Page 31

Every object in the next day's journey to Hunsford was the same as she recalled—every hedgerow, every stretch of road, and every gentle rise of the countryside seemed to whisper of another life, a former time.

Yet this time, it felt more like a reflection than a reality.

The knowledge that she would be staying at the parsonage as a guest, and not as a guest of Rosings, amused her now more than it vexed her.

Mr. Collins's enthusiastic greeting upon their arrival had not changed in the least, nor had his thinly veiled pride in the parsonage he had once imagined she might preside over. It was all exactly as she remembered.

What did differ, however, was Elizabeth's reaction.

She could hardly keep from smiling when Mr. Collins, with all his accustomed gravity, ushered them into his abode with sweeping declarations of its superiority, as though it were a manor house.

The parsonage, with its modest proportions and overly elaborate compliments to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would not have sufficed for even the humblest of cottages on the Pemberley estate.

The notion nearly made her laugh aloud, and only her firm sense of decorum prevented it.

Charlotte, ever practical and composed, had clearly done much to order the household in her own quiet, effective manner.

The sitting room was brighter, the furniture better arranged, and the sense of peace more tangible.

Elizabeth noted these things with appreciation, and some guilt.

For though she came with genuine warmth, she was also here for another reason altogether—a reason that brought with it the faintest pang of regret for using Charlotte’s hospitality as the stage for her reunion with Fitzwilliam.

Still, she was determined to maintain their friendship and not allow her deeper purposes to interfere with their companionship.

Charlotte's manner, though warm, had an edge of reservation, and Elizabeth could not fault her for it.

Theirs was an old intimacy, altered now by the strangeness of circumstance and the burden of unspoken thoughts.

That evening, over tea, Mr. Collins launched into his habitual praises.

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth," he began, with an air of grave importance, "you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her Ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her Ladyship’s carriages, for she has several. "

"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed," added Charlotte with a measured tone, "and a most attentive neighbour."

Elizabeth, unable to restrain herself, gave a small laugh. "Indeed," she said lightly, "I imagine sitting in Lady Catherine’s best carriage must be quite the honour—an experience not soon forgotten."

Mr. Collins’s countenance brightened with the animation of one accustomed to dispensing second-hand grandeur.

“Oh, my dear cousin, though I must clarify—her Ladyship’s more elegant equipages are, naturally, reserved for occasions of true consequence.

It was, I believe, her third-best barouche which was most graciously offered for our use that day.

But rest assured, even the humblest of her vehicles surpasses in taste and workmanship any conveyance you—or I, for that matter—could ever hope to command by our own modest means. ”

Elizabeth inclined her head, her smile sharpening. “How fortunate we are, then, to be so repeatedly reminded of our inferiority. It is not every day one has the privilege of feeling so thoroughly insignificant—nor of being lent the precise barouche best suited to it.”

Mr. Collins blinked, evidently attempting to decide whether her tone bespoke gratitude or further admiration. Before he could settle the matter—

Charlotte gave her a quick look, her brow furrowing just slightly, but Mr. Collins, beaming with approval at what he perceived to be admiration, missed any irony. "Ah, yes! That is precisely the sort of condescension which marks her Ladyship’s character."

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Charlotte, who smiled faintly.

It was the smile of one who understood exactly how far her husband had wandered in his praise, but who also knew the futility of curbing him.

Inwardly, Elizabeth could not help but reflect, with a flicker of amusement, that the honour was indeed hers—though not in the way any of them would yet understand.

Later, when they were alone in Charlotte’s private parlour, the two friends took a few moments to speak more freely.

"Tell me, Eliza," said Charlotte, taking her usual chair by the hearth, "how does Hertfordshire fare without me? "

Elizabeth laughed. "Oh, it stumbles on, though certainly it lacks for wit in your absence. Mama is still determined to see Jane married, though she laments that the gentleman has departed."

Charlotte raised a brow. "Do you think he will return?"

Elizabeth hesitated. "It is difficult to say. Jane believes he will, or wishes to believe it. I have told her to keep her heart guarded, but you know my sister."

"She is all sweetness and trust," Charlotte said with a sigh. "I do hope her heart will not be too bruised by this delay. And what of the militia? Has Mr. Wickham continued to stir the neighbourhood, or has he at last removed himself from our acquaintance?"

Elizabeth looked toward the window, as if the grey sky might offer clarity. “He is gone. Though not in the usual manner of parting.”

Charlotte tilted her head. “Gone? I had not heard—though perhaps I should not be surprised. He seemed a man always on the edge of flight.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a tight smile. “Indeed, he tried to leave Meryton in the most theatrical way possible—with Lydia. They meant to elope.”

Charlotte gasped. “Lydia? But surely—how—?”

“A comedy of errors,” Elizabeth said softly, though there was no amusement in her voice.

