11. A Fault in Every Man
A Fault in Every Man
Mrs Collins was a strange creature, very unlike the Charlotte Lucas with whom Elizabeth had traded sly glances and confidences over the many years of their friendship.
Marriage changed a woman, grounding her with its responsibilities, but marriage to a stupid man of improper conceit had altered Charlotte by grinding away the very nature that had drawn Elizabeth to her as a young girl.
Never had Elizabeth imagined finding satisfaction with a husband whose worth was made greater by his absence.
Dinner at the great house of Rosings made clear the reasons for such altered behaviour.
Mr Collins had ceaselessly quoted Lady Catherine de Bourgh since his arrival in Longbourn the previous November.
Dining with the lady amidst Rosings’s ostentatious finery gave Elizabeth a deeper understanding of her cousin and greater sympathy for Charlotte.
She missed her old friend. The wry wit and warmth she had long known was gone, replaced with tension and hesitation.
Any woman who awaited her husband’s next social offence or ridiculous pronouncement would be so.
Would Jane’s gentle expression also have grown wary if she had to contend with a husband who dallied with his servants?
A fortnight after Elizabeth’s arrival at Hunsford, the two friends were in the home’s small parlour.
Charlotte was mending her husband’s shirt as Elizabeth sorted buttons.
Maria, who had spent the past half an hour in her bedchamber smoothing creases from a gown so that Lady Catherine might not frown upon it, burst into the room.
“Oh,” she cried, red-faced in excitement or fear—it was difficult for Elizabeth to say which. “Two men are approaching the house!”
“Two men?” Charlotte quickly stood.
Elizabeth wondered whether such a call was an unusual occurrence. It certainly was untimely, as Mr Collins had gone to Rosings after breakfast to ask Lady Catherine her thoughts about next Sunday’s sermon.
“They appear to be gentlemen!” Maria’s voice was pitched high, as if both the impending visit and the revelations she shared about it were the most singular event of her life.
With her place amid six sisters and brothers, being the sole possessor of prized knowledge was likely rather singular.
“Oh! The tall one may be the man who scowled when Lydia spilt her punch on my gown! Remember, at the ball?”
Elizabeth and Charlotte spoke in unison. “Mr Darcy?”
“Yes!” The girl turned to them, trepidation overcoming her shock. “Why has he come?”
“Thank goodness Mr Collins is not here,” Charlotte murmured.
Any amusement Elizabeth may have taken in her friend’s first slip of real feeling on her marriage was overcome by her own wonderment at Mr Darcy’s appearance at the parsonage.
Following Charlotte to the window, she saw Mr Darcy and a broad-shouldered gentleman, near to his age but far less handsome, entering the front path to the house.
Quickly stepping behind the curtain, she murmured, “He looks no less severe today than he did on that evening at your father’s house. ”
“Oh!” Maria cried, disappearing back up the stairs.
Half wishing to follow her, Elizabeth put away the loose buttons in the button bag and set it in the sewing basket. “Who is the other man, and why would they call here?”
After tucking Mr Collins’s shirt into her basket and setting it under her chair, Charlotte looked at Elizabeth with a familiarly wry expression, marked by a raised brow and a small smile.
“None of Lady Catherine’s relations, most particularly any of her eligible nephews, have ever called at the parsonage.
My husband will be grieved to have missed them, but I believe his company is not the purpose of their visit. ”
The teasing Charlotte had had at her expense in Meryton came flooding back to Elizabeth. “Mr Darcy cannot be pleased to know I am here and likely comes only to see—”
Her next words—“how I am tolerating the company of my ill-mannered cousin”—thankfully died on her lips as the parsonage’s sole maid announced, “Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, ma’am.”
Even Charlotte’s good manners and practised hostess skills could not dispel the awkwardness of such a call.
The gentlemen entered, and there he was, just as Elizabeth remembered him—tall and imposing, his presence filling the room with a quiet force.
Much as she wished, she could not ignore that he remained more handsome than seemed fair—for an unpleasant man to have looks, intelligence, and wealth was insupportable.
