Page 33

Tuesday, December 15, 1811

Netherfield

Richard

“Congratulations, cousin!”

Darcy exclaimed, striking Richard upon the back with a force that passed for fraternal goodwill, though it bordered on assault.

“At last! I knew you would come to your senses—eventually.”

Lady Matlock clasped her hands with unfeigned relief.

“I shall love Miss Mary forever. Truly, I had despaired of you. We thought we might have to contrive your retirement ourselves.”

“And now,”

Darcy added with far too much pleasure.

“we are to be brothers. Imagine the harmony.”

Richard imagined it—and wisely said nothing.

They were all in high spirits—too high. His cousin smiled with unconcealed satisfaction, his mother wore an expression of quiet triumph, and everyone seemed quite convinced that this agreeable turn of events was entirely their doing. That he had been tactically manoeuvred into accepting Rosemont. That he had been coerced.

Which, of course, he had been. Thoroughly.

But he was not about to confirm it.

Indeed, he had noted the probing stares directed at him throughout the previous evening, as if his silence might be broken by force of collective will. He had refused to enlighten them about his betrothal, preferring to build the anticipation—to make them ripe for the strike he was planning.

This morning, after breakfast, he made the announcement.

“Your father is here,”

said the Countess.

“He arrived last evening, though too late to make his presence known. He has not yet risen.”

Among his fellow officers, Richard had long been known as a light sleeper—ever wakeful to the faintest sound. He had scarcely closed his eyes the whole night, so filled was he with contentment and anticipation.

He was ready to pledge his honour that no carriage had arrived the previous night.

Yet he said nothing.

So confident were they in the success of their schemes, they had summoned the Earl himself to reap the reward of their contrivance. The solicitor was no doubt in waiting, and the estate prepared to pass—however unwillingly—into his keeping. They expected him to smile, to bow, and to accept his lot with the composed acquiescence of a dutiful heir, the deed ready for his signature.

But they had not reckoned with the Fitzwilliam pride.

“Excellent,”

said he.

“I shall wait upon him when he wakes, Mother.”

Then, with composed authority, he turned to Darcy.

“Cousin, would you accompany me to Bingley’s study? I believe it is time we discussed Haddonwood.”

“Haddonwood?”

repeated both Darcy and the Countess, together.

Richard allowed himself the pleasure of not smiling.

“Indeed,”

he said.

“There remains much to discuss. I have yet to speak with Mr. Gardiner—I found no suitable opportunity—but I shall remedy that on the morrow. We must be prepared to accompany him to London upon his departure, whensoever that may be.”

Then, turning to his mother with impeccable civility, Richard said.

“Mother, would you be so good as to send a man when my father is awake? You will find us in Bingley’s study. I would not wish to weary you with dry talk of accounts and the investment I intend to make at Haddonwood.”

“Richard,”

said Darcy, frowning.

“you still mean to proceed with Haddonwood? Take my advice—managing a stud of that size is no gentleman’s leisure. Not when one must also oversee an estate like Rosemont. Even with the convenience of its distance, it is difficult to balance.”

“Rosemont? Again?”

Richard turned to his mother with a show of exaggerated exasperation.

“Have I not already expressed my sentiments on the matter? Rosemont is for Henry; it is his inheritance.”

“No,”

said the Countess, her tone rising to the shrillness typically reserved for moments of family peril.

“He has Matlock, and two other estates besides. Rosemont is yours.”

“Mother,”

he said with the weary civility of a man repeating himself.

“we have had this conversation. More than once. Let us not perform it again for Darcy’s amusement.”

Then turning towards his cousin, Richard said.

“Shall we?”

“I shall accompany you,”

said the Countess, rising.

“You must not,”

said Richard at once.

“We are to discuss business—topics most ungentlemanly. Land, stud fees, accounts. Quite improper, indeed.”

“Let us test the limits of my propriety,”

said she.

“If I should faint at the mention of oats, you may carry me to the drawing room.”

And so they made their way to Bingley’s study—Darcy with cautious curiosity, the Countess with a firm jaw and narrowed eyes, and Richard with the air of a man enjoying himself far too much.

No sooner had the door shut than the Countess turned on him.

“I had hoped Miss Mary might convince you to be sensible,”

she said, arms crossed like a general berating a deserter.

“But clearly, you are as stubborn as ever.”

