Page 21 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman
Before she could speak, her mother did. “Is that not the very Lady Catherine de Bourgh who is Mr. Darcy’s aunt?”
“I suppose so,” Mary replied. “Unless there are two Lady Catherines, it must be the same aunt Miss Bingley mentioned. The one whose daughter is said to be betrothed to Mr. Darcy.”
Jane cast Elizabeth a sidelong glance—gentle, concerned, and far too knowing. Elizabeth looked down at her plate and said nothing.
Jane resumed reading.
…I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends—but of this hereafter.
Kitty furrowed her brow. “What does that even mean?”
Jane shook her head. “I am not quite certain.”
But Elizabeth thought she understood. Only last year, Miss Penelope Cartwright, the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright of Upper Faversham, had been compelled to marry her cousin.
Her mother had feared losing her home to the entail, and so the daughter had made the sacrifice.
Charlotte had shared the tale with Elizabeth, and now it returned to her with unwelcome clarity.
A queer thought surfaced. Was any of this the work of Mr. Darcy?
Or had she, by some strange fate, absorbed a portion of his ill fortune merely by association?
He was betrothed to his cousin, and now her own cousin appeared from nowhere, speaking of amends and expressing unnatural levels of civility.
Jane read through the remainder of the letter, which rambled in affected politeness and frequent, near-comic references to Mr. Collins’s noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and the blessings of the clergy.
It felt, to Elizabeth, like some cruel trick of the Fates.
Had she not endured enough bewilderments for one season?
Must she now contend with an obsequious clergyman and his vague notions of duty and reconciliation?
No, she would not. Even if no Mr. Darcy was intruding upon her thoughts, or Mr. Lumley, who was certainly polite and agreeable, she could never marry a cousin out of some misplaced sacrifice for an entailed estate.
If she were to marry, and that remained a considerable if, it would be for love. Nothing less would do.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair. “He arrives tomorrow at four o’clock.
I trust you will all be on your best behaviour.
After all, it does not do to offend the gentleman who holds your futures in his hands.
” He glanced toward Elizabeth, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.
“Though, from the sound of him, I suspect Mr. Collins shall be less a tyrant than a bore. I live in hope of being proven wrong.”
As the family resumed their meal, Elizabeth sat quietly, her thoughts caught between laughter and dismay. It seemed the universe had conspired to test her spirit with one absurdity after another.
The name Lady Catherine echoed too loudly in her mind, and the very notion of Mr. Collins arriving with ideas of amends left her with a chill she could not entirely explain.
It was not merely the inconvenience of his presence.
It was the creeping suspicion that his visit might press upon her decisions she had no intention of making, and that, in some unfathomable way, it might all be connected with Mr. Darcy.
***
Elizabeth sat near the hearth in her bedchamber after the house had quieted for the night. A book rested open upon her lap, though her eyes had not moved across its pages in some time. The fire offered a soft, flickering glow, casting golden shadows on the walls.
A soft knock pulled Elizabeth from her restless thoughts. Jane stepped inside, moving with her usual grace, though her shoulders drooped beneath the shawl clutched around them. She sat beside Elizabeth without a word, her eyes wide and troubled, her smile too faint to be convincing.
They spoke briefly of the coming guest, the cousin who would inherit Longbourn, and exchanged light remarks and uncertain guesses about his character and purpose.
Then, quite suddenly, Jane turned toward her. Elizabeth felt the weight of her gaze, steady and searching.
“Lizzy,” she said gently, her voice laced with something quieter than curiosity, “do you suppose Mr. Darcy will come again soon?”
Elizabeth did not answer at once. The fire cracked softly. At last, she sighed, her gaze fixed on the flames.
“It has been weeks, Jane. He left without a word, and he has remained silent ever since. What if he never comes back?” Her voice held no bitterness, only weariness.
“And even if he did, what could he possibly have to say? That he is sorry for letting me believe he admired me? That he is indeed engaged to his cousin? Or worse still, that everything I believed had been nothing more than my imagination?”
Jane turned fully now, her eyes soft with concern. “You ought to hear him speak for himself, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “I should like to, truly. But he is not here. Instead, we have Mr. Lumley calling daily, and now Mr. Collins arriving with talk of amends and family duty. I feel as though the world is trying to arrange my future without asking me whether I like it.”
“And Mr. Lumley?” Jane asked after a pause.
Elizabeth looked up then, her expression thoughtful. “He is kind and proper, and I do not dislike him. But I cannot see myself promising anything yet. Not when I feel as though my heart belongs to someone else, even if I dearly wish it did not.”
She stood and crossed to the window, drawing back the curtain a little.
“And now Mr. Collins arrives. I cannot help but suspect he means to offer for one of us. As Mr. Bingley is quite taken with you, I have little doubt Mama will turn her hopes in my direction. It is just the sort of scheme she would contrive to preserve the estate.” She turned to Jane, her expression wry.
“It all feels like a performance in some absurd play, and I have been thrust upon the stage without ever seeking the part.”
Jane rose and came to stand beside her, taking her hand gently. “Then do not say your lines unless you mean them.”
“If I must play a part, it will be one I can bear with honesty,” Elizabeth replied.