“Mama, in her delight at the notion of a romantic adventure, insisted on accompanying them, thinking it a pleasure jaunt. Upon realising he would not only be saddled with Lydia but our mother as well, Wickham found the better part of valour and vanished. Quite literally.”

Charlotte stared, open-mouthed. “He deserted the militia?”

“So it is believed. He left without a word. No note, no trace. Only silence—and a scandal half-formed, now mercifully allowed to dissolve into rumour. He is spoken of with disdain now, even by those who once called him charming.”

Charlotte sat back slowly. “And Lydia?”

Shamed, though not deeply enough, I fear. For a month my mother was inconsolable. But just as I was preparing to depart for Hunsford, they both rewrote the tale entirely. Now, they claim to have seen through him from the beginning, to have known him a villain all along."

Charlotte gave a disbelieving laugh. "That is convenient."

Elizabeth smirked. "Is it not always, when the truth becomes uncomfortable? "

Charlotte nodded slowly. "Then I shall say no more, but I am glad you have come. I have missed you."

"And I you."

The candlelight flickered gently across the room as the two women sat in silence for a moment longer. Outside, the air was chill with the promise of spring, and Elizabeth allowed herself, for one quiet moment, to hope.

About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room preparing for a walk, a sudden clamor below seemed to stir the whole house into confusion.

After pausing a moment, Elizabeth heard someone ascending the stairs in a most violent hurry, calling her name aloud.

She opened the door to find Maria rushing breathless toward her on the landing, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Oh, my dear Eliza! Pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste and come down this moment."

Elizabeth, with a calm that belied her inward stirring, nodded and followed her friend's sister, knowing full well what awaited her.

This, too, was a moment she had lived before, and though she bore it better for the familiarity, the prospect of restraining her every impulse remained a quiet strain upon her mind.

From the vantage point of the window, they beheld the source of all this excitement—a low phaeton drawn up at the garden gate, in which two ladies were seated.

It was this curious sight that had brought Maria running, and Elizabeth, though unsurprised, could not help but feel the stir of something significant beginning.

In former days, Elizabeth might have scolded Anne for so thoughtlessly leaving Charlotte to entertain the great lady out-of-doors, but time and experience had softened her view.

She now beheld Anne with genuine empathy.

Suffering from an affliction that had no cure, her life forever bound by frailty, the girl had a sweetness in her countenance and, in brief moments when Lady Catherine’s eye was elsewhere, an unassuming wit that Elizabeth had come to admire.

Alas, there would be little opportunity for intimacy on this visit, for soon another cousin would arrive.

Colonel Fitzwilliam.

The thought of him caused Elizabeth’s heart to skip—not from affection, but from a strange mix of anticipation and unease.

Though she had never truly met him in this timeline, she knew him well—far too well.

In her memories of a future life, he had been more than just Darcy’s cousin; he had been a confidant, a companion, even a friend.

But now, he was a For all his charm and easy humour, Colonel Fitzwilliam was a man in military intelligence—a position that made him far more perceptive than most. Elizabeth knew, from the depths of her memories, how quickly he could detect what was unsaid.

She had to be careful. In this moment, she could not afford to be the woman he might expect her to be, the one who had already lived so much of their shared future.

No, in this reality, she had to be a different version of herself—one who kept her knowledge carefully hidden.

Her Fitzwilliam, her beloved husband from another life, had trusted Richard implicitly.

He had once said, in a tone half fond, half weary, that his cousin would ferret out any truth given time and a pretext.

That memory lingered now, both a reminder of the man she had once loved and a warning of the danger if she were to slip.

Colonel Fitzwilliam would soon arrive, and though she knew him well from the future, she had no idea how he might perceive her in this present moment.

Shaking off the weight of her thoughts, Elizabeth forced herself to look outward, away from the quiet storm brewing in her mind.

The present demanded her attention, and she would not let her worries about Fitzwilliam overshadow the current company.

As she turned her gaze, she saw Miss De Bourgh seated quietly in her phaeton, with Charlotte nearby, a small, composed figure.

Mr. Collins, as ever, was holding forth on the blessings of Rosings Park with his customary solemnity, oblivious to anything beyond his own self-importance.

Elizabeth, though her mind remained half-occupied with the Colonel, reminded herself to be present. She smiled gently at Maria, who seemed to take some small comfort in the simple exchange. The distraction was welcome.

At length, there was nothing more to be said, and the carriage rolled on, its wheels gently rattling on the gravel.

The others returned to the house, and it was not long before Mr. Collins, ever the eager, self-important man, began to congratulate the ladies on their good fortune.

Charlotte, without missing a beat, explained the reason for their delight—soon they would all be dining at Rosings the following day, at the request of Lady Catherine herself.