“Ah, yes,”

said Richard with mild amusement.

“She mentioned your conversation about Rosemont. I explained my reasons for refusing it, and she understood.”

“Then I am disappointed in her,”

said the Countess, in tones of offended dignity.

“You need a woman who will not simply agree with your every foolish whim.”

“I shall be sure to tell her,”

said Richard, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips.

“No doubt she will be disappointed. In any case, it is fortunate that we shall reside at Haddonwood, somewhat farther from Matlock than Rosemont, at least.”

This was met with a stare of fierce maternal thunder. Richard met it with unshaken calm.

He then turned to Darcy—only to find him engaged in the same internal struggle. The man’s lips twitched traitorously.

“Darcy,”

said Richard.

“you may recall our earlier discussion of Haddonwood’s prospects. I have since examined the figures, and believe that an investment of ___ pounds would be judicious. I am confident you will name such a share as may be just.”

Darcy nodded.

“Richard, I shall ask plainly, and for the final time—are you truly convinced of Haddonwood? And entirely disinterested in Rosemont?”

That was tactfully executed. A final prompt, laying the choice before him—publicly, and before their most insistent witness. Darcy knew.

Richard inclined his head.

“Darcy, you know I would never subject myself to this conversation, let alone your involvement, without absolute conviction.”

At this, Lady Matlock—who until now had sat in unyielding silence, her gaze fixed upon the carpet—rose with sudden purpose. She said nothing; neither word nor glance did she bestow upon them. Crossing the room, she opened the door with composed dignity and departed, closing it behind her with the quiet finality of one who had delivered her judgment and would not speak again.

That was not the reaction Richard had anticipated.

A complication, indeed—one that was as unwelcome as it was unforeseen. He had steeled himself for yet another round of well-rehearsed entreaties from his mother. It was then that he had planned to make his move.

But this retreat—this sudden, unspoken withdrawal—was entirely unexpected.

“You appear at a loss, dear cousin,”

said Darcy, a grin threatening to overtake his expression.

“I admit I am,”

Richard replied, allowing a trace of bewilderment to slip into his voice.

“So, you truly understood my motives, then?”

“I did, though not immediately. But now, I must inquire—what exactly was the purpose of this grand performance?”

Richard’s lips quirked in a dry smile.

“An answer to a question I have long sought to resolve: the true reason behind my mother’s hold over Aunt Catherine.”

“Does that imply you have no further interest in Haddonwood, and are now prepared to accept Rosemont after all?”

Richard paused for a moment before replying, his voice betraying the faintest trace of melancholy.

“Indeed, Darcy. To speak plainly, I always knew I would come to this conclusion in the end. After so many years of war and strife, I longed for a life of quietude, of stability. I craved it for myself, above all.”

“You deserve it, cousin,”

Darcy said, his tone reflecting careful thought.

“But you must remember—it is by no means a life of ease. The management of an estate, particularly one such as Rosemont, carries its own burdens. Still, I do not doubt you will grow into it before long.”

Before Richard could reply, the door was flung open with surprising force, and to his astonishment, his father entered the room, looking far from pleased.

“Richard,”

said the Earl of Matlock, his voice tinged with weariness.

“what is it that you want from me now? Can I not indulge in a single morning’s sleep without being summoned?”

“Good God—has mother roused you?”

Richard asked, incredulous.

“Who else?”

returned the Earl, sinking into the nearest chair with the weary grace of a man long acquainted with domestic entreaty.

“She sent me to reason with her obstinate son—and I, in my wisdom, agreed to do so without protest.”

“As if you had any real choice.”

“Quite,”

the Earl responded, his tone dry as dust.

“Now, I have directed the solicitor to prepare the necessary papers for the transfer of Rosemont to you.”

“Father, we have already discussed this.”

“Richard, cease this nonsense,”

the Earl said, waving his hand in dismissal.

“I know precisely what you are about. You have made your decision as to Rosemont. Whatever this little performance may signify, it has nothing to do with that. No—I know precisely what it is you seek.”

Richard stiffened. The moment he had long anticipated had arrived. His father, ever the more discerning, now seemed prepared to admit him to the confidence.

“I shall tell you what you wish to know,”

the Earl continued, his voice low.

“I had intended to tell you sooner, but your mother insisted it was too early. William, I deem it necessary for you to hear this as well. Stay.”

