A/N: Just a quick note on the format to hopefully clear any confusion. The dates are not linear. We jump from Darcy to Lizzy a couple of times to show the difference between Lizzy's assumptions and the reality of the circumstances. Darcy's time in London takes place in February, while Lizzy's time is shown in early March at Hunsford. I've put the dates at the beginning of each section where there's a POV switch. I just wanted to make that clear so you can enjoy it without having to wonder why we've gone back in time. It's for effect.
Chapter Twenty-Two: The 'Park' in Rosings Park
London, February 27th, 1813
From Miss Elizabeth Bennet (or Sophie Devon if you prefer)
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
February 25, 1813
Mr. Darcy,
Do not suppose that the distance instated has had any ill effects on my wits; I am perfectly aware of your scheming and mean to put a stop to it. Your quarrel is with me, sir, not my sister. She is an innocent in this bizarre twist of fate and should be treated with your customary civility – not that curt brand which you have reserved for me. Without entering into the details of my story that abhor you so, I will say only this: you are a smaller man than I thought possible. If it pains you to hear this than I am not surprised – your pride was one thing in which I could always rely. But your compassion, I had hoped, would be an equal compensation of that attribute.
Your friend and my sister have an uncorrupted attachment that is plain to any lacking in ulterior motives. In writing this argument I half expect to hear an echo of your voice from the pages of a story close to the one we are living, telling me of the unsuitability of the match, of my sister's calm reception of Mr. Bingley's affections. Perhaps that excuse had some merit in the written form, but here, it bears no weight. You, sir, have been absent from our society for these past two months. You can have no personal opinion on this matter, though I know how you exult in pressuring your superior judgment on your pliable friend. Your triumph is palpable from Longbourn as Miss Bingley and the rest of the Netherfield party have just quit the estate and travel to London. Did you summon them to buttress your position? Or was this a plan long in the making?
Do not forget, Mr. Darcy, my advantage in present circumstances, nor mistake this for a threat as your suspicious and accusatory mind is like to do. I merely mean to make plain that I am aware of your disfavour for myself and anyone associated with me. We are both loyal to our siblings and I mean for you to know it. Jane does not deserve your censure, nor, frankly, is it your place to dictate the lives of those capable of individual reason and judgment.
I do not expect you to heed me, but with whatever token of regard you once held for me, I hope you will bear my message in mind. My fate in this world is unstable; I fear that as easily as I arrived I may return to that time I was born to, leaving only a faint scar on the lives I've touched, most unaware that there was ever a difference. Therefore, do not let the repugnance of regular reunions with myself deter you from allowing Mr. Bingley his rightful pursuit in happiness. If you can bring yourself to believe me - I know that they will be happy.
Forgive the few splotches of ink here; they are the marks of my indecisive mind, for there is much I would further say to you, yet am aware of the inappropriateness of doing so presently. This letter is written on Jane's behalf, and it is her future joy I want you to consider when you see her in London. Yes, she is returning to the city to visit our Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. May it be that you do not suffer from any 'lapse in memory' should you happen to cross paths.
Whether you respond to this communication or not, I think it best you burn this first message when you've finished with it. There are things that would not do for others to see by chance. I apologize if my tone is abrasive, but truth cannot always be sugar-coated.
Respectfully, Miss Elizabeth Bennet
. . .
The letter lay open on his desk. A rebuke and a challenge against a crime he did not commit, yet detailing perfectly his capability in character of achieving the drawn out offences laid at his door. Thrice he had read the missive over, pausing each time at the drops of ink that marked her own human nature in indecisive thought. For some peculiarity, Mr. Darcy favoured these marks above the entirety of the letter, focusing on them as he dissected her message.
There was much to digest besides the few barbs written within. Her conviction of his guilt, and certain phrases of hers used to add force to her argument, could have but the one source. That book – Prejudice and Pride, or was it Pride and Prejudice? – was the root of her belief in his indifference to the state of happiness obtainable by his friend. It was ironic then that his alibi was founded in the very company he was beginning to wish he'd never joined. Those weighty men of science and philosophy may not have released their secrets, but they provided him a sort of paper shield – a shield that at times had appeared a prison.
Mr. Darcy cleared his head. Those gentlemen had suffered enough abuses from him. It was his ambition to clear away the cobwebs of his making and decipher for himself the clearest way forward. This unexpected letter from Miss Elizabeth, however, was fortuitous in its timing and in offering him a stepping stone in which to renew the acquaintance he had erroneously shunned.
Of course, his first thoughts were not so amenable to bridging the chasm between them.
His initial impulse was to write an immediate response. He had felt the blood rush to his head at her nerve of questioning his loyalty to his friend and of placing his pride above all else – or something akin in nature. The few remaining books littering his desk were swept aside to make way for a clean sheet, ink, and quill. His fist held the latter in a ready stance, his elbows positioned decisively on the flat surface to give force to his reply, his lips muttering words in hopes of picking out the perfect starter to vent the unfairness of her baseless accusations.
He was all preparedness to resume the quarrel they had shared on that frosty morning beside the carriage with the broken wheel. It was lucky, then, that before he could commit his energy to stoking a tirade within himself, his eyes flitted back to her letter and was caught by the few splotches of ink. They gave him pause. And in that hesitation, the voice he had been suppressing for weeks took that moment to slyly attack any defences remaining - at last conquering his heart and mind to the same cause.
Presently, Mr. Darcy sat with no implement in either hand as he reclined in his seat. He remained frozen as he stared at her letter through hooded eyes due to his head being tilted so as to benefit from the support of the back of the chair. Over and over he ran through the script, committing it to memory. With each perusal he recognized truth between the misunderstanding and suddenly felt ashamed of his treatment of her. There was more said in those imperfect splotches than the whole of the message she meant to convey. He saw then that they had both been trapping themselves in their own silence. Although, she at least had had the courage to break it.
He now felt it incumbent on him to follow in her example and leave this dreary state of mind he'd allowed to fester in his wits. He had not succumbed totally, but that was only due to the tether of friendship that had pulled on Charles to check on him. And from that meeting, clarity had been given a small window in which to penetrate Mr. Darcy's mind. It was now that same tether that pulled him to his friend's side.
Miss Elizabeth was wrong in believing him intent on separating his friend from her sister, but a form of separation must have transpired to elicit the accusation in the first place.