“I pray we do not catch you at an inopportune moment,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam after introductions were made.
He was a soldier in more than name, Elizabeth thought.
There was something rough about his countenance, a jutting chin and perhaps a once-broken nose, which she would not expect in the son of an earl.
She laughed at herself. As I have ever met but one, my authority cannot be overlooked.
As Charlotte replied to his question and ordered tea, Elizabeth could not but feel that it was she who had the attention of both gentlemen. Her expression shifted from amusement to discomfort, made more severe when Mr Darcy addressed her.
“It is good to see you again, Miss Bennet.”
Is it? He certainly did not appear to be pleased to see her. “Yes, and rather unexpected, I imagine,” she replied.
“A happy coincidence, I call it,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “My first visit to Rosings since last Easter, and I find not only has the parsonage gained an able mistress, but that she and the lady staying with her are acquainted with my cousin.”
Before she or Charlotte could reply, he went on in a way that proved him to be as garrulous as Mr Collins but ever so much more agreeable—and observant.
“Darcy and I are accustomed to amusing ourselves, as my aunt and cousin are not the most lively of beings. How fortunate we are to have fresh company and the prospect of interesting conversation during our visit here.”
Mr Darcy’s conversation, however, remained focused on the past. After receiving polite assurances that all the Bennets were well, he said, “You and your elder sister went to London soon after the ball, I believe?” Although his voice revealed only bland politeness, his dark eyes looked at her intently.
A surprising question! Why—how—would he know of our absence from Longbourn? Hoping to match his indifferent tone, Elizabeth replied, “As did your party, which preceded us to town. I am surprised you were aware of our comings and goings.”
If she had wanted to discomfit him, she could claim success.
He shifted in his seat and looked at the wall behind her, where there hung a hideous painting of Hunsford’s first patron.
Elizabeth understood the long-dead gentleman had been as dreadful in disposition as the scowling countenance shown in his portrait suggested.
“The servants who remained at the estate wrote to Bingley that Miss Bennet had left Longbourn,” Mr Darcy finally said.
“Their diligence speaks well of them. Meryton is prized for its conscientiousness,” Elizabeth said drily. She refrained from asking whether such communication was common between Mr Bingley and his servants. “Netherfield has been closed, has it not? Mr Bingley will not renew his lease?”
At this, the colonel—who had been enjoying Charlotte’s shortcake and observing them curiously—interjected. “Bingley proved unready to settle in the country, did he? Not enough amusements for him there, I wager.”
Mr Darcy glanced at him and replied in a sharp voice, “As is the case with many men and ladies, Bingley makes a decision quickly or not at all.”
Elizabeth was almost amused by Mr Darcy’s irritation with his cousin, but his response implied the answer to her question. Mr Bingley’s decision not to keep the lease on Netherfield had been made quickly, without care for the feelings of the lady whose heart he had engaged.
Did he take his red-haired dalliance with him to town or deposit her elsewhere?
Feeling Charlotte’s eyes on her, she busied herself with her tea. Mr Darcy, however, refused to be put off.
“Has your elder sister returned to Meryton?”
“Jane remains with my relations in London.”
His expression remained impassive. Briefly nodding, he said, “Bingley was in Scarborough but has returned to town as well, with his sisters and brother-in-law.”
She fidgeted her hands, unable to look at Mr Darcy. “It is unlikely our paths would have crossed in town. Mr Hurst has a house in… is it Grosvenor Square? The Gardiners are near Cheapside, close to my uncle’s warehouses.”
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Colonel Fitzwilliam give his cousin an odd look before he began asking questions of herself and Charlotte—the length of their friendship, the mischief they had created growing up in Meryton, the diversions they might enjoy while reunited in Kent.
Relieved by the change in topic, Elizabeth could feel Charlotte’s amusement as much as her own and was happy for the high spirits and merriment coursing through the parsonage. How rare laughter must be in this home!
If one man seemed content and able to make conversation wherever he went, the other appeared restless and bored. His eyes remained stubbornly on her for all of it.