Darcy sat up a little straighter. Richard leaned forward in anticipation.

“It was the spring of 1779,”

the Earl began, his tone heavy, as though resigned to unburdening a long-held family disgrace.

“My parents were hosting one of their grand dinner parties at Matlock. The wine was excellent, the company tolerable, and the evening—alas—most eventful.”

Richard turned to Darcy. "This promises to be highly entertaining."

"I would not employ the term entertaining," the Earl muttered, his tone dark with displeasure. "Your Aunt Catherine was found in a most compromising situation."

Richard’s brow rose.

“With Uncle de Bourgh?”

The Earl sighed. "Ah, young Lewis. He was not, strictly speaking, invited. He turned up entirely unannounced, clinging to the coattails of the Duke of __. Your grandmother hastily arranged a chamber for him. Catherine, however, remained unaware of these last-minute arrangements. She had other designs. She had set her sights on a particular gentleman for compromise—and, with deliberate intent, marched into the chamber she believed to be his."

Darcy’s frown deepened.

“And she found Uncle Lewis there?”

“No,”

said the Earl, solemnly.

“She found his valet.”

Richard straightened abruptly.

“His valet?”

“Just so,”

replied the Earl gravely.

“Sir Lewis remained below with the other gentlemen, quite unaware. Meanwhile, his valet—a man of some forty years, quiet, steadfast, and little acquainted with the fairer sex—had gone up to prepare the chamber. Catherine, having somehow procured a second key, was already within.”

“Heavens above,”

muttered Richard.

“The instant he entered,”

the Earl continued.

“she sprang upon the unsuspecting fellow and threw him with force onto the mattress. To his credit, he attempted to extricate himself. But alas—years of chastity, the wholly unexpected proximity of a woman, and the general confusion of the moment conspired to undo him. He… quite lost… reason and…control.”

“Good Heavens,”

exclaimed Darcy.

“Surely you do not intend to suggest that he—he made an attempt…with force?”

“Certainly not!”

said the Earl, with feeling.

“He was an honourable man, overcome by the moment and yielded to a long-harboured temptation. Catherine, in the darkness, mistook him for the gentleman she had pursued and, regrettably, gave way—believing the act would serve her purpose and secure a marriage. What passed between them was, I believe, mutual. She did not perceive her error—until the door was opened.”

“And who,”

said Darcy with some hesitation.

“was standing at the door?”

“Lewis, myself, your aunt and your grandfather.”

“No one else?”

“No one else.”

“Then why did no one attempt to suppress the affair? A discreet payment, in the proper quarter, might well have secured silence.”

“One would think so,”

said the Earl.

“But the valet—poor soul—was quite overcome with alarm the instant he grasped the full horror of what had passed. Catherine, true to form, responded with such vehemence and noise that I was obliged to place a hand over her mouth, lest she rouse the entire household. She bit me—twice. Lewis, in a moment of uncharacteristic nobility, offered to marry her on the spot.”

“And she refused?”

Richard exclaimed.

“But he was master of Rosings! Surely—even Aunt Catherine could not be so wanting in prudence as to spurn such an offer, particularly after… well, after what passed with the valet.”

The Earl gave a brief, sardonic smile.

“At the time, Sir Lewis was but the third son. He had no fortune and not the least expectation of inheritance. It was only owing to an unfortunate case of scarlet fever that his elder brothers died within a fortnight of one another, by which Rosings devolved upon him. That, however, did not occur until much later.”

“So,”

said Richard, still sounding faintly incredulous.

“she married him, though he had neither fortune nor expectation.”

“She did,”

replied the Earl.

“But only after your grandfather intervened—most decisively, and, I must allow, with surprising shrewdness. He informed Catherine that if she refused Lewis’s proposal once more, he would see her married to the valet instead.”

There followed a silence, broken only by Richard’s incredulous cough.

“If Catherine were immovable,”

the Earl remarked, his tone edged with irony.

“your grandfather was as inflexible as stone. She was, at last, obliged to yield.”

Darcy exhaled softly, and Richard shook his head. It was their own family, certainly—but it felt rather as though they ought to witness it discreetly, behind a fan in someone else’s drawing room.

“Young Lewis was a good man,”

the Earl continued.