Now moved with a different energy, Mr. Darcy quitted his study with haste and repaired for the door of his friend's whose happiness was believed to be in danger.
Miss Elizabeth's letter was tucked securely in his breast pocket.
Hunsford, Kent, March 7th, 1813
Our arrival at the parsonage in Hunsford couldn't have been more anticipated than had the brass band been summoned along with the perfectly timed flight of white doves. To this attention, all credit was Mr. Collins' due, for it was his ubiquitous welcome that heralded our carriage as it came up the lane and saw that our feet had all made it safely to the ground ere releasing our hands.
Charlotte and I shared an infinitesimal look of surprise as we were herded towards the front door. Mamma, however, was too flattered at the attention to remember the stiff manner in which Mrs. Collins had requested our presence. Presently, Mrs. Collins stood at the threshold of her domain, hands clasped before her, a smart looking cap covering her head, and a smile that appeared to be pinched into place.
"Mamma," said she in greeting, extending her hands to receive her mother's. "You are most welcome."
"Dear Mary, how well married life suits you. I think you must be the happiest creature on earth to be so comfortably situated as you are," she looked around her in review, finding the scenery more than acceptable as she gave a general nod before turning back to her only married daughter.
Charlotte and I hovered behind mamma, waiting our turn to greet the bride; or 'newly-wed', as I finally succeeded in getting mamma to call her during the long hours and days of our journey. Poor Charlotte.
Mr. Collins, on the other hand, was all impatient energy just past the threshold as he attempted - and failed – to garner our attention so that we might proceed with the tour he had eagerly planned for us. It had been his first words to us upon opening the carriage door, and I found myself matching his enthusiasm if only to be done with it the sooner.
"I have never seen a house more ideally suited than this," mamma continued, retaining her hold of Mary's hands. "I see now your preoccupation in not writing sooner when you have such pretty things to be occupied with."
"I must say, mamma, I would not have you think that the delay in my writing came from a shallow preoccupation of viewing my gardens. There has been much work to do here, and I have given myself fully to it. The parish would be unrecognizable without the guiding hand of Mr. Collins." Mary's pinched smile gave way to the genuine article, assuring me that she was – as of yet – not unhappy in love. It did conclude, however, that her faux smile was for our benefit.
Lovely.
"My dear, you speak too generously. I am but a mere vessel of the generosity of that good lady, Lady Catharine de Bourgh – whom I have reason to believe," Mr. Collin's interrupted himself, fixing his eyes on me and Charlotte, "will be extending an invitation to you all during your visit. Now is that not the mark of a great hostess?"
'It would be if we were staying at Rosings,' I thought. My face, though, must have given a degree of my sentiment away since I felt a discreet nudge from the direction of my friend. I occasionally wondered at her adeptness of reading my features.
Thankfully, Mr. Collins quickly looked for approbation from all quarters of his guests and therefore missed my lapse in manners as he sought applause from his mother-in-law. Mary, meanwhile, had her own attention briefly distracted from the conversation as her focus was on extracting her hands from mamma's grip.
The tour of the parsonage had its charms, I had to admit, regardless of its conductor. And despite the rickety staircase that would tattle on a person's presence without bias, there were definite benefits to knowing when Mr. Collins would either be ascending or descending the steps.
That being said, I did, however, have to find amusement where I could.
"It is a fine piece of architecture, Mr. Collins. I think I have not seen a prettier railing before," I remarked from the rear but one of the party climbing to the next floor. At the head of this procession, Mr. Collins turned, stopping us all in turn.
"A very fine eye you have, cousin. A very fine eye. Yes, the staircase, I flatter myself, is eminently suitable for a clergyman in my position, being neither too shallow nor too steep."
"It's as serviceable a staircase as I've ever seen, sir," I finished; pleased at certain aspects of predictability I still had some power over.
"Though it is nothing, of course, to the staircases you see at Rosings," he continued, as he progressed up the stairs once more. "I say staircases because there are several - and each in its way very fine."
"Do tell me Mr. Collins," mamma joined in from her position directly behind him, "are there a great many staircases at Rosings? For I remember at Netherfield -"
"There are a great many, I assure you ma'am. And while I can say naught against Netherfield Park, I would hasten to add that there is much that could be . . . added to it," Mr. Collins eloquently informed. I could not miss that even he appeared dissatisfied by his repeated vocabulary.
I looked back at Charlotte to see if she found this conversation as diverting as I did. While her expression was more placid than I could manage, there was a definite upturn to the corner of her mouth that vindicated my mirth. When I caught her eye a smile threatened to overtake her features, and I quickly turned before the giggles could erupt. If she could laugh at him, then perhaps, after all, it was best that she hadn't had the chance to marry him.
Mamma was shown her room first.
If only she had been saved for last.
In her exuberance and natural way, her compliments and remarks of, "how comfortable I will be," and, "what a smart room this is," or my personal favorite of, "the drapes are a tad faded, but I can see how pleasant the light will be when I am at my sewing," lasted above a quarter of an hour and quite imprisoned the rest of us who were waiting still to be shown our rooms. I felt Mary glance my way, no doubt reading my open exasperation directed at our mother.
"My dear, why do you not show Lizzie and Miss Lucas where they will be staying," Mary suggested as mamma continued, unaware of a second speaking.
"Yes, my dear. I think you are right. You will see your mother settled and I will see to our other guests. You must be tired after such a lengthy journey, cousin," he said, turning to me as he guided me and Charlotte back down the hall.
"Indeed, but then I am never fond of spending more time than necessary in any carriage."
"But you have never ridden in a carriage of Lady Catharine de Bourgh's," he proclaimed.
"Are her carriages much superior to others in your experience, Mr. Collins?" Charlotte asked.
"Oh yes," he replied solemnly, hand to heart as he faced us, continuing down the passage in a sort of backwards shuffle. "Hers are akin to perfection in the easy seat accommodated for those riding within. And you do well Miss Lucas to apply a plural in the case of Lady Catharine's carriages - for she has several."
"How fortunate for you then, Mr. Collins, to have that luxury of being well acquainted with such works of art, both mechanically and aesthetically," I added.
"It is an honour that I take very seriously to heart, cousin. I would have you know that not once have I or your sister been allowed to walk home after enjoying a dinner at Rosings – an engagement, I hasten to add, we are invited to partake in twice a week."
"It is a fine compliment," I allowed.
