Chapter 46 #2
Her expression cooled rather than sharpened. “You have been speaking with Lord Matlock, I perceive. He has always had an unfortunate habit of mistaking antiquarian curiosity for authority.”
Darcy did not answer.
“The Liber held at Rosings,” Lady Catherine continued, “is the most accurate and most carefully preserved version in existence. It was copied under direct oversight, not left to the whims of scholars who prefer speculation to stewardship. It is unambiguous on this point.” She leaned forward slightly.
“The centre is where continuity has been maintained. Where responsibility has been inherited and upheld. Not in counties given over to fluctuation and neglect.”
“Hertfordshire is not neglected.”
“No,” she replied. “It is indulged. That is far worse.” She drew a measured breath. “Too many hands. Too many opinions. Too much interference from persons who mistake proximity for influence. That is precisely how disorder is allowed to masquerade as necessity.”
“And who has given you this impression?” Darcy asked. “Surely not I.”
“Do not play ignorant with me, Darcy,” she scoffed. “I know very well you have dallied with that adventuress from Hertfordshire. Her arts and allurements—”
Darcy stepped menacingly toward her. “You have no business slandering a lady who is so entirely unconnected with you.”
She straightened, her face blanching in some horror.
“You already defend her! You see, you see what your carelessness has wrought! You invent meanings where none exist. Miss Bennet’s removal has already clarified the matter.
What you perceived as consequence will resolve itself in her absence.
What remains is your obligation to place yourself where judgment is not clouded. ”
She rose then—not in anger, but with the assurance of a matter settled. “You will come to Kent, Darcy. We shall see this put right before further imprudence invites comment.”
It was only when Darcy did not move, did not agree, did not even incline his head, that her composure faltered. He stared back at her, unblinking, watching her expectation crumble into silent rage.
Her voice cooled. “I see,” she said at last.
She gathered her shawl with a whirl and a hiss of dismay. “You have refused my counsel. Very well. I shall know how to act.”
The morning light at Ramsgate was gentler than she had expected.
Elizabeth sat near the window with her sewing laid across her lap, the needle resting idle between her fingers.
The sea beyond the glass moved with a steady, almost deliberate calm, as though it had been instructed to behave itself.
She found that reassuring in a way she could not have explained.
The air carried salt and something faintly metallic, and though the windows were shut against the breeze, she felt it along her skin all the same.
Her father and Jane were speaking behind her in tones meant to be discreet. They had not mastered discretion well enough to escape her notice.
“I think,” Papa was saying, “that we may congratulate ourselves. She looks—” He paused, as though selecting the least dangerous word. “—considerably restored.”
Jane murmured assent. “She has colour again. And she slept. I was so worried that in taking her from London she might…”
Elizabeth smiled faintly to herself and kept her eyes on the stitching, which had gone crooked where she had last tried to guide it. The needle tugged once, not sharply, but with a small insistence, as though it wished to be elsewhere. She tightened her fingers around it until the sensation passed.
“It was the right decision,” her father continued, more quietly now. “Distance has done what proximity could not.”
Jane hesitated. “I only wish we could be sure it has done the same for him.”
Mr Bennet gave a soft huff. “Darcy? If he was the cause, then his absence must be the cure. And if he was not—” He stopped, then added lightly, “—well, I am content not to speculate further.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze steady on the seam. The fire in the small grate gave a low, companionable sound as it settled into coals. She had noticed earlier that it had burned higher when she first entered the room, though no one had stirred it. She had said nothing. She would continue to say nothing.
Jane moved closer at last and touched her shoulder. “You are very quiet.”
“I am conserving my strength,” Elizabeth replied. “It seems a shame to squander it so soon after its return.”
Her father laughed, brief and genuine. “A sensible resolution, if ever I heard one.”
“And a rare one,” Jane added, smiling. “You will abandon it by luncheon.”
“Almost certainly,” Elizabeth said. She glanced between them. “Still, I cannot help but regret missing Mary’s wedding.”
