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Mr. Collins’s triumph, as a result of the invitation from Rosings, was, as might be expected, complete.

That Lady Catherine should deign to include the entire party so soon after Elizabeth’s arrival confirmed, in his mind, both her extraordinary condescension and his own worthiness as her clergyman.

The opportunity to parade his guests through the grandeur of Rosings Park, and to bask in reflected glory, was a delight beyond his most sanguine expectations.

"I confess," he said at breakfast, his voice nearly trembling with excitement, "that I should not have been at all surprised if her Ladyship had asked us on Sunday to drink tea and pass the evening.

Such affability is her nature. But to be invited to dine, and so immediately after your arrival, Cousin Elizabeth!

It is a mark of favour which I can hardly describe. "

Sir William, ever eager to bask in borrowed grandeur, nodded gravely, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. "Indeed, my dear Mr. Collins, such attentions are not unusual among the truly genteel. At court, such instances of elegant breeding are, I assure you, quite common."

Mr. Collins beamed, basking in the compliment.

Meanwhile, the rest of the day was filled with eager anticipation—and, to Mr. Collins’s mind, proper preparation.

He took it upon himself to impart a steady stream of instruction, particularly to Maria Lucas, ensuring that they would all be ready for the “splendours to come.” He recounted the vastness of Rosings Park, the finery of the plate, the number of servants, and the expense of the glazing with such reverence that Maria began to look as though she might prefer to remain at home than endure another of his lectures.

Elizabeth, though amused by the predictability of it all, bore the entire spectacle with a well-masked grace.

She had long anticipated this sequence—every speech, every glance, and the particular manner in which Mr. Collins would turn the occasion into a performance of his own importance.

As for Lady Catherine’s invitation, Elizabeth knew it was motivated not by warmth, but by the lady’s need to reinforce her own superiority.

The invitation was merely a stage on which Lady Catherine could further display her social rank, her so-called "graciousness" offered only to remind others of their inferiority.

When the time to prepare arrived, Mr. Collins appeared at the ladies' doors no fewer than three times, each visit a reminder of Lady Catherine's purported intolerance for delays.

"Do not concern yourself over your apparel, dear cousin," he added, casting a reassuring glance toward Elizabeth.

"Lady Catherine is most gracious to those in humble circumstances and does not expect us to rival her own elegance.

She appreciates simplicity in others, as it highlights the distinction of rank so necessary to a well-ordered society. "

Elizabeth, resisting the urge to smile too broadly, replied with the utmost propriety, "I shall endeavour to meet her expectations with the utmost propriety."

As they set off for Rosings, the half-mile walk was surprisingly pleasant.

The early spring air was crisp, though the intermittent sunshine made it bearable.

Yet, despite the fresh air and the beauty of the grounds, Elizabeth’s feelings remained unchanged from her first visit.

The grandeur of Rosings, though meticulously maintained, had not inspired awe in her then, and it did so little now.

Mr. Collins's previous remarks about the expense of every architectural feature—especially the windows—echoed in her mind as they approached the house.

Upon their arrival at the great house, Mr. Collins eagerly began to point out every architectural flourish with the enthusiasm of a child showing off a new toy.

Maria Lucas’s anxiety only seemed to grow with each step, and even Sir William, ever composed in courtly manners, began to show signs of unease.

As they were led through the entrance hall to the drawing room, the weight of the occasion seemed to settle heavily upon them all.

Lady Catherine rose from her seat with the air of one bestowing a great favour, rather than offering a true welcome.

Tall and imposing, she exuded a forceful presence, her features strong and commanding, though there might have been a time when they held beauty.

Every word she spoke was delivered with such authority, with a certainty that left no room for doubt or disagreement.

It was not silence that made her formidable, but the tone of entitlement in her voice, as if her very presence demanded submission.

Elizabeth, however, remained outwardly calm.

She had long since learned that neither rank nor wealth should inspire awe, and she met her hostess’s gaze with steady composure.

In Lady Catherine’s features conveyed were etched with pride, an insatiable hunger for control, and an almost regal disregard for anyone’s opinion but her own.

Miss de Bourgh, seated quietly beside her mother, was a stark contrast. Frail and pale, her presence seemed almost fragile, as if any sudden movement or forceful gesture might send her crumbling.

Mrs. Jenkinson, ever attentive, fussed with her shawl and adjusted a screen just so, shielding her young mistress’s delicate eyes from any potential discomfort.

It was clear that, despite their shared lineage, Lady Catherine's daughter had inherited none of her mother’s commanding presence.

Instead, Miss de Bourgh seemed to be a quiet echo of her mother’s power—broken, subdued, and passive in her frailty.

After a few formalities, the party was directed to a window to admire the view.

"Much better in the summer," Lady Catherine declared with a dismissive wave of her hand, as though the current season had failed to meet her high expectations.

Dinner, when it came, was every bit as grand as Mr. Collins had promised—silver gleamed, crystal sparkled, and a small army of servants moved with such precision that Elizabeth briefly wondered if they were part of the same well-rehearsed performance.