The rooms that were to be mine and Charlotte's neighbored each other across the hall, our doors perfectly symmetrical in facing one another; hers to the left, mine to the right. Mr. Collins left us to the solitude of our rooms, parting with the promise of tea in the parlour in a half hour.
With my door firmly shut, and the assurance of those squeaky stairs signaling his descent, I fell onto the bed and lay there as unmarked time past in the deceiving stillness of the air. I was glad to have this moment of peace, not knowing when I would be allowed another. My first thoughts went to Jane. I wondered how she was faring in London and in what manner she had been received. I had yet to receive a letter from her and couldn't help worrying at its absence. Mr. Darcy was only too easily made the villain in my mind, albeit a villain that still held far too much sway over my own heart. His strength of will pitted against his friend's favoured the former in every scenario I could think up. It would have to be Jane's own determined spirit that would see her happiness fulfilled.
How I prayed she wouldn't shy from the challenge.
London, February 26th, 1813
"She's here? In London?"
"As we are not on the Isle of Man, where else could I possibly mean Charles? Besides she is not here yet, my intelligence is limited to the facts I have already shared with you but see I must repeat as your love struck face communicates your selective hearing," Darcy countered and explained with a degree of exasperated patience. He stood before his friend; a stark contrast to the latter's excited countenance, as he himself committed his mind to a course of concise procedure that, by all appearances, seemed counterintuitive to procuring a balm for his heart, but which was, in truth, the measured focus required in achieving precisely those ends.
"Miss Bennet will be, at some point in the very near future, here in London visiting her aunt and uncle. Do, however, I think that a simple ruse to deflect from her true reasons for coming to the city – yes, unequivocally. I believe you to be the target of her ulterior motives as her temper ill-equips self-promotion in a public arena, and so may rely on the cover of a familial visit should your welcome of her lack in warmth."
"My welcome lack in warmth? I should be ashamed if I ever showed her the discourtesy. It is an interesting coincidence, I must say," he added, as his expression adopted the look of one privy to sight that remained invisible to all else.
"How, sir?"
Looking up from his dreamy meditation, Charles met Darcy's eye and woke from whatever had captured his attention.
"Hmm? Oh, it is only that I have been preparing to return to Hertfordshire any day now. My business was less than cooperative," here he leveled a friendly glare at his friend so that neither would be in doubt of what his 'business' had been, "and took up more time than anticipated. Though, viewing its probability of success in this present light," Charles considered, "I would give good odds. How is it to breathe fresh air again?" he mocked.
"You have an unfortunate trait of occasionally adopting a dramatic air," Darcy commented, seating himself for the first time since entering Charles' drawing room. His friend smiled at him.
"I am no great writer – or reader – so I am uncertain if your attitude is better classified under 'irony' or 'hypocritical'?"
"Hypocritical, you ass," Darcy admitted, smiling in turn. His gaze turned thoughtful as he viewed his friend.
"You know, I've not yet thanked you for interrupting my melancholy. My endurance surprises even me on occasion, and I fear that had you not seen fit to check on me I would have persisted in that vain pursuit I'd set myself to overcome."
"You've yet to tell me what that goal was," Charles said; his tone no longer playful.
Darcy considered him, keeping his eye for several seconds as the release of burdens rippled under his stoic features. In the end, he kept them, offering an apologetic quirk of his lips.
"It was a goal doomed to failure from the off, but which only experience can prove that conclusion. I have learned it and will not repeat it."
"That is well then," Charles smiled. "And I hope to welcome you back to Netherfield when I return. But wait –" Charles turned his head inquisitively as a thought occurred to him. "You mentioned that Miss Bennet's aim for coming to London was due to me. Do not misunderstand – I would be flattered, nay, ecstatic at such an outcome – were your words not laced with some suspicion of doubt. I entreat you to explain and not laugh at my slowness for you have startled me this morning with your sudden appearance and all the news you have relayed."
"I would sooner lose the respect of my peers than laugh at you, Charles," he assured candidly. "There is no need for the alarm you now exhibit, but an explanation would not be unwarranted."
Without exposing himself or Miss Elizabeth, Darcy managed to convey the misunderstanding that arose after Charles' quitting the village and of the perceived indifference on his part towards the eldest Miss Bennet. Charles listened to this account as Darcy noticed the furrowed brow that always marked confusion or agitation. In this instance, he believed it was an attribute of the latter. When he had told all that could be Charles shot from his seat and adopted Darcy's preferred method of working out one's tempers.
"What a fool I was to leave without calling in person! A fool, yes, do not contradict me," he said to Darcy, for his friend had been preparing to come to his defence. "An idiotic fool so besotted that I did not stop for a moment to consider her reaction to my letter. Oh Lord! Now I remember I never even offered a point of return! How could I have been so stupid! So blind!"
"Come," Darcy commanded, "do not berate yourself prematurely. We have both been fools perhaps; I most certainly, your status is still in dispute. Miss Bennet comes here – to London. She would not do so if she was completely without hope. I cannot doubt your feelings when you have so openly shared them, nor am I at liberty to doubt hers when I have it on good authority that she shares your passion."
"Does she?" Charles suddenly beamed; the abrupt change from his dour look quite comical.
"Do you doubt it?" Darcy pressed.
"I never thought I could be so lucky."
"It is not luck that favours you."
"No, what then? Fate?"
"A Miss Sophie Devon."
"Who?" Charles asked, his brow now displaying his confusion.
"Never mind," Darcy said. His eyes were warm. "Nothing else matters. You have found your happiness Charles. I congratulate you."
Charles grinned in a dazed sort of way, uncertain of the pace of transpiring events.
"Hold your congratulations until I have secured her hand, I beg you. You may think little of luck, but I have a somewhat higher regard of it and wouldn't like to tempt it."
"You mean to put your suit to her?"
"I cannot see a better way of clearing away doubt. When does she arrive?"
Now Darcy laughed.
"That information remains as illusive to me as to you, my friend. Soon, though. She will be here soon."
Charles' grin turned sheepish. "I ask you forgive my repetition."
"Think nothing of it," Darcy said, standing to join his friend. "I think it prudent to now ask, however, whether you have thought about a ring."
"Yes! No!" Charles' eyes widened at this new consideration. "I haven't!"
"Then, if you are not otherwise engaged, I believe I have the perfect task to occupy you during your wait."
