Chapter Twelve The Easter Sunday Skirmish
THERE WERE CERTAIN days in the Christian calendar designed to evoke peace, reflection, and the joyous triumph of the spirit. However, Easter Sunday at the Hunsford parsonage had missed the memorandum.
The morning began not with the solemn pealing of church bells, but with the pacing of Mr William Collins.
Elizabeth sat at the breakfast table, a half-buttered scone suspended in her hand, watching the vicar traverse the faded rug.
He was in a froth, attempting to simultaneously rehearse an overwrought Easter sermon and the grace of “unparalleled eloquence” he had vowed to deliver over Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s soup that evening.
“For we are granted a new dawn, a glorious resurrection of the spirit,” Mr Collins intoned to the sideboard, gesturing with a piece of bacon.
“Much like the unparalleled condescension that raises us from the humble dust of our daily toil to the dizzying heights of the Rosings dining room! Oh, Mrs Collins, does ‘dizzying’ sound too informal? Perhaps ‘staggering’? ‘Staggering heights of condescension’?”
“I am sure Her Ladyship will be appropriately staggered, Mr Collins,” Charlotte replied placidly, pouring coffee without spilling a single drop.
Beside Elizabeth, Sir William Lucas was polishing his shoe buckles with a napkin, his face shining with jovial anticipation. Maria Lucas was in a flutter over whether her pink sash was too worldly for the day, her giddy energy colliding with the vicar’s anxiety.
Elizabeth retreated into the sanctuary of her own mind. She reached into the pocket of her morning dress and touched Jane’s letter that had been delivered late Saturday evening, but was handed to her this morning by the servants.
She had waited until the relative safety of the morning chaos to break the seal, hoping the noise would mask her reaction. She smoothed the pages on her lap under the table, shielding them from Mr Collins’s line of sight.
She had expected a gentle, mournful reply to her own prodding letter regarding Mr Bingley. She had expected Jane to excuse him, to claim that his sisters were at fault, and to preach forgiveness.
Instead, Elizabeth read the opening lines, and the blood drained from her face.
My Dearest Lizzy,
I find that my reserves of understanding are depleted.
Elizabeth stopped breathing. Jane never depleted her reserves of understanding. Jane could find a redeeming quality in a plague of locusts.
Your letter struck a chord that has been humming in my breast since my arrival in London.
I have spent the last four months defending a man who did not possess the courage to court me.
You are correct. A man who can be blown away from his own affections by a cold wind and a whispering sister is not a man I can rely upon for a lifetime.
I do not wish him ill, Lizzy, but I find I do not wish him well, either. I simply do not wish for him at all.
It was a devastating coldness, frightening Elizabeth far more than any cruelty ever could. If gentle, angelic Jane Bennet had reached the shores of anger, the wound ran unimaginably deep.
Aunt Gardiner has been a marvel, the letter continued, the handwriting becoming hastier.
And we are overwhelmed by our social engagements.
It seems the London theatre district is exceedingly illuminating.
I find that gentlemen who speak their minds, rather than smiling amiably at everything, are superior company.
We expect you in London shortly, Lizzy. I find I need you here to help me laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Elizabeth folded the letter, a complicated knot of fear and pride tightening her chest. The Bingley ghost was officially exorcised, it seemed. Jane was surviving, but the pleading in the final sentence—I need you here—tugged at Elizabeth’s conscience. She was needed in Gracechurch Street.
“Cousin Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth jolted, shoving the letter back into her pocket. “Yes, Mr Collins?”
“You are pale,” the vicar observed, his brow furrowing in profound concern, while chewing thoughtfully his bacon.
“You have scarcely touched your scone. I understand, of course. The prospect of dining at Rosings Park is enough to induce a physical tremor in the uninitiated. But you must not let your awe of Her Ladyship’s grandeur rob you of your sustenance! ”
Elizabeth stared at him, deploying every ounce of her willpower to prevent hysterical laughter from erupting.
“You are very astute, Mr Collins,” Elizabeth lied, masking her turmoil with a performance of solemn gravity. “I am overwhelmed by the prospect of the evening.”
“Fear not!” Mr Collins beamed, patting his chest. “I shall guide you through the protocol. You need only follow my lead!”
If I follow your lead, Elizabeth thought, I shall end up face down on the carpet worshipping a soup tureen.