“Modest to a fault, perhaps—but sound in character nonetheless. And it must be said—though her designs went awry—Catherine achieved her object. She secured a husband who, quite unexpectedly, inherited an estate nearly equal to Pemberley. Lewis had no training in estate management, and Catherine soon took Rosings in hand.”

“I remember Uncle Lewis as kind,”

said Darcy quietly.

“When I visited as a boy, he always spared time for me.”

“He was kind,”

the Earl agreed.

“Especially with children. Perhaps because he knew he would never be so fortunate as to have any of his own.”

Richard blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Earl looked between them both, then said quietly.

“Anne is not Lewis’s child.”

A pause ensued—long, weighty, and filled with unspoken significance.

“Lewis,”

the Earl continued.

“suffered an accident of some severity in his youth. You may recall the slight limp he bore. But the injury… was not confined to the bone.”

Richard stared at his father, astonished. Darcy, meanwhile, narrowed his eyes in calculation.

“Uncle,”

said he, after a while.

“Anne is what—five and twenty? Then… gracious heavens.”

Another silence followed—sharper, more laden than the last. The cousins exchanged a glance—measured, wary, and wholly comprehending.

There was no need for words. The numbers spoke for themselves—and told a tale no gentleman should ever recount in mixed company.

Then the Earl, with the weariness of one long accustomed to family matters best left unspoken and never committed to paper, continued:

“All I wish to say is that, a week after Anne’s first birthday, Sir Lewis’s valet retired from service. He departed with a handsome gratuity and—most significantly—a modest cottage near Bath. It was a singular gift—given in gratitude for a particular service rendered to the family—one that took some years to... accomplish.”

Once more, there was nothing for anyone to say to that.

Darcy, after a brief pause, cleared his throat.

“You said uncle Lewis’s brothers are no more.”

“Indeed,”

said the Earl.

“Is there any other who might contest Rosings, should this... history come to light?”

“No,”

the Earl replied.

“Lewis was the sole remaining heir. The estate passed to whosoever was named in his will—and that person is Anne. This”—he gestured vaguely, as if to wave away the entire scandal like smoke from a long-cold fire—“changes nothing.”

“And the valet?”

asked Richard.

“Is he still living?”

The Earl nodded.

“Yes, though aged and declining. His memory is not what it once was. Your aunt sends trusted men to inquire after him from time to time. She ensures he is well looked after. The man is well provided for, and comfortable.”

Richard gave a wry smile.

“So. Aunt Catherine, fearsome tyrant of Rosings Park, does care for someone after all.”

“That is unkind,”

said the Earl, though without much force.

“Why do you think she is so insistent on Anne marrying William? She believes he is the one man who will protect Anne—regardless of her illness.”

“She believes many things,”

said Richard with a shrug.

“Most of them self-serving. My view remains as it ever was: Aunt Catherine desires Anne’s marriage to Darcy, not out of sentiment, but to secure her position. She seeks to keep Rosings under her command, and to take Anne, the rightful mistress, so far away to Pemberley would aid her in that regard.”

“There might be truth in that,”

the Earl admitted.

“And yet, in her own way, she does care. I have assured Catherine that Anne shall always be provided for. Whoever her true father may be, she is my niece, and nothing shall alter that.”

“And I shall look after her,”

said Darcy quietly.

“should the need arise. But I will not marry her. I have spoken to Anne herself. She understands.”

“She told me the same,”

said the Earl, rising slowly to his feet.

“Very well, Richard—you have your secret. I am off to bed. Though whether I shall sleep is debatable.”

Richard reclined, a quiet laugh escaping him.

“Not yet, Father. You forget, sir, that by your own account, Rosings has no other heirs. It belongs to Anne—scandal notwithstanding. And this tale, however compromising it may be, shall never leave these walls. Not one Fitzwilliam would breathe a word. It would bring shame upon us all. Even Aunt Catherine must, surely, be aware of as much. Mother cannot hold it against her.”

He paused—plainly for effect—before continuing.

“So, what influence does my mother have over Aunt Catherine? What threat could she possibly wield?”

At this, the Earl sank back into his chair with the air of a general outmanoeuvred by his own troops.

“William,”

he said, fixing Darcy with a gaze both weary and resigned.

“take heed. Never allow your future sons to enter the army—or any calling in which they are taught tactics. You will come to regret it.”

“I shall take it under advisement, Uncle,”

Darcy said dryly.

