Prologue
“You shouldn’ta done that.”
Elizabeth Bennet, standing next to an old well, startled.
In truth, she had been rather lost in thought, and was insensible not only to where she was, but to the fact that a lady had come to stand beside her.
She was a peasant woman of indeterminate age, wrapped up in a multitude of coarse shawls, her broad face unremarkable and placid, and she spoke in emotionless accents.
“Oh! My apologies. Is this your well?”
“The lady don’t like things be thrown in her well.”
“The lady? Oh you must mean Lady Catherine de Bourgh. This is her well then?” Elizabeth flushed, regretting her impulsive actions as much as the anger which preceded them. If only Mr Darcy were not such an…an aggravating man! This was his fault!
Last night Mr Darcy had offered marriage to her in what had to be the most insulting, rude manner possible. They had argued bitterly, and she had told him exactly what she thought of him, and he had quit the parsonage as rapidly as he had arrived. She had assumed that would be the end of it.
Alas, no. Instead he had appeared on her morning walk, proffering a letter.
She had taken it without thinking; when he walked off, she told herself she would not deign to read it and would consign it to the fire.
Then she decided she would just read a little of it, only to find a sentence which had enraged her even beyond that anger with which she had greeted his proposal to her.
The part which I acted is now to be explained.
– His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London.
– We accordingly went – and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.
– I described, and enforced them earnestly.
“Certain evils?” Elizabeth had fumed as her steps became stamps. “Jane, who is all that is good and kind, described as a certain evil?”
It was too much to be borne, and when the old well conveniently presented itself, she felt possessed of a fit of pique. Quick as that, with no chance for reason to assert itself, she crumpled his letter into ball and tossed it in. “May certain evils be brought down on your head, Mr Darcy!”
She had stood then, watching it disappear below an inky surface, already repenting of her actions.
After all he had written a good bit, and for the sake of satisfying her curiosity, she wished she had finished reading it.
Then again, she reasoned, he could have nothing to say which would not further enrage her, so perhaps it was for the best that she had not continued reading.
And now here was one of the villagers come to scold her for it. She forced a smile through her dismay. “I beg your pardon, Madam. I intended no harm. I…it was only a page. It could not have done much harm.”
“Was it a letter from your lover?” The woman asked. “A suitor who had done you ill?”
“Oh no.” Elizabeth laughed, uneasy as much as amused. “No, no. Not a lover. Never a lover.”
Except he did love her, did he not? He said he did. Surely he had not meant it. Surely no man who loved a woman would refer to her beloved sister as a certain evil, would he?
The woman’s strange grey eyes were fixed upon her.
“Well…he did say he loved me, but he was not my lover. Not really. In fact, not at all! To be sure, he did offer for me, but I could not… He…ah, he insulted me grievously and disdained my family so much that he injured my dearest, most beloved sister. His pride, his selfishness—” She stopped, recognising how ill-judged it was to continue abusing the nephew of Lady Catherine right on Rosings’s lands.
“Suffice it to say that I really do not even much like the man, much less love him.”
In any case, the woman had begun to act.
She took two steps forwards, and peered down into the well.
She whispered something Elizabeth could not quite make out.
Elizabeth watched, caught between horror and fascination as the woman extended her arms wide and continued to whisper, the volume of her voice rising and taking on a keening pitch, as her body swayed and her arms rose above her head.
It was disconcerting, to say the least. Was the lady mad? Elizabeth backed away slowly.
“If you will excuse me, ma’am,” she said. “I fear I have been gone too long from the parsonage house. My cousin is the parson there, Mr Collins? Do you know him?”
She hoped, rather than believed, mention of a man of God might stop whatever nonsense was going on in this woman’s mind. The last thing she wished for was some madwoman to pretend witchcraft in front of her own eyes!
“I had best be returning to the parsonage,” she said loudly. The woman did not seem to notice. “They will be expecting me. The reverend. And his wife. Good day, ma’am.”
She turned, first walking away in a very sedate, nonchalant manner, but as soon as she could, once she was out of sight of the lady, she began to run.
To see the parsonage appear down the lane brought no little relief. She reached up a hand to tidy her hair and then straightened her bonnet on top of it, willing her respirations to slow while she did so. It would not do for Charlotte to notice her consternation.
Alas, her consternation was due to increase, for she entered to find the house in an uproar.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood in the middle of Charlotte’s parlour issuing orders to whomever she saw.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was offering his opinions to her, which seemed to be ignored.
Mr Collins fluttered and flustered about, wringing his hands, and Charlotte calmly instructed one of the maids to do something Elizabeth could not make out.
“Charlotte? What is happening?”
Charlotte came to her, sighing. “Oh Lizzy, it was so very terrible. Mr Darcy and the colonel came to take their leave of us. Mr Darcy left almost immediately, but the colonel remained for half an hour. When he was nearly ready to leave, word came that Mr Darcy had suffered an accident, and that it seemed he may have broken his leg.”
“Broken his leg!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “How did such a thing happen?”
Charlotte shook her head. “It makes no sense to any of us, including Mr Darcy. He is in a great deal of pain, of course, but even before the laudanum took effect, he said he could not account for it. One moment he was walking the path, and the next, an enormous branch from one of the great elms crashed down upon him, pinning his leg beneath it and breaking it.”
“Oh no,” said Elizabeth, thinking uneasily of the strange lady. “That sounds very serious!”
“It is,” Charlotte said gravely. “We have called Anne’s physician from Westerham. Lady Catherine, of course, would like him moved, but?—”
“Moved? You mean Mr Darcy is here?”
“We were closest,” said Charlotte. “And we have that room on the back of the house, the one that was meant as a breakfast room but which the old parson made over into a room for the visiting curates. It suited very well, particularly as the men carrying him did not need to take him up the stairs.”
“It suited the men well, but what about you? You cannot wish to be dancing attendance upon Mr Darcy.”
“Eliza.” Charlotte gave her a censuring look. “This is what parsons’ wives are meant to do. Care for the ill of the parish. I am honoured to be able to care for Mr Darcy, and he is welcome for as long as he needs to be here.”