Page 9 of Moments of Truth
Having fulfilled his sacred duty, the clergyman hurried back towards the parsonage with a sense of triumph, ready to regale Charlotte with tales of his impeccable timing and the undeniable favour he must now hold with Mr. Darcy.
“My dear,” he resolved to begin, “I was privileged to be the very first humble resident of Hunsford to pay his respects to Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. I flatter myself that my bow conveyed, with suitable plainness, the gratitude of the entire parish.”
Indeed, no other clergyman in England had made such an impression within mere seconds of the arrival of their patron’s relatives! The day had scarcely begun, and already, in Mr. Collins’s mind, it was a triumph.
***
Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s visit to Rosings began with the kind of grandeur Lady Catherine de Bourgh always insisted upon.
The grand entrance of Rosings Park loomed large as their carriage approached, its high stone walls and manicured gardens displaying a rather excessive wealth that Darcy was long accustomed to but which Colonel Fitzwilliam still found amusingly ostentatious.
The air smelled faintly of boxwood and damp earth, the sort of carefully cultivated atmosphere that promised order yet whispered constraint.
Upon their arrival, they were greeted by Lady Catherine with her usual barrage of instructions, opinions, and subtle reproaches about their timing and travel choices.
Darcy bore it with his characteristic silence while Fitzwilliam, ever the diplomat, responded with light banter, deftly sidestepping her criticisms with ease.
One might have thought him a courtier at Versailles, so smoothly did he parry each pronouncement with a bow of words.
In the evening, at dinner, the clinking of fine china and the soft glow of candlelight set a sophisticated ambience in the grand dining room at Rosings, where the colonel, ever the raconteur, regaled the company with tales from their recent perambulations.
“But today, at noon, the local parishioner of Hunsford welcomed us like the very air of the village seemed to burst into applause as we made our approach,” he declared, his voice rich with delight, “I dare say the clergyman has hardly witnessed such excitement since the last harvest!” The servants, schooled to silence, lowered their eyes, though one or two could scarcely suppress the twitch of a smile.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who presided over the table like a queen amongst her courtiers, gave an indulgent smile as she daintily placed a morsel of roasted pheasant upon her tongue.
“Indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam, your presence and Darcy’s are always celebrated, but let us not forget the charitable contributions of my esteemed nephew.
” Her eyes, sharp as the diamonds at her throat, turned towards Mr. Darcy, who sat with his usual upright elegance.
Darcy inclined his head slightly, neither seeking nor rejecting the tribute, as though good deeds were a coin too costly to be displayed upon the table.
“Speaking of contributions,” she continued, in a tone that suggested casual conversation yet demanded absolute attention, “Mr. Collins, the clergyman, has married a Hertfordshire lady of good family from Longbourn.”
“Ah, matrimony,” sighed the colonel, feigning a dreamy expression though his interest in the topic was transparently absent. His tone was the same he might have used to discuss a tedious military ration.
But at this mention, a subtle change came over Mr. Darcy; an eyebrow imperceptibly arched, suggesting intrigue beneath his stoic exterior.
The candlesticks threw a restless gleam across his features, and for a moment the mask of indifference seemed fragile, as though one wrong word might shatter it.
“Furthermore,” Lady Catherine added as if dropping petals of gossip for her guests to gather, “Mrs. Charlotte Collins’s best friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, is currently residing in Hunsford on a visit.”
The colonel’s keen eyes did not miss the swift veil of indifference that Mr. Darcy donned at the name nor the momentary stillness that betrayed his composure. It was an opening too delicious to ignore.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” the colonel echoed, a playful lilt dancing upon his words. “A charming acquaintance to renew, would you not agree, Darcy?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Darcy replied, his gaze fixed on the flickering flame of a nearby candelabrum as if its light could sear away unwelcome thoughts. He spoke with the measured restraint of a man aware that every syllable might betray him.
“Then it is settled!” The colonel leaned forward, his smile broadening with mischief. “We shall pay a visit to the parsonage on the morrow. It would only be proper to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Collins in person. I would love to meet Miss Bennet, too.”
At that, Lady Catherine nodded, pleased by the prospect of her relations bestowing such civility upon her clergyman.
Meanwhile, the colonel’s smile remained fixed upon Darcy, whose countenance, though schooled in impassivity, could not fully disguise the tempest hidden within.
For one who prided himself on mastering every field of duty, it was bitter indeed to find his heart the one territory left unconquered.
***
The following day, right after breakfast, Mr. Collins made a joyful trip to Rosings to pay his respects to Lady Catherine and her two nephews, his steps brisk with self-importance, as though he bore tidings of state to a sovereign.
He nearly ruined the gentlemen’s plan to visit Hunsford, for his enthusiasm delayed their departure.
Yet Colonel Fitzwilliam was not the man one unexpected event could detour from his plan; with his cheerful adaptability, he transformed inconvenience into opportunity.
Thus, to everyone’s surprise, her ladyship’s nephews accompanied him when Mr. Collins returned home.