“Though, in fairness, I would have asked the same, whether trained in strategy or not.”

“Very well,”

sighed the Earl, as though yielding to the inevitable.

“The answer, Richard, is no great mystery. Catherine dreads the loss of William’s esteem—far more than she would ever admit. That, Richard, is the hold your mother has over her.”

“My respect?”

Darcy repeated, plainly astonished.

Richard, too, was caught off guard.

“Why his respect? Why not mine?”

“Indeed,”

the Earl responded.

“Because William represents all that Catherine once aspired to—refined, admired, above censure. In him, she sees the life that might have been hers, had fortune turned a kinder eye.”

Richard made to reply, then hesitated and held his tongue.

“I must own, I remain rather at a loss.”

The Earl, now evidently exasperated, leaned forward.

“I am surprised. Very surprised. And, if I may speak plainly, somewhat disappointed. Neither of you—clever, educated, and generally observant men—has yet asked the most crucial question.”

Richard and Darcy exchanged a glance. What question?

Longbourn

Elizabeth

It was, by all appearances, an ordinary morning at Longbourn. The clock ticked with prim insistence, the fire murmured in the grate, and embroidery hoops lay set aside in various stages of neglect.

Mrs. Bennet, however, was on the verge of bursting.

She stared at Elizabeth. Then sighed. Then stared again.

She adjusted the sugar tongs. Then the flower arrangement. Then Elizabeth’s shawl, which required no adjustment whatsoever.

Elizabeth, long since accustomed to such silent theatrics, bore it with an amusement approaching the saintly.

Across the room, Mary sat with a book in her lap and a most suspicious smile upon her lips. Jane threaded a needle. Lydia’s foot swung back and forth with restless energy, while Kitty, yawning, meandered toward the window.

Mr. Collins, enthroned at the far end of the room, declaimed a sermon to no audience but his own sense of consequence. Elizabeth, who had begun to suspect he had returned from Lucas Lodge solely to afflict her nerves, devoutly hoped he might soon be called away—by summons, storm, or sheer providence.

“Carriage!”

cried Kitty, pressing her nose to the glass.

“A grand one! It is—yes, it is the same as before! That same dreadful crest! It is Lady Catherine!”

Mr. Collins sprang from his chair with an alacrity that did little credit to his clerical dignity.

“Her Ladyship herself? So soon? Oh, blessed hour! Then my express has not merely been received—it has been acted upon! Such condescension! Such gracious urgency! I am quite overcome!”

His gaze, moving with all the subtlety of a cannonball, came to rest upon Mary.

“Though I shall not presume to enter into particulars,”

he declared, visibly swelling with significance.

“I am persuaded that a certain lady in this parlour is soon to be gently—firmly—disabused of certain illusions, the indulgence of which would be inconsistent with... propriety.”

Mary did not so much as glance up from her book.

Elizabeth, who had turned just in time to catch the faint upward twitch of Mary’s mouth, could scarce contain her delight. Mary—smiling! Not smirking, nor grimacing, nor meditating on sin, but smiling—and with an air of quiet secrecy. Elizabeth had never seen her sister look more alive. Mary even tucked a stray curl behind her ear in a gesture which, in another woman, might have been thought arch.

Richard Fitzwilliam, it seemed, had succeeded where Fordyce had failed.

Mr. Collins, of course, did not pause to observe the effect of his words. He had already flung himself toward the door in readiness to greet his noble patroness, his arms flapping like a clergyman caught in high wind.

That he remained wholly ignorant of Lady Catherine’s former visit to Longbourn was plain. Lydia and Kitty, no longer chasing officers, had spent the greater part of the week indoors. As for Mrs. Bennet, she had scarcely stepped beyond the garden gate since being burdened with a secret that consumed her by degrees. Thus, the tale had yet to take its natural course.

“Lizzy,”

said her mother, in so low a whisper that shocked Elizabeth. Never before had she heard her speak with such restraint; indeed, she had scarcely believed her capable of it.

“Yes, Mama?”

she returned, equally subdued, more from wonder than intention.

“Lady Catherine has come to see you,”

Mrs. Bennet whispered, her eyes wide.

