Rosings Park
By the time Elizabeth left for Kent, Jane had learned to sign herself Jane Bingley without blushing every time, Mrs Bennet had repeated Mr Darcy’s appearance at the wedding until it had acquired at least five new significances, and Longbourn had returned, unwillingly, to the ordinary management of small complaints.
The small volume of Cowper travelled with Elizabeth. She had told herself, more than once, that this was sensible. A journey required a book. A visit to Mr Collins required several. That the folded slip of paper remained inside the cover was merely because she had nowhere better to put it.
She travelled with Sir William and Maria, in a carriage that Sir William filled almost entirely with his own satisfaction.
He spoke at length of Lady Catherine’s condescension, of the honour of dining at Rosings, of the gravel walks he understood to be very fine, until even Maria’s anxious attention began to wander towards the window.
Elizabeth let his voice become a kind of weather, present but not requiring her attention, and thought instead of everything she was leaving behind and everything she did not yet understand about what lay ahead.
London had taught her to watch, and Longbourn had required patience of her.
She did not yet know what Kent would require, only that Charlotte’s letters had carried, beneath their careful good humour, a tone Elizabeth had learned to recognise: words chosen with more care than the subject seemed to require.
“You are very quiet, Lizzy,” Maria said, the carriage having reached one of Sir William’s rare pauses for breath.
“I am only thinking.”
“Of London?”
“Of several things.” Elizabeth looked out at the passing fields, brown and bare under a sky that could not decide whether it meant to rain. “Kent, among them.”
Maria brightened immediately, grateful for any acknowledgment that her own anxieties were shared. “Charlotte says Lady Catherine has very strong opinions about the placement of furniture. I have been trying to remember not to move anything, in case I am asked.”
“That seems a wise precaution.”
“I do hope I do not disgrace myself.”
“You will not,” Elizabeth said, with more conviction than she entirely felt on her own account. “And if you do, I shall disgrace myself first, to draw her attention away from you.”
Maria laughed, surprised into it, and Sir William, catching only the laugh and none of its cause, took this as an excellent opportunity to resume his discourse on the superior quality of Rosings’ chimney-pieces.
The miles unspooled behind them. Elizabeth’s hand rested on the small volume in her lap without opening it. She did not need to. She knew already what was inside.
“Charlotte says I must not be afraid of Lady Catherine,” Maria said, for the third time since they had left Hertfordshire.
“That is excellent advice.”
“Yes, but Charlotte is never afraid of anyone. It makes her advice less useful.”
“It is often the difficulty with excellent advice,” Elizabeth said. “It is generally given by people who have already survived the thing in question.”
Maria considered this. “Then Charlotte’s advice about Mr Collins is very useful, because she survives him every day.”
Elizabeth laughed before she could prevent it.
Sir William, delighted to hear his daughter praised in any form, observed that Charlotte had always possessed an admirable steadiness of mind, and that her elevation into such distinguished neighbourhood could only improve qualities already very fine.
By the time they reached Hunsford, Maria had grown silent with anticipation, Sir William had exhausted only a portion of his reflections, and Elizabeth had formed no settled opinion of Kent beyond a conviction that it possessed a great deal of damp road.
The parsonage stood neat and modest, with the look of a house made comfortable by determined intelligence rather than natural advantage. Charlotte was at the door before the carriage had quite stopped.
She looked well and settled. There was a steadiness about her that Elizabeth had perhaps not understood at Longbourn.
“Lizzy,” Charlotte said, coming forward as soon as the step was let down. “I am very glad you are come.”
Elizabeth took her hands. “So am I.”
Behind Charlotte, Mr Collins appeared in the doorway with all the importance appropriate to receiving guests at Hunsford.
“My dear cousin Elizabeth,” he cried, “welcome, most sincerely welcome, to Hunsford. You find us, I hope, in excellent health and tolerable comfort, though I must say any comfort we enjoy is owing, in no small degree, to the gracious attention of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
“You are too kind, Mr Collins,” Elizabeth said, since some answer seemed required and none of the available ones were entirely true.