THE WALK TO THE HUNSFORD church was accomplished in a brisk, biting April wind. The parsonage party settled into their modest pew, and minutes later, the Rosings contingent arrived in a flurry of velvet, expensive cologne, and aristocratic mass.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh took her place in the proprietary pew, less a parishioner and more a visiting monarch inspecting a newly acquired colony.
Behind her filed the cousins.
Elizabeth kept her eyes firmly on her prayer book, but the gravitational pull of Fitzwilliam Darcy was impossible to ignore. He sat at the end of his pew, breathtakingly handsome in a severe Sunday coat.
When Mr Collins ascended the pulpit, the true comedy began.
The sermon was a theologically convoluted nightmare. Mr Collins managed to weave the concept of resurrection, the humility of the flock, and the munificence of Lady Catherine’s charitable donations into a single narrative.
“For just as the heavens bestow the rain upon the humble earth,” Mr Collins boomed, gripping the edges of the pulpit, “so too does the great house on the hill bestow its patronage upon us! A patronage that lifts our spirits, much like a newly installed expensive glazing upon a windowpane!”
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Beside her, Charlotte did not flinch, but Elizabeth could feel the suppressed tremor in her friend’s shoulder.
Unable to help herself, Elizabeth let her gaze drift across the aisle.
She met Darcy’s eyes instantly. He was already looking at her and did not look away. Instead, his lips twitched, and he offered a distracting smile that made Elizabeth’s heart skip a few beats.
She rapidly snapped her gaze back to her prayer book, her cheeks burning with a fiery heat. She was being actively courted in the middle of a church service, under the nose of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by a man who had previously declared her tolerable.
The universe was undeniably mad.
THE INTERVAL BETWEEN the church service and the grand dinner at Rosings Park was tense and full of anticipation.
Back at the parsonage, Sir William Lucas had surrendered to the luncheon and was napping in an armchair, emitting a whistling snore. Mr Collins was pacing the hallway, muttering his grace under his breath, while Maria agonised upstairs over whether her muslin gown was too rumpled.
Elizabeth found a quiet moment in her bedchamber. She stood by the window, looking out over the meadow, when the door clicked open and Charlotte stepped inside.
“The letter is secure, I presume?” Charlotte asked.
“The letter is safe,” Elizabeth assured her, turning away from the window. She sighed, the weight of the morning pressing down on her. “Though I received another missive. From Jane.”
Charlotte moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Is she well?”
“She is angry,” Elizabeth confided, her voice dropping to a halting, troubled whisper. “Charlotte, Jane is angry. She wrote of Mr Bingley with a coldness I have never seen in her. She is done with him and... she needs me in London.”
Charlotte absorbed this information, her sensible eyes narrowing as she thought of the implications. She did not offer empty platitudes because she heard exactly what Elizabeth was not saying.
“Then it is a good thing you are leaving soon. Jane is moving forward,” Charlotte observed. “Which leaves you free to do the same without the burden of resentment.”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands. “It changes things. My foundation for hating him was built upon Jane’s broken heart. If Jane’s heart is healing, and her anger is directed at Mr Bingley’s own weakness... what am I left with?”
“You are left with a man who loves you,” Charlotte stated plainly. “A man who has spent the last weeks invading my parlour just to watch you mend a hem. You have been humming, Lizzy. For three days, you have hummed while you walked the lanes.”
Elizabeth flushed. “I am enjoying the spring air.”
“You are enjoying the ‘renovations’,” Charlotte said, smirking. “Tell me honestly. How are the foundations of Pemberley faring?”
Elizabeth let out a short, defeated laugh. She sat down next to her friend, the tangled truth spilling over. “The foundations are solid, Charlotte. The current owner is showing an excellent aptitude for taking instruction. He smiled at me in church today. And... It dismantled me.”
Charlotte’s pragmatic fa?ade cracked, revealing all the affection she held for her friend. “So, the marble is not so cold after all?”
“No, not at all.” Elizabeth giggled, admitting it aloud for the first time. “He is kind, he is fiercely loyal, and he is at my mercy.”
Charlotte laughed and patted Elizabeth’s knee, her voice dropping into a satisfied drawl. “Ten thousand a year, Lizzy, and now a conscience too? It is almost too much good fortune for one family to bear.”
“Do not count the income yet, Charlotte. We still have to survive dinner with his aunt.”
THE WALK FROM THE PARSONAGE to Rosings Park was conducted with the solemnity of a procession to the scaffold.