Mr. Collins, looking particularly pleased with himself, took his seat at the bottom of the table.

Pride bloomed on every feature as he carved, served, praised, and gestured with delighted alacrity, prompting Sir William to echo his sentiments with eager agreement .

Elizabeth, seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh, found herself with little opportunity for conversation.

Charlotte, as expected, listened with dutiful attentiveness to Lady Catherine’s ongoing declarations, which ranged from poultry to parish management, while Miss de Bourgh, too frail to offer much, remained largely silent.

Mrs. Jenkinson hovered nearby, vigilant to every sigh or hesitation from her young mistress.

Maria, ever the timid guest, dared not speak, and the gentlemen, true to form, spoke only to admire the grandeur of the setting.

That left Elizabeth to her own observations, and she could not help but wonder—once again—how such a household functioned with so little genuine connection between its inhabitants.

As her gaze shifted to Lady Catherine, Elizabeth reflected that her Fitzwilliam had inherited none of his aunt’s temperament.

Whatever pride he possessed, it was rooted in principle, not in domination or entitlement.

In that moment, Elizabeth found herself more certain than ever that their futures would one day intertwine.

Though she had not yet regained him, she had faith in the strength of their affection, and she was convinced it would endure.

After dinner, the ladies returned to the drawing room, where it wasn’t long before Lady Catherine turned her attention to Elizabeth with the sharp precision of one accustomed to being obeyed and admired.

Elizabeth, though sorely tempted to be more impertinent than was prudent, reined in her wit.

Stories about Lady Catherine’s youthful follies and small absurdities—tales the Earl had once shared with warm amusement over brandy and firelight—danced at the edge of her tongue.

Yet, she reminded herself that she was not meant to know such things yet, and some knowledge must remain carefully hidden for now.

Instead, Elizabeth answered Lady Catherine’s inquiries with composed candour.

She offered firmer sallies than she might have during her first visit to Rosings, but never so bold as to provoke offense.

In this way, she allowed Lady Catherine her triumph in being inquisitive while preserving her own dignity.

The balance of power might be delicate, but Elizabeth was adept at keeping the upper hand in the smallest of exchanges.

At length, when the gentlemen joined them, the card tables were set.

Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to a game of quadrille, while Elizabeth and Maria found themselves playing casino with Miss de Bourgh.

Mrs. Jenkinson hovered nearby, ever watchful of her young charge.

Remembering Anne’s quiet sense of humour and her secret fondness for Radcliffe novels, Elizabeth tried to engage her in conversation, offering a few well-placed remarks about gothic heroines and the misfortunes of castles .

She was rewarded with the faintest flicker of interest in Anne’s pale eyes, and for a moment, Elizabeth felt a flicker of something she had almost forgotten: the distance in Anne’s manner, a reluctance to fully engage, as though she believed their time together was too fleeting to warrant the effort of attachment.

How different this Anne was from the one she had come to know in the years after her marriage to Darcy, when Elizabeth had realized that much of Anne’s standoffishness was born not of coldness, but of quiet apprehension.

In the future, Elizabeth had come to understand that Anne’s reserve was a defense, a way of shielding herself from the inevitable disappointment of connections that could not last.

Here, in this first meeting, Elizabeth was reminded once again of Anne’s habitual detachment.

At first, Anne said little beyond a soft murmur, her gaze flickering occasionally toward her mother, as though seeking permission to engage or fearing disapproval.

Elizabeth, with patience born of a deeper understanding in her later years, persisted, hoping to gently cultivate a connection.

But Lady Catherine’s ever-watchful presence seemed to push Anne further into her shell, and the brief flicker of interest in her eyes extinguished almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Recognizing the futility of pressing further, Elizabeth allowed the game to distract them. For a time, the clink of cards and the murmured conversation at the table provided a welcome diversion from the weight of the atmosphere.

At last, when Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the carriage was summoned. Mr. Collins, ever the sycophant, made his usual display of gratitude for their condescension, while Charlotte rose with a weary yet contented smile.

As they stepped into the night air and began the short journey back to the parsonage, Elizabeth allowed herself a quiet exhale.

The weight of Rosings' grandeur, with its stiff propriety and imposing formality, had been heavy on her shoulders.

But now, as the evening settled into the soft coolness of the night, she felt a small, unexpected sense of release.

Her first night at Rosings had passed. A mere prelude to what was yet to come.

Only a fortnight remained until Fitzwilliam arrived.

The thought of him stirred both excitement and nervousness within her, the future unfolding like a letter she had yet to read in full.

But beneath the flutter of uncertainty, one thing was certain—she was no longer the same young woman who had once been so startled by gilded ceilings and oppressive silences.

In her heart, Elizabeth knew herself already as Mrs. Darcy, a name not just spoken but worn with quiet confidence. Whatever awaited her in the coming weeks, she would face it with the strength and resolve that her past had given her.