“Not at all, not at all. I consider it among my chief duties to acknowledge such condescension wherever it is felt, and I assure you, it is felt very constantly indeed.” Mr Collins beamed at the parsonage as though it had personally earned his approval by existing.
“But come in, come in. You must be wearied from the road, and Charlotte has had the rooms prepared this fortnight at least.”
“A fortnight,” Charlotte said, with the dryness Elizabeth remembered fondly from Longbourn, “though we did not know within a se’ennight when you would actually arrive.”
“Preparation,” Mr Collins said, undeterred, “is never wasted, my dear. Lady Catherine herself has observed that a well-ordered household anticipates its guests rather than merely receiving them.”
Sir William, descending from the carriage already prepared to be impressed, declared this a very fine sentiment indeed, and one he meant to repeat at the first opportunity.
Maria followed more cautiously, eyeing the neat front garden with the suspicion that it might already be reporting her conduct to Rosings.
Inside, the parsonage proved exactly what its exterior had promised: small, orderly, and arranged with a precision that bore Charlotte’s hand everywhere.
Shelves had been placed to advantage, as Jane’s letter had warned.
A window in the small parlour looked out, Elizabeth noted, directly onto the lane; positioned, she suspected, less for the view than for the early warning it would give of Lady Catherine’s carriage.
“Your room is just here,” Charlotte said, leading Elizabeth up a narrow stair while the gentlemen remained below, Mr Collins already deep in an account of the chimney-piece’s merits. “I am afraid it is small.”
“It is exactly the right size for someone who does not intend to be in it very much,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s mouth curved. “You have not even seen Rosings yet.”
“Do I need to, to know I shall prefer your garden?”
“You may say so now,” Charlotte said, opening the door to a neat, plain little room. “Wait until Lady Catherine has asked you four questions about your accomplishments and your father’s income in the same breath, and tell me again how little Rosings signifies.”
Elizabeth stepped inside. The room contained a narrow bed, a washstand, a chair by the window, and a table large enough for a candle and a book. It was small enough to be honest.
“Then I shall answer as well as I can, and disappoint her where I must.”
“That,” Charlotte said, taking Elizabeth’s bonnet, “is almost certainly what she expects you to do.”
Charlotte smiled, a little tiredly. “I did tell you she wished to see you.”
Elizabeth set her gloves on the table, then the Cowper beside them. Charlotte noticed the book. Her eyes rested on it for no longer than courtesy allowed.
“A serious travelling companion,” she said.
“It has already proved useful.”
“So have many serious things, though they are seldom amusing.”
Elizabeth smiled, grateful for the question Charlotte did not ask.
From below, Mr Collins’s voice rose through the floorboards, explaining, with great earnestness, that the garden gate had once been admired by Lady Catherine herself.
The next morning gave Elizabeth time to learn the parsonage: Charlotte’s garden, Mr Collins’s shelves, Maria’s nervous glances towards every passing wheel.
The servant from Rosings arrived before noon, and Mr Collins received the note with both hands and an expression of reverence usually reserved for scripture.
“My dear Charlotte,” he cried, “Lady Catherine expects us to dine this evening.”
Maria went pale.
Charlotte folded the note with calm precision. “Then we shall have all afternoon to prepare.”
Elizabeth suspected Maria would have preferred less time.
By evening, Maria had changed her ribbon twice, Mr Collins had revised his advice three times, and Sir William had declared himself prepared for every distinction Rosings could offer. They walked up to the great house under Mr Collins’s guidance, though the path was too plain to require any.
“There,” he said, pausing so they might admire it properly. “Rosings.”
Maria looked at Rosings with the uncomfortable air of someone undergoing an inspection.
Elizabeth took in the windows, the sweep of lawn, the weight of stone. “Well,” she said softly. “It is certainly determined to be seen.”
They were shown into a drawing room considerably larger than the whole of the parsonage put together, every surface in it arranged to suggest that Rosings had never once, in its history, needed to economise on anything.
Lady Catherine occupied the centre of it as though the room had been built around her rather than the other way about. She did not rise as they entered, but regarded them with the attention of an inspection already half-concluded.
Mr Collins performed the introductions with great solemnity.
