Page 5

Elizabeth was beginning to regret ever having accepted the invitation to visit the Collinses in the first place, despite the grandeur of their association with a fine estate. She and Charlotte had been good friends for years, but Elizabeth had lately come to realise that she really had never known her at all. How could Charlotte stand this life she had chosen? Indeed, she seemed to encourage her husband’s adulation of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Rosings Park’s mistress, almost as if she, too, were fascinated.

How desperately Charlotte had wished for a home of her own, Elizabeth had never appreciated. To want it enough to listen to Mr Collins wax on and on about his ‘patroness’ and her magnificence—especially when one could no longer make a joke of his silliness—was intolerable. True, Charlotte did not spend many hours a day with him, but neither did she seem to find his manner mortifying.

The circumstances were especially awkward because Mr Collins had first proposed marriage to Elizabeth herself; a few days after receiving her rejection, he had made a similar proposal to her friend. Charlotte was able to act as though this had never happened; Mr Collins was not quite so indifferent. He seemed unable to resist attempts to poke at Elizabeth, reminding her of all she had ‘lost’ in refusing him. Charlotte never seemed to hear.

Why did I come?

Worst of all, Mr Collins now boasted that her ladyship was soon to be joined by her illustrious nephews, one of whom was none other than Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.

It was the same Mr Darcy, in fact, whose insults towards herself during his time in her neighbourhood in Hertfordshire had been repeated and laughed over by several of the young ladies competing for his notice. Not that she was one of them—indeed, she would almost prefer to wed Mr Collins.

Hyperbole, Elizabeth, her conscience warned. Nothing could be worse than being tied for life to the pudgy, ridiculous, resentful Mr Collins. Even being alone for the rest of it, possibly living in the hedgerows, seemed a better choice.

Elizabeth’s future, unluckily, was a vast unknown, and it very likely depended upon the largesse and goodwill of her host and hostess. Mr Collins was not only her cousin; should anything happen to her father, he was the heir of her family’s estate, and she, her mother, and her four sisters, who had almost no settlement of which to speak, must rely upon his generosity.

He was not a particularly generous man.

Now, with Mr Darcy’s pending arrival, the visit—already tedious—had spilt over into ‘unpleasant’. Nevertheless, she must continue to be polite, cheerful, and good company for Charlotte. The future of her entire family might depend upon it, and she had already hurt them enough with her refusal to marry Mr Collins. She did look forward to the distraction of this evening’s dinner, but wondered—would Lady Catherine be arrogant and rude, like her nephew?

From the entrance hall, about which Mr Collins pointed out with a rapturous air the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an antechamber, to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and a Mrs Jenkinson, the daughter’s companion, were seated. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them, and introductions were performed.

Elizabeth saw some resemblance to Mr Darcy in his aunt; her ladyship might once have been handsome, but there was a masculinity to her features which detracted from anything like beauty. She turned her eyes on the daughter—and nearly gasped.

Miss Anne de Bourgh, pale, petite, murmuring quietly to her companion and appearing as though she would rather be anywhere else in the world, was not unfamiliar. Elizabeth had never known her name, but although it had been nearly six years since she had last seen her, she was unlikely to ever forget the young lady she had rescued from a seedy alley off Fleet Street.

Elizabeth’s first feelings were an overwhelming relief; she had never known, of course, whether the woman had reached her uncle and safety. Plainly, she had.

But then, the rescued lady fully faced the company, and Elizabeth saw her moment of recognition. Miss de Bourgh’s eyes widened, and skin already pale faded to an unnatural whiteness.

“And may I introduce my good friend visiting from my former home in Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Charlotte said, having already presented her father and sister.

Elizabeth did her best to keep her expression impersonal. Lady Catherine opened her mouth to say something.

Miss Anne de Bourgh fainted dead away.

Something close to pandemonium ensued. Lady Catherine, forgetting to be useful, panicked, shrieking for Mr Collins to do something—and if ever there was a man whom one would not wish to be in charge of managing a crisis, it was Mr William Collins. He began fanning Miss de Bourgh with his handkerchief, flapping his arms and cavorting around her in a most impractical manner. Mrs Jenkinson was likewise flustered, torn between her twin desires to avoid Mr Collins’s flailing arms and to join the fallen lady on the floor. Sir William Lucas and Maria could only gawp. It was Elizabeth who instructed a nearby footman to lift the poor girl onto a settee, while Charlotte managed to encourage Mr Collins to subside. Mrs Jenkinson, vinaigrette in hand, once able to approach without danger of an elbow to the eye, treated her charge with sal volatile, and the lady’s eyes soon opened. The apothecary, a Mr Oaks, was sent for. Elizabeth tried to stay out of sight of the fallen woman.

“Lady Catherine, you cannot wish for company at such a time,” Charlotte said. “We will go now, and the visit can wait until after news of improvement comes from Mr Oaks.”

Such was Lady Catherine’s distraction, she barely noticed their leave-taking.

“A truly disappointing evening,” Mr Collins said, as they walked the short distance across the park to the parsonage. “I was so looking forward to the turtle soup.”

“Yes, indeed,” Charlotte agreed, with absolute sincerity. “I heard there was to be lamb’s brain.”

“What delicacies!” Sir William marvelled. “It is evident that Lady Catherine’s table would have rivalled any meal served at the Court of St James’s.”

Only Maria appeared relieved at the departure, but even she bemoaned leaving before being allowed to see the dining room. “Mr Collins said the plates are rimmed in real gold, and Lydia would have been quite jealous to hear of me eating off golden plates.”

Elizabeth wondered what was wrong with them all.

CHAPTER FOUR

AN UNWELCOME VIEW OF THE PAST

Anne stalked across the well-appointed sitting room which adjoined her bedchamber. She had finally convinced Jenkinson to leave her alone—no easy task—and had the freedom to pace, instead of lying abed, pretending to be ill with a megrim.

Elizabeth Bennet. The name rattled about in her brain, demanding the recall of memories she had tried so, so hard to forget, to lock away behind a sealed door in her mind and never think about again.