| |
The road to Rosings was a familiar one to Darcy, although it had been some months since he had last traversed it. He paused. It had a year or more, not merely months! How time proceeded to fly when he was kept busy and away from his familial responsibilities. It pained him, then, to acknowledge how lax he had been in visiting his aunt. Lady Catherine might not appear frail, but surely she must feel his absence. His and Richard’s both, if she now sought to summon them hence.
The memory that his cousin would be at Rosings as well cheered him. And Anne, too! It would be just as it had been when they were as children. Another thought assailed him and he grimaced. It would not be entirely as it had been when they were as children. He remembered, now, why he had been so eager to avoid visiting Rosings alone, and why it had been easy to find reasons to remain absent from his aunt’s direct circle. Lady Catherine had made no secret of her intention to match Darcy with her own daughter, and whilst Darcy thought fondly of his cousin Anne he was in no hurry to marry her. Nor to marry anyone! Another memory teased him, but he ignored it, refusing to be drawn on the flash of dark hair and bright eyes that persistently seemed, to him, to find some amusement in any situation.
The carriage drew within sight of the great house at Rosings, and he forced his attention back to the present. It would serve him ill not to greet his aunt with his wits about him, and he hurried down from his seat, barely allowing the carriage to slow sufficiently for him to disembark. He did not pause to greet the de Bourgh staff, either, suddenly feeling the energy to meet his aunt and get it over with, even if in other circumstances he might be considered rude for doing so. He slowed only to listen, and the sound of his aunt’s voice was easily discernible within, so he traced the quickest route to her parlour. At the doorway, he paused, rearranging his features into an approximation of a smile and drew a preparatory breath, before rapping lightly on the door and pushing it open.
“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine was rarely surprised, and it gave Darcy a perverse flash of pleasure to see her momentarily ill at ease. She recovered herself quickly, though, and lifted a stern glance to some point over his right shoulder. “Were you not met? How came it that you were able to simply stroll into my home without being announced? I ought to -”
“Be calm, Aunt,” he said, dropping a penitent kiss on her cheek. “The fault is mine. Your staff hurried to greet me, but I quite overtook them, in my eagerness to be indoors. I fear I have left them to my luggage, but I wished to see you and Anne, and had already driven such a distance I could not be prevailed upon to wait still longer, for the sake of politeness.”
This was uttered in such a state of mannerly contriteness that Lady Catherine was suitably mollified, and swatted at his head as if he was still a child and not a grown gentleman.
“Oh, you! Stand back, and let me look at you. It has been so long since last I laid eyes on you that I am surprised to recognise you at all!”
There was an unmissable note of criticism in these words, but as it was not unwarranted, Darcy let the barb pass with no comment but a contrite bow.
“I am here now, Aunt, and pray you will forgive my not coming sooner. There has been much to contend with in settling Georgiana, and -”
“Yes, and running around the countryside with that dreadful Mr Bingley!” Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed. “Do not think I am so easily deceived, Fitzwilliam. I have been well informed of your doings of late.”
Darcy frowned, wondering who had been quick to tell tales, and, sensing his befuddlement, Lady Catherine quite rejoiced in informing him of the identity of her spy.
“I believe you met my Curate, Mr Collins, during your stay in Hertfordshire.”
Mr Collins! Of course. Darcy had quite forgotten the odious little fellow resided on the very outskirts of Rosings and would, doubtless, have been eager to speak to Lady Catherine of their shared connection. Apprehension rested in his chest. What else might the man have told his aunt? His mind turned, constructing a sentence that might best determine his aunt’s opinion of a certain family without raising her suspicions as to why Darcy himself cared to know it. They were strangers to him, after all, or as good as. What did it matter to him what opinion his aunt had formed of them when he had no plans to see them again, alone or in a group!