Hunsford, Kent, March 10th, 1813
The grandeur of Rosings Park was immense. The sheer volume of wealth exhibited in the beautiful architecture, of whose origin and style I was ignorant of, impressed me against my inclination. Prior to this visit, but anticipating its outcome, I had assumed a manufactured indifference regarding Lady Catherine so that the nerves I felt at the prospect of an introduction would be deceived into a calm. This mentality naturally extended to all that was directly connected to her, and that which promoted her status as law of her land.
Therefore, I was annoyed with myself as we rolled up the drive of the estate as I could not help being stunned at the beauty of the place. My resolve, in the face of opposition to my strictures, doubled down and encouraged me that this display was meant to elicit precisely the reaction I had upon viewing it, and so disarm all who enter into pliable forms for Lady Catherine's benefit.
My apprehension of meeting her came not from any star-struck qualities; I would not be in awe of her – I never had been. In fact, my reaction to her when reading the book had been influenced by the former Elizabeth Bennet's frank manner. Alas, this time I had not that Elizabeth as a shield from any aimed barbs that would likely be flung in my direction.
Beside me, mamma had herself positioned in an optimal viewing stance; her head pushed past the window in near replica of modern day dogs enjoying the wind of the drive. Mamma, however, refrained from any tongue lolling. 'Thank goodness,' I thought as I chewed my cheek at the notion.
"Mister Collins!" mamma stressed. "How very right you were during your time with us at Longbourn in your expositions of Rosings Park. I cannot think how I never imagined its grandness, but, to be sure, I know nothing of architecture, though I have been told that I am in possession of discerning taste; I could never have envisioned the elegant stateliness. The feminine curve of the arches is quite pleasing to my eye. I should like to stare at them for some time if that might be permitted."
"I am sure Lady Catherine will have no objection. Indeed, I am sure she would be honoured at the attention paid her home, do not you think dear?" To Mary he turned, his countenance marking his assurance of her acquiescence.
"I think you are too liberal in the use of the term 'honoured', for how can a woman of rank such as Lady Catherine feel anything but which is her due from those inferior in position, and who can have seen seldom, or never, the comparison of that which is now admired?" Mary said instead.
I felt myself prepared to come to mamma's defence, motivated as much by my own indignation at Mary's arrogance and the desire to lower Lady Catherine. Mr. Collins', however, was first to speak.
"You are quite right my dear in your definition, but I think you will agree with me when I uncover my own meaning. That being, that as the mother of my bride," – I couldn't help but notice the sly look mamma gave me – "Mrs. Bennet and Lady Catherine are drawn nearer in mutual respect and would feel that honour of the other's admiration."
Mary considered this and ultimately came to the conclusion her husband had asked her to adopt. I still was piqued that she would be so insolent to her mother and demean her against the lady we were mere minutes away from meeting.
When the carriage entered a courtyard, we saw a single servant awaiting our arrival on the steps leading to the front door. His livery was elaborate and illuminated by the sun, which seemed to be shining a beam on him, coaxing beads of sweat to appear beneath the lining of his wig. Upon stepping out of the carriage and passing him, I glanced his way and saw that coloration marked sweat stains beneath his arms as well. The heat in the summer must be unbearable, for we were barely into Spring and already the weather was proving temperamental.
The servant led us through to the rooms in which Lady Catherine awaited us, and it was during this brief passage that Charlotte walked close to me and spoke close to my ear.
"Your sister has always had her opinions, but I do not think I am wrong in pointing out how they have seemed to have strengthened into immovable – or nearly immovable – positions."
"I do not approve of her severity towards mamma. She forgets herself," I replied.
"She has had the opportunity these past months to discover the management and responsibility of running a house; perhaps she feels this elevates her. It would not be surprising if she feels a strong connection to Rosings," Charlotte contemplated.
"I can easily see how Rosings could seduce the mind into imagined grandeur pertaining to oneself, especially if one is dining in its halls twice a week. I confess that I cannot humble its magnificence."
"Nor I," Charlotte agreed. We gave each other a final, rueful, smile before our whispered tête à tête came to a close as we entered one of the many drawing rooms — whether it be the one home to the infamous chimney piece worth £800 couldn't presently be said — of Lady Catherine de Bourgh's.
I was pleased to note that while emulating the esteem Rosings secured her in her dress and mien, she lacked the full effect of supremacy by the withered encumbrance placed on her by age. She sat quite small in her chair, as the piece of furniture was exaggerated already by a high back that remained visible atop the lady's capped head. To her right sat a young lady; pale and sickly looking; her head was bowed, perhaps to hide away the shadows under her eyes. I knew this could be none other than Anne de Bourgh. Her nurse sat near her, whispering in her hear, and our party received a brief glimpse of her dull eyes as she raised them to look us over ere dropping them back to her lap.
I couldn't decide what my emotions were upon seeing her, for, naturally, I felt a sort of empathy to see such depleted energy in one so young. Yet my tangled loyalties, belonging to my nature and desire, were in dispute, as the bearer of the chronic malady had a link with the gentleman that I could never claim for myself. Her mother longed for a union between the two, and in my irrationality (tempted by a spark of jealousy) had no difficulty in envisioning Mr. Darcy submitting to his duty since, to his mind, there was no Elizabeth Bennet to capture his heart.
"So you are Mrs. Bennet," Lady Catherine addressed mamma, singling her out as we all stood awaiting permission to seat ourselves.
"I am, your ladyship," she answered immediately, curtseying.
"You have raised your daughters in a very unorthodox manner, Mrs. Bennet," Lady Catherine continued, her eyes traveling passed mamma to settle between me and Charlotte. "I suppose one of these young ladies is Miss Elizabeth?" she put to the open for either Charlotte or myself to answer.
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
"I would have thought the other as she bears a closer resemblance to Mrs. Collins in the plainness of her features. Miss Elizabeth appears to be almost a gentile, pretty sort of girl," she remarked, turning back to mamma. I felt my cheeks grow warm as I felt the sting for two in the room. "Are her sisters much like her in complexion, or do they favour Mrs. Collins?"
"Miss Bennet, my eldest, you know, is considered the beauty of the county. She is far prettier than any of her sisters."
"And the younger Miss Bennets?" Lady Catherine pressed. "I hear they are all out and the youngest not yet sixteen. It is very shocking! How you defended such an allowance of liberty given to the younger girls when the elder were still unmarried is a curiosity. Though, I suppose it is less severe now that Mrs. Collins has quit Longbourn."