Papa grimaced. “I regret only the sermon.”
“Papa!” Jane scolded.
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “I am sorry to miss Mary’s happiness,” she said, after a moment. “But I confess I am not inconsolable at being spared Mr Collins’s raptures.”
Jane laughed, then pressed her lips together. “You are both dreadful.”
“And entirely unrepentant.”
Papa shook his head, amusement and something more wistful crossing his face. “Your sister will forgive you. She always does, though I doubt you deserve it.”
Elizabeth lifted a shoulder. “If I deserved it, it would not be forgiveness.”
The room fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that settles only after shared laughter has passed. Elizabeth returned her attention to her sewing. The needle slid smoothly now, obedient beneath her fingers. The thimble at her hand shifted a fraction closer, though the table had not been disturbed.
She stilled her hand at once, the faintest prickle running up her arm. The fire gave a soft, sudden pop in the grate, and for an instant she had the curious sense that the room was listening.
Papa drew out his watch and squinted at it, holding it closer to the light. “Mary ought to be walking up the aisle about now.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes on the window. The sea was unchanged. Calm. Proper. She drew a slow breath and told herself there was nothing required of her at this distance, nothing she could do but wish her sister well.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that she wore the new lace Mama insisted on for her? I do hope she carried the blue handkerchief I made for her… a pity I was unable to finish embroidering it.”
Jane crossed the room and touched her hand. “She will be very happy.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said. The words sounded correct.
A sensation had begun beneath her ribs, small at first and easily mistaken for restlessness.
She shifted in her chair and tried to return to her sewing, but the needle slid oddly against her fingers, as though it resisted the path she set for it.
The feeling spread, not pain, not weakness, but an insistence without direction, like an itch that could not be reached.
She set the work aside and folded her hands in her lap, willing herself to be still.
Papa was speaking again, some gentle speculation about how Mary would find the weather at Hunsford, when the pressure sharpened. Elizabeth’s breath shortened without effort, her chest tightening as though the air itself had thickened. She stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping.
“Elizabeth?” Jane cried.
The fire leapt from the hearth.
Not a settling flare, not a wandering spark, but a sudden, violent surge out of the grate, tongues of flame snapping forward as though drawn.
Heat struck her skirt, and she cried out, the sound torn from her before she could stop it.
She stumbled back, slapping at the linen as it smoked and caught, the sharp sting of singeing cloth biting through the layers.
Jane was there at once, hands flying, beating at the flames with her shawl. “Hold still—Papa!”
Papa was already moving, gone in a rush toward the kitchen. Elizabeth fought the urge to bolt, stamping and striking at the fire with clumsy hands, the room tilting as the pressure inside her spiked and scattered.
Her father returned with a kettle and flung the water on her. Steam burst up around her, the flames dying at once, the skirt sagging heavy and dark. Elizabeth gasped, soaked through, shivering now as the sudden heat gave way to cold.
For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of their breathing.
Then the kettle wrenched itself from Papa’s grasp.
It lurched across the narrow space between them, metal screaming against air, swinging toward her head with a violence that stole what breath she had left.
Jane cried out. Papa swore and caught at it, barely managing to wrench it aside before it struck her in the head.
The kettle clattered to the floor and skidded, rocking wildly before settling at last against the hearth.
Silence fell again, broken only by the crackle of damp coals and the harsh rhythm of Elizabeth’s breath.
Jane’s hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. “Are you hurt? Elizabeth—are you burned?”
Elizabeth looked down. The skirt was ruined, blackened, and torn enough that she had to clutch it closed with one hand. Her skin, where she could see it, was unmarked. She nodded once, though she was not certain what she was answering.
Papa came closer, his face drawn and pale. “My dear… you are bleeding.”
She raised her hand to her face and felt wetness there. When she drew her fingers back, they were streaked red. No one had touched her. No one had struck her. The blood had come all the same.
Elizabeth stared at it, her heart hammering, the room very still around her, and thought dimly that whatever had been building had not passed at all.