“Oh yes—I daresay I was not the only one mistaken about which of you Mr. Darcy admired. But now that he has chosen you—do not provoke him, Lizzy! Keep your tongue in check. Do not go vexing his aunt, or the Earl see him married off elsewhere to make amends!”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. It was the first her mother had spoken to her since learning of the engagement, and, true to form, it was not congratulations, not joy, not the least expression of maternal fondness—it was a caution, delivered as if Elizabeth had already contrived her own disgrace.

“I do not believe Lady Catherine has come to see me, Mama,”

she replied, turning her gaze away.

“Why not?”

Mrs. Bennet’s voice leapt a full octave before she recollected herself and glanced anxiously about. Then, leaning in once more with renewed secrecy, she said.

“Your Mr. Darcy may have written to both the Earl and his aunt. Perhaps she has come now to correct her former error—and to sanction the match.”

Elizabeth was about to reply when the door to the parlour was thrown open with a flourish so excessive it could only belong to Mr. Collins.

With the pomp of a town crier, he announced.

“Her Ladyship, Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

Mrs. Hill followed in his wake, casting a look so full of vexation that Elizabeth could not help but pity her deeply.

Lady Catherine swept into the room, casting a swift, disdainful glance over the company before it settled on Mary. Her lips tightened, as though even the sight of Mary tested her composure.

“Miss Mary Bennet,”

she called, her voice firm.

“we must speak. Come. Let us walk in the garden.”

Mary had not yet risen when Mr. Collins leapt forward like a disturbed fox.

“Indeed! Indeed, Miss Mary!”

he cried, waving one hand theatrically.

“You must not deny her Ladyship. I have already spoken to you on the subject—though of course I cannot presume to rival her counsel—but I am gratified to see she has condescended to attend to the situation personally. There is no doubt she will set all things right.”

Lady Catherine turned her head slowly to regard him. It was a look that ought to have curdled milk.

Mrs. Bennet, who had been glancing anxiously between Elizabeth, Mary, and Lady Catherine with her mouth open, gave a little laugh—a high, nervous titter, more suited to a tea tray’s overturning than a lady of rank in a parlour.

“Mary? Your Ladyship?”

she ventured at last, her tone meant to convey both clarification and deference, but succeeding in neither.

“Oh! Yes—well, I suppose—it might be so—yes—although—perhaps not quite—”

she faltered, threw a flustered glance at Elizabeth, then turned back to Lady Catherine, her voice climbing a note.

“that is to say—yes—though I must say—what a very natural mistake one might make—I did myself, at first! I said to Mr. Bennet, ‘Mark my words, it is Mary,’ and he said—well, never mind what he said, only that I was mistaken, though it’s no fault of yours, my Lady, for anyone might have thought—”

Lady Catherine raised a hand.

“You are incoherent,”

she declared.

“I am, yes,”

said Mrs. Bennet brightly.

“I often am, when excitement gets the better of me, and this morning it has certainly had the best—and the worst—of me. But you see, my lady, I only mention it because—well—if you are come to speak to Mary on a certain subject—and I am sure I do not presume!—then you ought to know it was not—is not—”

“Is not what?”

asked Lady Catherine with a flash of impatience.

Mrs. Bennet’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again—an imitation of a fish out of water.

Lady Catherine turned to Mary, her expression equal parts suspicion and inquiry.

Mary, for her part, looked up from her position with the calm of a woman who had been offered opinions all her life and had finally discovered she need not heed them.

“Mama is only trying to be helpful,”

she said mildly.

“I am! I am always helpful!”

cried Mrs. Bennet, with sudden energy.

“Especially when people ought to know things—but of course one mustn’t say anything one oughtn’t, and I am sworn to silence by Mr. Bennet himself, and very stern he was about it—but then again, you are Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and I daresay you know already. If not from your nephew, then certainly from… well… from other quarters…”

Lady Catherine blinked.

“What is it that you are talking about?”

Mrs. Bennet looked helplessly at Mary. Elizabeth, who had held her silence thus far—amused and intrigued by Mary’s uncharacteristic serenity—now saw that the moment demanded rescue. A glance at Jane confirmed it: her eldest sister was already preparing to speak, clearly of the same mind. Even Mary looked up, as if to speak—

Yet, alas, it was too late.

Mr. Collins had found his voice.

“Mrs. Bennet,”

cried he, his countenance filled with wounded astonishment.

“Am I to understand you aright? That you would deny my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself, the privilege of addressing your daughter?”