It appeared that this topic was concluded when Lady Catherine gave a motion of her hand, to which Mr. Collins promptly responded by taking his seat at her vacant side and demonstrated that it would be prudent for us to replicate the action. I caught Charlotte's eye meanwhile, concerned should she be wounded, but she assured me with a small smile that her vanity maintained its indifference. Nevertheless, I sat close to her. To my left, mamma sat. Her expression appeared dubious, as if she knew not whether she agreed with the course of her introduction with Lady Catherine; yet remained too awed to resurrect that conversation, which was already being succeeded by another, simply to vindicate those decisions that could now not be revoked.
For a time I sat preoccupied in my own thoughts once it became apparent that the dialogue followed a bland pattern of Lady Catherine's expositions, followed briefly by an assenting remark by Mr. Collins, Mrs. Collins, or Mrs. Jenkins, Miss de Bourgh's nurse. At present, they were speaking locally of some event or other to be taking place at the church. I assumed it was the church as Mr. Collins was nigh on losing his seat altogether should he inch even an inch closer towards the edge in rapt attention of his patroness' edicts.
"And you must take care that all arrangements are overseen by Dawson; I will not support the scheme otherwise," Lady Catherine commanded.
"No, of course not," Mr. Collins began, though he immediately sensed the lack of continuity in his remark by hastening to add; "I mean, yes, of course. Dawson shall be informed of every particular and shall no doubt be better acquainted with the details than myself."
"Mmm," Lady Catherine hummed her monotonous approval. Her eyes took a moment to roam about the party, and I felt them settle on me for a second longer than the others. In my determination to not be persuaded to bow to her overbearing personality, I committed myself to holding her gaze for as long as it lingered. Whether it was prudent to mark attention in that subliminal way, I felt gratified at the steel found in my own spine. Though, it only proved to me my disparity from the original Elizabeth, since I would not be so satisfied over this small display of will if I was not, in truth, a little daunted by the lady.
With a purse of her lips, she turned her head away, her narrowed eyes the last to retreat from my face. Bolstered by my outward appearance of calm confidence, I chose not to gravitate towards the worries that would question what that look was meant to indicate.
In Mary's union with Mr. Collins, the connection between myself and Lady Catharine was prematurely advanced (should a reconciliation ever occur between myself and the lady's nephew, that is), and more acutely felt, as I was coming to understand. Without the shield of marital status, I was now a loose extent of Lady Catherine's reaches should she feel so inclined to tug on that particular thread of familial duty; which she could prevail to claim as hers since Mr. Collins would never scruple to comply to her wishes and would – while we remained guests at the parsonage and within reach of the lady's whims – enforce that conformity to those near.
I did not fear her, though I would be fooling myself if I failed to recognize the fear I had overall for the outcome of this story. I would also be simple if I refused to acknowledge the power Lady Catherine held and how she could present a problem. Therefore, I bit my lip in remonstrance for having attracted her negative attention in such a pointless way.
Mamma, at least, was indulged in her wish to view the buttresses uninterrupted for more than a quarter of an hour before the impatience of her party prompted her to hasten to one of Lady Catherine's waiting carriages. She was promised, however, a tour of some of Rosings galleries if she found interest in art and architecture. While these invitations were readily accepted, I couldn't help thinking that this interest was more concerned with the wealth it promoted rather than taste for the subjects themselves. This may have been a vulgar trait, repugnant to the original Elizabeth, but I could not help laughing at her ill-concealed obviousness. But then again, perhaps that was the point of her being, and the reason I viewed her more favourably than my predecessor; I had the advantage of not only the lens of a reader in interpreting her, but also the lens of a time-traveler that excused those traits which were looked down upon in this present era.
She was greatly impressed with Lady Catherine, and even more so that the daughter she had sustained little hope for, was the one in constant communication with her. Upon our return to the parsonage, the Collins' dispersed to their separate pursuits after speedily tending to our comforts. Mr. Collins was desirous of locking himself in his study so that the completion of a sermon may transpire, while his wife wished to fulfill her daily routine of reading a passage in one of her many volumes. Through a somewhat veiled back-and-forth between the couple I gleaned that Mary's musical tendencies had to be staved off as much as possible during those times that Mr. Collins felt divine inspiration.
Presently, mamma, Charlotte and I were invited to join Mrs. Collins if we wished, but as we three had much rather talk over our experiences of the day in liberty we claimed fatigue and convened in mamma's room.
"I daresay I could never imagine living alone in a place so grand as that," mamma remarked in a tone of voice that suggested that she could very well imagine what it would be like. "Terrible drafts to be sure."
"I marvel at the responsibility to maintain such a large estate. Many of the rooms we passed seemed in readiness of being occupied," Charlotte contributed. "I counted twelve servants in the entrance hall alone and lost count once we passed the second staircase."
"Which second staircase?" I inquired, trying to remember. "I remember climbing only one."
"The second staircase just off the third music room," mamma answered.
"Or so we were told," Charlotte said.
"And what, prey, is that supposed to mean, miss?" mamma reproached. "You can not mean to call my son-in-law a liar. He, who is intimate with the household."
"That was the farthest of my intentions, Mrs. Bennet," Charlotte soothed. "I meant only that as Mr. Collins was very eager in relaying to us the particulars of each room we passed, I did notice that one or two of them went unmentioned in his haste. I merely wondered if, due to this, he misrepresented the third music room in error as you must have heard him name two rooms thus."
"Indeed, he did. I remember that," I said, coming to my friend's aid.
"Oh, well, never mind that," mamma said, reverting her countenance to one of mingled awe and excitement. "Just think of having three music rooms!"
"It would suit you ill, madam, for you never play," I said. I bit my cheek as I was confronted by the desired expression I had provoked.
"And I'm sure it would suit you worse for when you play it is to ridicule those who you deem too pathetic to notice your laughter of them."
"Come mamma," I laughed, "you know I speak in jest. Though answer me truly: what benefit would you find in possessing even one music room, besides entertainment?"
"But that is precisely the point, Lizzy!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up once again. "Think of the parties that could be held and all manner of folk come to join in the fun; and they certainly would know how to play most pleasingly to keep us all entertained."
"They?" I questioned, smilingly.
"Yes – they. Do not look at me so intently, Lizzy; it gives you a cross-eyed air."