“He has returned to us married, William,” Anne said, her delicate voice reaching Darcy’s ears at last and reminding him of her presence. At her use of his shortened name, he relaxed, for Lady Catherine’s Fitzwilliam always kept him on edge. He was not fond of his name, other than it had been selected by his dear departed mother, and it was a true mark of friendship when those closest to him referred to him by another. Darcy, most often. William, for a select few. Only Lady Catherine clung to Fitzwilliam, but for the sake of her age and position, he would bear it.
“So I hear,” he said, shortly, possessing no great desire to hear tell of Mr Collins’ matrimonial adventures, having but recently extracted his own friend from just such a threat.
“Yes, and quite a peculiar business it has been.” Lady Catherine frowned, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from her skirts, and summoning a tea tray with a single gesture. “He departed planning on proposing to some family he has there. Five daughters, if you can credit such a thing, and poor as church mice yet not one of them married!” She shook her head. “Quite careless for their parents to neglect their responsibility. And then, despite the propitious arrival of an eligible husband quite willing to marry any of the daughters as was seen fit, they all but refused him! I dare say he did not take the slight too much to heart, for as I say, he wished, out of the goodness of Christian charity, to do right by his relatives, but I call it foolishness indeed for them to cast such an opportunity aside. Yes, foolish, and I would go so far as to say proud! Still, it does not appear to have dented him too greatly, for he returned to us married to another young lady from the environs of Hertfordshire, a Miss -” she paused, glancing to her daughter for assistance. “Pray, what was dear Mrs Collins maiden name? Logan, or Lewis, or some such. I dare say there are dozens of them up and down the country.”
“Lucas,” Anne put in, quietly. “Her father is a knight.”
“Indeed!” Lady Catherine showed no partiality on account of this less than ancestral position and sniffed.
“I hope they are happy together, at least,” Darcy said, after a moment of silence, and before the subject was entirely forgotten in the arrival of the tea things.
“Who? Oh - oh yes. That is, I dare say they will be. She is a sensible young lady, although a little plain.” Lady Catherine cast a doting glance upon he daughter. “We cannot all be beauties, alas, but she seems accomplished enough and well able to run a tidy little house. You will meet her, I expect, while you are here, for we have them to dine quite often.” She lifted her nose into the air in an affectation of pride. “There are responsibilities to be considered for one’s estate, after all. And as you and Mr Collins are friends.”
“I would not call us friends -” Darcy put in, recalling with dismay how little he had spoken to Mr Collins before that day, and how much he had grown to dislike the man even so.
“Perhaps you are already acquainted with his wife,” Anne put in, and Darcy sensed in some way he could not quite define that she, too, had the measure of poor, unhappy Mr Collins, and sought to soften the blow of any connection he might share with Darcy by introducing other friends the two might share. “And she has a friend poised to stay with her, also.” His cousin frowned. “Dear me, what was her name? She told me of the young lady just today when we chanced to pass one another. A cousin of her husband’s, but from the warm way she spoke of her I took it that it was Mrs Collins, and not her husband, the young lady was visiting.”
Darcy’s heart sank, for he felt strangely cognisant of precisely who it was his cousin was struggling to recall, even before her name graced Charlotte’s lips.
“Ah, I recall her now! A Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
***
CHARLOTTE HAD A GOOD view of the road from her parlour, and she sat quite happily in the sunny window, watching for Elizabeth’s carriage as she sewed. If only her life could be all moments like this, she thought, as she glanced contentedly around the room she had claimed for her own. It was only fair, her husband had said, if he was to have his study, that she might have a place entirely her own, where she might sew or read or do any other kind of self-improving task she might care to think of. Charlotte’s smile faded a little. Mr Collins was entirely committed to the notion of self-improvement, particularly amongst women, and she had to confess it rankled her a little that her own husband could not be content to receive his wife as she was but must always be seeking for her improvement. As if I am the only one of us who might be better than I am! But no, that was uncharitable. She had known of her husband’s views before they married and could she really dispute a minister’s need to focus on the improvement of the human condition? Indeed, Charlotte knew enough of her own flaws to know that they might be lessened. Contentment was the first step. She drew a breath, warmed by the sound of the fire chattering in the hearth, and reminding herself that had she not sought to marry Mr Collins, she could not have conceived of being mistress of her own home. No, indeed! She would be still a ward of her parents, reliant on them utterly, and with nought but her sister’s constant irritation for companionship. This is far better, she reminded herself. Here I might be mistress of my own domain, and with a respected gentleman for a husband. I must count my blessings. And, as if counting made them increase it was at that moment she chanced to glance once more into the window in time to see a carriage slowing on the approach to their house.