Charlotte observed them from her husband’s room as they crossed the road; she immediately went to tell Maria and Elizabeth about the honour they would be receiving. Her voice carried both excitement and a trace of unease, for she well knew how heavily Mr. Darcy’s presence weighed upon her friend.
“I owe this courtesy to you, Eliza,” Charlotte said with a grateful smile. “Mr. Darcy would not have come so quickly if it were not for your influence.”
Elizabeth coloured slightly and was about to disclaim such credit when the doorbell rang, its sharp chime announcing the arrival of their visitors.
The three men entered the room shortly after.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was in front and appeared to be around thirty years old; while not particularly handsome, his pleasant expression and open manners at once put Maria at ease.
He carried himself with an air of true gentility, the easy assurance of a soldier who had seen the world and yet retained his warmth.
Mr. Darcy seemed unchanged from his time in Hertfordshire—tall, composed, and reserved.
He politely greeted Mrs. Collins with studied courtesy and behaved with his usual formality towards her friend, Elizabeth.
Miss Bennet, with equal composure, offered only a brief nod in response, though her heart quickened at the sight of him.
Colonel Fitzwilliam engaged in the conversation immediately with ease and charm.
He spoke of their journey, of Lady Catherine’s high spirits, and even of the spring weather with such lightness that Charlotte and Maria were soon smiling.
At the same time, his cousin remained silent for some time after addressing Mrs. Collins with a brief comment about the house and garden.
At length, civility awoke in him enough to inquire after Elizabeth’s family’s well-being.
His voice was low, his words carefully measured, betraying more concern than he wished.
She replied in the expected manner and then added, with a steadier tone than she felt: “My eldest sister has been living in London for three months now. Have you perhaps seen her there, Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy dodged the question, saying he had spent most of his time at Pemberley. Yet the faint tightening of his jaw, the averted gaze fixed upon the window, and the pause before he spoke betrayed more than his words would ever allow.
***
In the days that followed, the cousins found their time at Rosings divided between Lady Catherine’s imperious commands and their own attempts to escape into the quiet of the countryside.
Her ladyship’s voice, forever dispensing advice on the management of parishes and estates, resounded ceaselessly through the halls; yet, whenever duty released them, both gentlemen were glad to take refuge in the park or to call at the parsonage, where conversation was conducted in a far more natural tone, untouched by ceremony and all the freer for it.
It was there that one subject of interest soon began to emerge in their routine: Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy had not expected to see her at Hunsford, but her presence as a guest of Mr. Collins and his wife Charlotte altered the complexion of his visit entirely.
She seemed, by the mere act of being herself, to introduce freshness into days otherwise marked by Lady Catherine’s predictability.
Even the familiar walks about the grounds, once tedious, took on new life when he thought he might encounter her among them.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, ever the sociable one, was immediately drawn to Elizabeth’s quick wit and lively manner.
Her playful observations, delivered with a sparkle of mischief, set him laughing in ways he had not in months, and he declared more than once that Hunsford afforded better company than many a London drawing-room.
Her conversation, light without frivolity, amused without offending, seemed to breathe vitality into the very air he inhaled.
He found her presence infinitely more stimulating than Lady Catherine’s endless monologues about the proper way to direct servants or regulate a household.
The evenings at Rosings proved awkward for Darcy.
Seated across from Elizabeth at dinner, he could scarcely keep his eyes from drifting to her.
Her countenance, animated in the play of candlelight, absorbed his attention despite every stern reminder to himself that it was folly to admire her.
She was lively in conversation, her laughter brightening the otherwise solemn atmosphere of the grand dining room, and each time the sound reached him, it unsettled him more than the sharpest remark from Lady Catherine ever could.
The silvery cadence of her mirth seemed to pierce through the gravity of his mind and awaken in him an emotion he had long denied—hope, fragile yet irresistible.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease.
He engaged Elizabeth in spirited exchanges, his tone light, his humour ready, much to Lady Catherine’s mild irritation at being upstaged.
Darcy sat in brooding silence, torn between admiration and restraint, his conscience whispering of her family’s want of fortune, while his heart rebelled against the dictates of rank.
To those around him, he appeared grave and taciturn; to himself, he was in turmoil.
His every glance towards her was a skirmish between desire and discipline, his every silence a battle hard won yet bitterly felt.
Elizabeth, for her part, could not fail to notice Darcy’s peculiar behaviour.
She had long since decided that he was a man of pride and coldness, and his reserve at Rosings only confirmed the unfavourable impression she had formed in Hertfordshire.
His cousin Fitzwilliam, by contrast, was open, talkative, and obliging.
With him she felt most at ease, even daring to tease him about his cousin’s severity.
“Mr. Darcy must believe he was born to frown,” she once declared with a laugh, and the colonel, though amused, could only offer the faint defence that Darcy was not half so unfeeling as he appeared.
These half-jesting remarks lodged themselves in Darcy’s mind more securely than Elizabeth could have guessed.
He sat, appearing unmoved, yet inwardly every word seemed to strike against his guarded heart.
What she dismissed with a smile, he received as judgment; what she delivered in play, he felt as pain.
Yet even in the wound, he discerned the strange sweetness of caring too much for one who thought so little of him.