"I will endeavor to check myself in both my ridicule and my apparent cross-eyedness."
"You must ignore Lizzy, Mrs. Bennet. Though I cannot know her as you do, I am well enough acquainted to know that this version we must presently contend with is the product of being cooped over-long with Lady Catherine de Bourgh and needs only some levity to restore the spirits that were oppressed under that lady's authority. It must have pained you Lizzy to be unable to laugh freely or make one of your shocking statements," Charlotte said, turning to me with a grin.
"How very well you've characterized me," I answered, impressed. "Lady Catherine is an event unto itself and I fear I shall not recover before our next meeting."
"Do you think that will be soon?" mamma wondered hopefully.
"For your sake, I hope so, but for myself I do not look forward to any more encounters with her, though I know they cannot be avoided."
"Pessimism does not suit you, Lizzy," Charlotte admonished. "Besides, Lady Catherine may now very well be considered a distant relation that may suffer you to indulge her fancies but will not permit your use of her name for your own advantages. You ought to show more respect, even than you think necessary."
I eyed her critically; struck by the similarity in our observations.
"How is it that, more often than not, you strike upon the very matter I had rather ignore?" I put to her. She merely offered me one of those smiles that could only be described as matter-of-fact.
"Because I know it is the matter you wish to ignore."
In time, and far too quickly for my tastes, not only mamma, but Charlotte and myself became well acquainted with Rosings Park in the vein that one would adopt with a local museum; only this museum you could not leave when you wished, nor were you permitted to exercise free will. Both Charlotte and I had been 'entreated' to play for Lady Catherine so that, "I might judge whether your application speaks of practice or if natural taste merits your style. Mrs. Collins is often come to Rosings Park to practice upon the pianoforte in the housekeeper's room. I daresay she is much improved from when she first came."
Upon first understanding that I, like all adaptations of the novel, would be required to play before the room, I felt a bizarre urge to laugh as I remembered Jane Hayes' performance of 'Hot In Herre' in Austenland and wondered if Lady Catherine would be as mortified as Mrs. Wattlesbrook to go so far as shutting the piano lid on my fingers. My second thought was curiosity as it occurred to me that certain aspects of this new life endowed me with muscle memory habitual to the body itself. My first dancing lesson was a key example that sprung to mind.
However, it appeared that even the original Elizabeth had not troubled herself overly much in the pursuit of this accomplishment, for when I sat at the bench with fingers extended and mind open to any motion indicative of song, it soon became evident that I would have to rely on my own paltry knowledge that had dwindled since I quit my piano lessons in secondary school.
"Come, Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine called from her chair. "We are waiting to hear you play."
"I am aware of that," I mumbled under my breath.
"My sister, I am afraid, Lady Catherine, has never appreciated the patience required for perpetual practice and will not have that quality which you are so accustomed to," Mary remarked; backing me up with sisterly affection. I looked at the room askance before settling on the piece - the only piece really – I would play.
The first strains of the song were convoluted by my uncertain fingers, and the result was jarring. Taking a breath, I repositioned my hands and began again. 'Once Upon A Dream' from Sleeping Beauty had been my choice to learn as one of the songs for the end of year recital in lower 6th; mainly because it was one of the easier ones to remember. Presently, I was thanking its simplicity while praying that I would not hit the wrong key in the next moment.
"That is a very quaint tune," Lady Catherine remarked at the conclusion of the song. "I am unfamiliar with it, though am not opposed to the fanciful air produced. You are not a great player, Miss Bennet; I noticed how you slurred the intro – and to a song much uncomplicated. I extend the invitation to practice on the housekeeper's piano to you as well. It will not do for you to be caught so unawares in polite society. Mrs. Bennet," she pounced suddenly on mamma, "I am astonished at the negligence shown to the betterment of your daughter's education. She neither sings nor draws; her skill is amateurish at best, though perhaps the fault is to be found in her character." Again she leveled her gaze on me. "She has a willful attitude; I detected it on our first interview."
"If I may Lady Catherine, I would suggest that the mediocrity of Lizzy's performance is occasioned by the circumstances of her audience, for when she is at home, while her talents are not to the level of a true proficient, she is applauded by her auditors." Mamma's intervention on my behalf was not appreciated as she no doubt thought it would be.
From her central position in her chair, like to a nucleus in a cell, Lady Catherine forgave me my lapse in skill in so telling a way that it was plain her ego was stroked.
"That is well for you, Miss Bennet," she said. "It would be truly shocking if your playing was as uniformly abysmal as thus exhibited."
"Indeed it would ma'am," I conceded, "though I think the greater alarm would be if the skill just executed was the result of routine and invested practice. I can boast of neither and so do not suffer from any great disappointment that I had in my power to alter."
I found gratification in observing Mr. Collins' appalled expression, and not least the momentary silence that I recognized as habitual to the dialogues of Lady Catherine and Elizabeth Bennet when the latter stunned the former.
"You take pride then in your lack of accomplishment?"
"Not pride, ma'am, but I find it hard to be disconcerted when I have rarely applied my time to improving that skill which is so profound in your estimation of a lady."
"Tell me then what you choose to employ yourself with if you deny the finer talents acceptable to your sex. I demand to know."
"With terms such as these I feel it obligatory to forebear revealing my habits when already they are prejudged."
"Nonsense Miss Bennet, I demand to know at once," Lady Catherine persisted.
Straightening my shoulders, I persevered.
"I'm afraid I will have to disappoint your curiosity."
The timepiece on the mantle chimed the hour, its dainty bells filling the silence.
Charlotte and I were quick to discover the pretty walks that populated the lanes and groves of Hunsford; and which featured prominently in the novel during the Kent visit. I was intrigued to see if they would live up to my imagination of lush gardens and verdant hues, and was thoroughly satisfied when they delivered.
I was noticing a pattern that where the inhabitants of these homes and properties varied in their level of distaste, they at least knew beauty and how to keep it near and around them always.
On this day, nearly a week since our arrival in Kent, I found myself wandering down one of the paths in my own company. Charlotte wished to post a letter, though without the scrutinized examination Mr. Collins was want to do of correspondence bearing his home as the return address. She had invited me to join her on her walk to the post office, but I had declined, stating that there was a particular route I desired to follow.
"I think it leads into the park, and I have not seen it yet," I said.
"Very well. I will not be long and shall see if I cannot catch you up," she replied.
