond was quiet. Elizabeth paused there a moment, letting the air out of her lungs. The pressure behind her ears, under her eyelids, did not return. She drew a careful breath and made her way downstairs.
Papa’s library held a haze of dust and something faintly resinous from the fire. Elizabeth had always liked the room best in the evenings, when it seemed to withdraw from the rest of the house and become its own quiet territory.
He was standing at the shelves when she entered, with one hand braced against the bookcase, and several volumes already pulled free and stacked on the table behind him.
She recognised them at once—not by title, but by association.
The books he had sent to Netherfield. The ones she had returned with thanks and no questions.
She had not realised until this moment that he had kept them together.
“Shut the door, if you please,” he said mildly. “Your sisters are inclined to believe any conversation behind a threshold belongs to them by right.”
Elizabeth did as he asked. The latch clicked softly into place.
“Sit,” Papa added, nodding toward the chair by the desk.
She obeyed, though she did not settle easily.
Papa turned then and regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. Not with alarm. Not with indulgence. Simply with attention.
“You left the table in some haste,” he said. “Was that deliberate, or did you miscalculate?”
Elizabeth considered the question. It was framed as though either answer would be acceptable.
“I miscalculated,” she said at last. “The conversation proved… longer than I had anticipated.”
“Hm.” Papa reached for one of the books and opened it without looking at the title. “You have endured worse.”
“I have,” Elizabeth agreed. “But not recently.”
That earned a faint lift of his brows. “Was it fatigue? Or merely irritation?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She disliked both options equally. “I thought it was fatigue. At first.”
Papa nodded, as though she had answered a different question entirely. He closed the book and set it aside, then picked up another, this one thinner, its spine creased from age rather than use.
“You were unwell at Netherfield,” he said. “And then you were not.”
“Yes.”
“And now you are again.”
Elizabeth frowned despite herself. “I did not say that.”
“No. You did not.” He gestured toward the stack of books. “These were gifts, but you returned them to me.”
“I did.”
“Did you read them?”
“I only cracked one of them. I was not equal to reading. But there was another I fancied very much, and I should like to attempt it again if you do not object.”
Papa chuckled. “My dear, I never asked you to return them. I would rather you read them all, many times if you pleased.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Indeed? Then I shall start with that small one, the one with the silly rhymes and ballads that you found in Meryton.”
Her father passed her the book and watched her thumb the pages without comment. After a moment, he asked, “What was that about at supper?”
Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “Tonight was… a little conversation-heavy.”
He smiled then, briefly. “Yes. Your cousin has that effect.”
She exhaled. “It is not merely him.”
“Is it not?”
She shook her head. “He speaks of other people’s importance as though it were his own. He repeats things—about Mr Darcy, about Lady Catherine—as though repetition itself grants authority.”
“And does it?”
Elizabeth thought of the way the pain had sharpened. Of how abruptly it had arrived.
“No,” she said. “But it demands attention.”
Papa’s mouth puckered a fraction, but then he seemed to dismiss some notion or other. He returned one of the books to the shelf, then stopped, his hand resting there as though he had misplaced the next thought.
“Forgive me,” he said lightly. “I may be misremembering. Supper conversations tend to blur into one another.” He glanced toward her. “When Mr Collins spoke this evening—before you left—do you recall what he was saying?”
Elizabeth frowned. “He was saying a great many things.”
“Yes,” Papa agreed. “But which of them proved intolerable?”
Elizabeth scoffed. “What did not? And why are you asking?”
Papa shrugged. “It is only that sometimes you appeared scarcely able to abide your own skin. Other moments, you looked rather engaged in the conversation. I was only wondering if the conversation itself was the cause for your discomfort or if it was something more transitory.”
“When have you ever heard of such a thing as the topic of conversation causing someone physical pain?” she retorted.
Papa chuckled. “Humour me, if you please. What was Collins saying when you were in the greatest discomfort?”
She considered. The question was uncomfortably precise.
“He spoke of Lady Catherine,” she said at last. “Of her views. Her guidance.” She paused. “And of Mr Darcy.”
Papa’s brows lifted a fraction. “At the same moment?”
“No,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Not at first.”
He waited, tapping his thumb on a book spine.
“When he spoke of Mr Darcy’s estate,” she continued, “or of Pemberley itself, I was… irritated, perhaps, but no more than usual.”
She searched the memory again, unwilling to trust it too easily. “I could still follow him.”
Papa nodded once, encouraging without approving. “And then?”
“And then,” she said, feeling suddenly foolish for the care with which she chose her words, “he began to speak of what Lady Catherine expected of Mr Darcy. Of how his conduct ought to reflect her authority.” Her fingers tightened together in her lap. “That was when I could no longer sit there.”
Papa was silent for a moment. He slid the book back onto the case, then paced round his desk. “At Lucas Lodge,” he said finally, “you were already unwell before we arrived, and displayed some considerable discomfort until you had situated yourself in the room.”
“Yes.”
“And Mr Collins was speaking then, too.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Do you remember what he was saying immediately before you put your hand to your ear?”
She hesitated. The memory sharpened against her will.
“He was speaking of Lady Catherine again,” she said. “At least… I think so. He speaks of little else.”
“What about her?”
Elizabeth squinted. “Of her interest in certain important affairs. Of how fortunate it was that such influence was exercised so… attentively.”
“So…” Papa’s brow furrowed, and he began to pace. “I wonder if it is not Mr Collins himself.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“… Nor his voice, grating as it is. Nor even his personal manner, though I do wonder at his welcome in the home of anyone of sense.” He tapped the spine of the booklet once against the desk. “It is expectation, voiced as authority.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “That is absurd.”
“Quite possibly,” Papa replied. “But it is at least a consistent absurdity.”
She laughed. “I do not see how my head could possibly object to such a distinction.”
“Nor do I. Which is what makes it interesting.”
“Oh, come, now!”
“You did not leave the table because Mr Collins was tedious,” he continued. “You endured him long past that point. You left because something in his manner crossed a line you could not ignore—even if you did not yet know where that line lay.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, unsettled not by the conclusion, but by how closely it matched her own unarticulated experience.
“I am not imagining this, Papa.”
Papa met her gaze. “I should be very surprised if you were.”
He moved to the sideboard and poured a small glass of wine, which he set within her reach without comment. “Elizabeth,” he said gently, “you are not prone to dramatics. You do not retire from supper lightly. And you do not complain of headaches as a rule.”
She wrapped her fingers around the glass, trying to soothe herself with the cool of it. “And what am I to do?”
Papa considered her for a moment, then said simply, “Pay attention.”
“I can hardly do otherwise,” she snorted as she lifted the wine glass.
“And do not allow anyone else,” he added, “to tell you what a thing means before you have decided whether it exists at all.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. That, at least, was advice she could trust.
Even if it still made no sense.