Well, in truth, he did interpret it aright, though he grasped the meaning alone, and not the motives that lay behind it.

“I am aghast,”

he continued, already impervious to reason.

“It is my duty, nay, my honour, as the future master of Longbourn, to ensure that Miss Mary complies with the summons of Lady Catherine. I shall insist upon it.”

These, in truth, were the most concise sentences Mr. Collins had uttered since his arrival in the country. Yet, brevity had not improved them.

Mrs. Bennet turned to him, her eyes sparkling with indignation.

“You may be the heir presumptive, Mr. Collins—but until my husband is no longer able to give his commands, it is he who is the master here. And he would not suffer any man to insist upon his daughters—not even one in possession of a benefice.”

A silence fell, sharp and sudden. Even the fire crackled with less vigour.

Elizabeth nearly applauded.

Jane gasped.

Kitty and Lydia clapped their hands over their mouths in twin delight.

Composed, unflappable Mary—smiled.

Mr. Collins turned a shade that could only be described as the colour of an overripe peach. To be thus rebuked in front of his patroness—oh, horror! He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He closed it again.

Mrs. Bennet now turned to Lady Catherine with a new burst of purpose.

“Your Ladyship,”

she said, rallying with unexpected resolve.

“if you wish to speak with my daughter on a certain matter, I must tell you—it is not Mary, your Ladyship. You are quite mistaken. It is Lizzy to whom you must speak to.”

Lady Catherine reared back.

“Lizzy? Who is Lizzy?”

Mrs. Bennet walked over, seized Elizabeth’s hand with the air of one offering a prized possession, and pulled her forward.

“This is my second daughter, Elizabeth,”

she said, and though her face wore its habitual flush of agitation, her chin rose imperceptibly. There was—could it be?—a flicker of pride.

Elizabeth curtsied with the utmost propriety.

“Your Ladyship.”

She was met with an expression of such bewilderment that she had to suppress a laugh.

“No,”

said her Ladyship at last, in a tone of finality.

“I shall speak with Miss Mary.”

“Indeed, indeed,”

echoed Mr. Collins, swelling with misplaced confidence, relieved to be once again in firm, if misguided, territory.

“But—your Ladyship,”

began Mrs. Bennet, her hands fluttering.

“I assure you, the person with whom—”

A light touch on her shoulder silenced her.

“Mama,”

said Mary quietly.

“I shall speak with Lady Catherine. I believe I can set the matter right.”

“She will, Mama,”

Elizabeth said, casting a brief glance at her sister, who remained composed.

“We shall wait here.”

Mrs. Bennet looked between the two daughters, before letting out a sigh of exaggerated resignation.

“Very well. I have done what I could.”

Mary turned with an air of quiet poise.

“Lady Catherine, shall we proceed?”

Lady Catherine gave a curt nod and turned toward the door. But alas, Mr. Collins, not yet satisfied with the number of times he had rendered himself ridiculous that morning, sprang forward with the enthusiasm of a man certain he was being helpful.

“Cousin Mary,”

said he, swelling with an overblown sense of gallantry.

“I shall accompany you. It will be the greatest honour.”

Lady Catherine turned with her usual hauteur. Mrs. Bennet, who had only just settled herself in her chair, rose again.

“Mr. Collins,”

began Mary, the very image of patience.

“Do you think me infirm? That I might faint from the exertion of such a conversation?”

“No—no, indeed,”

he stammered quickly, blinking rapidly.

“Do you suppose me devoid of wit, unable to follow Lady Catherine’s meaning?”

“Certainly not! Never!”

he cried, his voice rising in protest at Mrs. Bennet’s glare.

“Or that Lady Catherine’s comprehension is such that she might need you to translate me?”

Mr. Collins, again, turned the colour of an overripe fruit.

“I—I would never—”

“Then,”

said Mary, with a slight nod.

“I believe it would be wisest for all concerned if you remain. Though, I must express my gratitude for your kind intention to escort me.”

Lady Catherine, who had thus far watched this exchange with an expression of imperial displeasure, gave Mr. Collins a look that suggested she very much agreed. She turned without a word and swept out.

Mary followed.

The door closed behind them with a most satisfying click.

Elizabeth, her gaze still on the door, only smiled.

“I begin to suspect,”

said she softly.

“that we have never truly known Mary.”

Netherfield