“Your ladyship, may I present Sir William Lucas, Miss Lucas, and Miss Bennet, my wife’s particular friend, and sister to the new Mrs Bingley of Netherfield Park, whom your ladyship may recall I have mentioned, and my cousin.”
Sir William bowed with such thoroughness that Elizabeth feared for his back. “Your ladyship does my family the greatest honour.”
“Yes,” Lady Catherine said, accepting this as a statement of fact. Her eyes moved to Maria, lingered with faint disapproval on the ribbon, and passed on. They came to rest on Elizabeth and stayed there longer.
“So you are the sister,” she said. “Mrs Collins has spoken of you.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You are very young to have formed so many opinions.”
“I am not one and twenty, your ladyship.”
“Hm.” Lady Catherine received this as information requiring independent verification before it could be trusted. “My niece is a little younger. Clara.”
The young woman at her side rose at once, made her curtsey with perfect, practised correctness, and sat down again precisely when Lady Catherine’s small motion of the hand indicated she might.
“Miss Stourton,” Lady Catherine said. “My late husband’s niece. She is staying with me while her older sister is having her first season.”
“I am very glad to meet you,” Miss Stourton said.
She said it pleasantly and correctly, without warmth. Elizabeth had spent a winter learning to recognise that sort of care.
Lady Catherine noticed her interest at once. “You examine people closely, Miss Bennet.”
“Only when they are interesting, your ladyship.”
Mr Collins made a faint choking sound behind her. Miss Stourton lowered her eyes to her hands, though Elizabeth thought she saw the smallest movement at the corner of her mouth.
“That is either impertinence or sense,” Lady Catherine said. “I have not yet decided which.”
“I shall endeavour to give your ladyship sufficient evidence.”
“Very well. Sit down. I dislike people standing about as if they are waiting to be useful.”
Mr Collins obeyed so quickly that his chair scraped. Miss Stourton moved slightly to make room for Maria, who sat with visible gratitude and immediate terror.
“You are lately from Hertfordshire,” Lady Catherine said to Elizabeth.
“Yes, your ladyship.”
“And your eldest sister has married Mr Bingley.”
“She has.”
“A young man with fortune and little judgement, I am told.”
“He has judgement enough to value my sister,” Elizabeth said.
Sir William looked delighted by the reply. Mr Collins looked as though he wished to apologise for it on behalf of the entire parish.
“That is a sister’s answer,” Lady Catherine said.
“It is also a true one.”
“And you approve the match?”
“Entirely.”
“Then either he is wiser than I have heard, or your sister is more fortunate than many pretty young women.”
“My sister is fortunate,” Elizabeth said. “So is Mr Bingley.”
Lady Catherine gave a short sound, which might have been approval if one were generous. “Affection is very well in its place. It is a poor substitute for sense.”
“Then I am glad they have both.”
Mr Collins shifted in his chair. Miss Stourton looked at Elizabeth again, more openly this time.
Lady Catherine noticed that too. “Clara, attend. Miss Bennet is demonstrating the danger of answering quickly.”
Clara folded her hands. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Marriage is often spoken of as fortune,” Elizabeth said. “I hope your daughter has found it so.”
The room altered, though no one moved.
“My daughter is well settled,” Lady Catherine said.
“I am glad to hear it.”
“She is settled because she was taught to know her own mind, eventually.”
The last word came dryly enough that Miss Stourton looked down. Elizabeth heard more in it than pride. She heard loss, and perhaps a lesson learned too late.
“You know my nephews, I believe,” Lady Catherine said.
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled in her lap. “I have met Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes. They are expected at Easter.”
Mr Collins made a sound of reverent pleasure. Maria looked alarmed. Miss Stourton looked suddenly interested.
Lady Catherine watched Elizabeth through all of it.
“Then you will have acquaintances in Kent, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “So it would seem, your ladyship.”
“Hm.” Lady Catherine leaned back. “Darcy is not easily acquainted with.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I had observed as much.”
Miss Stourton lowered her gaze.
“Have you?” Lady Catherine asked.
Elizabeth smiled politely. “Your ladyship asked whether I knew him.”