“Oh!” She leapt to her feet, casting down her sewing, and rushed for the door, stopping only as her hand reached the knob. No, it would not do to rush out and greet Lizzy as if they were both still young women. She, Charlotte, was married now, and mistress of a house. She must do things properly. She returned to her chair, allowing her breath to slow, but all the while willing her friend to hurry, her staff to be as observant as she was, and show Elizabeth through to the parlour sooner, sooner! After what felt like an age, the door at last opened, and Lennox, their housekeeper, introduced her guest.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Mrs Collins. Shall I fetch tea?”
“Thank you, Lennox,” Charlotte said.” That is so very kind of you.” As soon as the wide woman had departed, Lizzy stepped into the room, smiling warmly at her friend.
“Oh, Charlotte!”
In the privacy of her own parlour, Charlotte could restrain herself no longer. Sensible or not, mistress of a home or not, she was still so happy to see her dear friend again that she embraced her warmly.
“I am so glad you are here!” she whispered fiercely into Lizzy’s shoulder. She felt a strange pricking of tears in her eyes and hurried to erase all sign of them as their embrace ended. “Well, Lizzy, this is my home. How do you like it? We shall have tea, first, for I do not doubt you are in need of some rest and refreshment, and then perhaps I can give you the grand tour.” She grinned.
“The grand tour!” Elizabeth rejoiced. “How elegant you sound. Mrs Collins, offering to show me around her own estate!”
“My husband’s estate,” Charlotte countered.
“But as you are one and the same it may as well be yours.” Lizzy shrugged her shoulders. “And in any case, Mr Collins is not here.” She darted a glance towards the door. “Is he?”
“No. My husband will be at his church at present.” Charlotte turned to the clock on the mantel. “We are utterly alone here. But even if he were at home he would not disturb us here. This is my parlour and my own domain.”
“How charming!” Lizzy stood, walking over to the bookshelves and running her finger along the spines of the books. “But are you not lonely, sequestering yourself away here?”
“No, indeed!” Charlotte shook her head. “I am kept busy in running the house. Such a great many tasks, Lizzy, you could not begin to imagine. And Mr Collins is so frequently busy with his studies, or with the concerns of the parish. I should go half-mad without my own sanctuary to retire to.”
“And so you live happily together, and even more happily apart!” Elizabeth laughed, but the smile died on her lips when she noticed Charlotte’s expression.
Fearing she had betrayed herself, Charlotte struggled to muster a smile that might reassure her friend of her contentment, for she must be contented. This was her choice, after all.
“Here, Lizzy, let me show you the embroidery I am working on. It was a gift for Christmas and I have only lately been able to start it.”
“And so much completed already!” Elizabeth marvelled. “You must have devoted hours to it - that is, you must be a very quick seamstress.”
“It is my only pastime at present,” Charlotte confessed. “I find I have little mental energy to spare for reading. Or for writing.” Her smile became genuine and penitent. “I know you must have noticed my lack of letters. Forgive me, Elizabeth, it is only that there was so much - that is, there is so much to do as mistress of a home.”
Lizzy waved off her explanations, but there was something searching in the look she applied to her friend, so that it was not without some degree of relief that, when Lennox returned with their tea tray, Charlotte leapt on the distraction of some refreshments. They might talk easier, now, with the lubrication of tea, and she hurried to begin quizzing Lizzy on her own news.
“I am talking too much of my house, forgive me! Tell me, what has happened in Hertfordshire in my absence? How is Jane? And are Lydia and Kitty still as prone to scrapes as they were?”