"Do you think the wilds of Hunsford would permit 'halooing' should we become lost?"
"You jest too readily, Lizzy. Though, I can't imagine them being against it. They appear as folk fond of the hunt."
"Those poor foxes," I commiserated.
"The poor hens," Charlotte countered.
Presently, I spied neither fox nor hen and had no inclination to 'haloo' or make any other obvious gesture of my presence in the park, for I was content in my own company and enjoyed the peace to be had in a walk. There was some comfort in gazing up at the stout oaks and the solitary yews; to know that they have stood for hundreds of years already and will likely stand for hundreds more. Their timeless watch of the shorter cycles of life gave relief to a form of consistency; no matter the trials of the person, there will always be that that has stood separate yet tangible to those who seek its support.
The morning sun was a strong one so I gravitated towards the shade proffered by a near oak that stood apart from a cluster of its fellows. The shape of its lower branches swooped in a perpetual bow, and I thought it a very fine tree for climbing. I gave the notion up immediately; there would be a reckoning should I be spotted and the thought of exerting my energy simply to calm minds was a more exhausting prospect than the actual exertion of climbing a tree. I contented myself with walking up to it and laying a gentle hand on its bark. The coolness of the rough skin was a pleasant contrast to the warm softness of my palm. Absent mindedly, I began tracing my fingertips along the crevices, smoothing my touch around the crags and points and skimming over indifferent insects intent on their own errands. For some reason I never much minded insects out of doors – except for spiders – therefore their presence didn't bother me. Though, if I were to see a trail of ants making their way from room to room within a house – then I panicked.
Steadily thoughts of varying natures began filtering into my considerations as I circled the tree like a child moving around a May-Pole. I maintained my link with the trunk, bumping my fingers along the ridges while gliding them over the smooth patches and becoming thoroughly familiar with its unique hide. I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I did not at first hear the sound of a person's step approaching. However, when my name was called not only was I brought back to the present, but I was forced to confront the possibility of my being under the influence of hallucinogenic flowers.
"Miss Elizabeth, I pray you will forgive my intrusion," Mr. Darcy said. "I arrived only this morning and called at the parsonage, but was told that you had not yet returned from your walk. I hope you forgive me for seeking you out; I had not the patience to wait."
I could only stare at him as he stood before me, appearing as if conjured from my very thoughts; for it was he who largely occupied many internal debates. His manner presently appeared foreign to my stunned mind. I could not account for his sudden appearance, or his looks that I could only explain as resembling uncertain hope.
Vaguely I was aware that my hand still reached for the tree, though now it was more in a grasp for support. An unhelpful thought occurred to me that the reason women fainted so often in this period was due to being caught off guard by abrupt appearances in seemingly random places.
"You do not say anything," he commented in a low voice after several seconds. He looked down, as if to seek strength internally. I absently noticed that while he was dressed appropriately, his hair suffered from neglect. "I suppose I should not have expected any other reception," he resumed. "I did not even give you the courtesy to dissuade me from seeing you had you chosen to do so. However, I must be honest and admit that I deliberately did not write in case of such an outcome. My apology," he emphasized, "I wished to deliver in person."
He was already waiting for my eyes to dart up to his, and there he held them. The anger and pride that I had come to associate with his stare in the past few months found no accommodation in his present gaze. There was sometimes more clarity in emotion conveyed through the eyes, where no words could dilute or misrepresent meaning. In the softness of his look, contrition spoke plainly.
My lips parted, though I was indecisive of whether to speak or not; the novelty of seeing him before me was as much a shock as discovering his motives. Behind me, I braced both my hands against the oak, palms pressed to the bark.
"I received your letter," he informed me after another pause.
I couldn't help a sense of embarrassment creep over me at hearing my letter finding grounds in reality when, for so long, it had never been anything more than an impulsive action, spoken of to no one, and almost forgotten save for those moments when I grew apprehensive of a reaction.
"Mr. Darcy," I began suddenly, feeling the need to explain. "I sent that letter to you without thought or question. I cannot remember all of my language, though I know I spoke harshly – "
"You spoke truthfully, madam," he interrupted, "in what you knew of circumstances. There was not a single phrase that was misplaced in regards to my character. I have long been accustomed to my own way, and as I have had no one of authority to check that which needed tempering, my arrogance was permitted to grow into something loathsome, even to me." He cast his eyes away from mine for a moment, a frown appearing on his face. "I regret most my behaviour towards you," he said in a low timbre. "The disdain I expressed is unpardonable; even now, I recoil at remembrances of that time and my coldness."
I said nothing, allowing him to continue.
"You can have little doubt the effort it took in recognizing my error. For months after learning of your identity and origin, I ravaged countless texts that I thought would give me an insight to understanding what I had thought an impossibility. The result was not what I had anticipated however. I came nearer to becoming a stranger to myself than learning anything that could tell me of you — dearest Elizabeth," he said almost desperately, stepping closer. "Had I only listened to what you told me outright, and let that be enough, I should never have caused the pain I know I have inflicted . . . to both of us."
I wasn't certain what he was referring to; I felt I had said a great many things during those last days in London.
Silence prevailed as my mind worked to comprehend the suddenness of his approach and the meaning of his apology. I sought also to understand how he had left London.
"How are you even here, sir?" I put to him in a show of determination. I felt it was the only way to compensate for how vulnerable I felt in my desire to possibly betray my sister and throw my arms around him.
"If you refer to logistics of how I traveled from London to Kent, then that is easily answered — by carriage. A mode of transport, I cannot fail to remember, being unfavourable to you."
"Mr. Darcy, don't!" I cried, succumbing somewhat to my confused emotions. "Don't . . . just don't. How are you here? How – how did you leave my sister?"
Mr. Darcy sighed. "Forgive my insensitivity. I should not have made light of the matter that is so close to your heart. But perhaps you will excuse my levity once you are made aware of certain facts."
To my astonishment, there was a glint in his eye, as if he was prepared for this. "Before anything more is said — here, I've been instructed to deliver this to you."
From within his breast coat pocket, he withdrew an envelope and, taking the few steps until he stood directly before me, placed it into my hands. I quickly looked down at the address and blinked at it.
"It's from Jane," I announced, surprised as I read the neatly scrawled script.
"Indeed, it is," Mr. Darcy said. Upon looking back up at him, I noticed the effort of a smile, though it somehow looked weighed down by other emotions. For a moment his eyes searched mine and the music of the birds and critters of the wild lapsed into a silence as we both became aware of our proximity to each other. The lapel of his coat brushed ever so slightly against the sleeve of my spencer.
"Open your letter," he whispered. And now he did smile.
With hardly developed hopes chasing desires and neither yet willing to believe their fulfillment, I ripped the seal open and found the start of the letter. Again, I seemed to enter another vacuum as all sound lost power over me as I read, and reread, the opening lines of Jane's letter.
My dearest Lizzy,
You will hardly believe me when I relate to you my news — such happy news! To be sure, you will likely need to reread my letter at least twice over so that you may believe what I tell you. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Charles Bingley!
With only the question of a few inches between myself and Mr. Darcy, I turned to him, closing the distance as I cautiously took his hands in mine, clasping them and bringing them to our hearts.
He had trailed behind me while maintaining the illusion of a respectable distance by not appearing over my shoulder as I read Jane's letter (now tucked securely in my reticule), mindlessly ambling around the oak as I read the hastily written news; trying to absorb the totally unexpected outcome of Jane's immediate happiness and Mr. Darcy's innocence.
It was written plainly — almost pointedly — that Mr. Darcy's interference came only in the latter course of their separation and was of the beneficial kind; namely acquainting Mr. Bingley with the existing misunderstanding. My assumptions had been proven incorrect — but it was a blessing to be wrong. However, there was one thing that Jane was wrong about. I needed to read the letter four times and only stopped when my tears made it impossible to continue.
As we stood now, no longer under the shade of the oak, I looked up at him with the aid of the full morning light crowning his head. There was a flush to his skin and his dark hair was made the more dramatic by the bright scene around us. His gaze, softer than I'd ever seen it, never left me as his hands held onto mine.
"I forgive you, Mr. Darcy," I told him simply.
That was all that mattered at the moment. Mistakes, errors, insults even; what were they compared to the enduring strength that linked peoples across time. Those evil symptoms had the satisfaction of the moment, and if catered to, took root for a lengthy stay. But what happens to that animus once the soul quits the body? Surely the trials and pettishness of worldly affairs are dull to spirits who must be glad to be once more rid of the vessels that, while gave them life, also held the capacity for pride and ego and kept them from attaining true happiness if only they'd submitted. Do those spirits than rejoice at reunion, yet also mourn the wasted time?
I reinforced my grip, twining our fingers together. He was willing.
"I forgive you, Mr. Darcy," I repeated.
His hands tightened around mine. "Dearest Elizabeth," he said, almost hesitant as if he was uncertain that this moment would last. "May I call you Elizabeth?"
"You already have," I pointed out, smiling, "twice."
Slowly, a smile of his own was coaxed by the corners of his mouth as he freed one of his hands to cup my face.
"Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth — how could I ever have been so blind as to turn away from you?"
I felt my pulse quicken and my breathing hitch as his thumb stroked just under my lower lip.
"You were dazed and confused," I suggested happily, leaning into his simple caresses, yet barely believing myself that such happiness could be produced from the outcome of a moment.
"Mmm, very dazed and very confused," he allowed, "but it still is no excuse –"
"Shh. No good will come of that. We have both acted in ways that draws shade to our characters, but I am willing to look past that time. It will serve only the demons to continually call upon our past mistakes."
"So you admit that I made a mistake," Mr. Darcy persisted.
"Undoubtedly," I grinned. "But I think I would have a hard time loving you if you were a saint."
". . . And . . . do you . . . love me?" he questioned in a modest tone.
"I believe I have already told you my feelings. I suppose I must be grateful to that broken wheel."
"It is I who bears all the gratitude, I assure you," he rejoined. His thumb grew bolder, and I could feel the warm press of it gliding over my lip as time seemed to slow. His eyes drifted towards my mouth.
"You gifted me with something precious at that parting, all those months ago; something I have carried with me since and have treasured even when my mind attempted to convince me otherwise. I feel it only right that I return to you that gift which will ever be yours to give, and I, the honoured receiver."
"Mr. Darcy?"
"Do you love me, Elizabeth?" he whispered, his breath filling the space between our close faces. His fingers found purchase at the back of my head, where my skull dipped into my neck. He pulled me closer. Unable to compute anything other than the truth, I answered him.
"Yes."
I didn't think he would. In fact, I was almost certain that he wouldn't. But he did. Oh, he did.
My eyes fluttered closed at the first touch of his lips against mine, my hands automatically rising to find my own purchase in the appealing breadth of his shoulders. Together, we clasped each other, as much as an embrace as it was a relief of feeling the other in our arms, and a promise to never let go. Again, the natural chorus of the park resumed in my ears, and I felt the warm sun bestowing a kiss of his own upon our cheeks, wishing us happy tidings in his own dazzling way.
The strength and assurance of Mr. Darcy's arms around mine, of the very fact that he was willing to expose himself this way in so public a setting, excited me and bolstered me against any trepidation I might have begun feeling towards his aunt. As it was, at present, I could only string together wit enough to respond to the chaste, yet continuous, kisses that eventually drew a moan from the back of my throat.
Slightly out of breath, Mr. Darcy pulled back, though keeping a hold of me; he rested his forehead to mine.
"I love you, Sophie Devon. Whatever form, whatever era, my love can know restrictions no longer. I would cling to you if you will allow it."
"I allow it," I whispered, affectionately stroking his hair; a thrill of pleasure running up my spine to hear my old name.
Are eyes met, and I knew we both felt the peace of the moment.
A/N: Hey guys! It's been a little while. Hope you're all doing well. I'm sort of hoping that none of you were expecting to see a reconciliation chapter quite so soon, but I knew I wanted to keep the pace moving for more things to come. The scene itself between Lizzy and Darcy took a few drafts until I was okay with it. Even now, I'm not certain of it totally, but I feel I've been sitting on it too long and that it's been over a month since I last updated.
I got a little distracted with another of my fics. A short Viking story featuring Ragnar with an OC. I've posted the first chapter here as well on Archive of Our Own (my handle is the same as it is here) as a kind of teaser to see what interest there is. My plan is to finish it completely before posting the rest of it.
Thanks again for your continued support, and please tell me what you think of the characterization, pace, and I suppose grammar (my worst enemy apparently), as I'd always like to keep in my mind how I can do better.
'Till next time.