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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Elizabeth

O ur first inkling of news came when we saw Anne de Bourgh’s little phaeton and pony drive into the parsonage yard. The lady weakly handed Mr Collins a note before waving at her groom to drive away. My cousin huffed and puffed into the parlour brandishing the paper in the air.

“Charlotte, my dear, we are to go to Rosings this afternoon!” He spoke in a fluster of anxiety intermixed with joy.

His wife replied with weary calm. “Are we, Mr Collins?”

“Lady Catherine’s niece has arrived—Miss Darcy! We are to have the honour of an introduction.” He referred back to his note. “She is to go to church for the Easter service before returning to London.”

“If that is the case, you might want to review your sermon. You will want the young lady’s approbation.”

When Mr Collins dutifully ran to his study to do as she suggested, I asked, “Was Miss Darcy expected, Charlotte?”

“Not that I know of. Lady Catherine has often complained that Mr Darcy does not bring her. Her visit is curious indeed.”

And so, in the fashion of ducks on parade, Mr Collins struck out with a long line of us behind as we made our pilgrimage to the great house for the purpose of bowing at Mr Darcy’s sister.

I had mixed feelings, for Mr Darcy had behaved in such a myriad of contradictory and disturbing ways since his arrival in Kent that I began to feel a strong resistance to meeting him.

My curiosity, however, was aroused. I had heard from Mr Wickham that Miss Darcy was as proud and disagreeable as her brother, but the Bingleys called her a sweet girl.

In either case, the name Darcy served as an irresistible enticement to me.

I expected a tall, strongly built, dark-haired and handsome girl modelled after her brother.

In reality, Miss Darcy was tall for her age but not strikingly so, slender, and blonde.

She wore an elegant dress and bore herself as though she had been trained to elegance rather than ease.

In truth, her manners were as far from easy as her brother’s were from loquacious.

She blushed and stammered through introductions until she came to me at which time her blue eyes flew up to meet mine, and she cast such a searching look at me I felt quite taken aback.

The ritual of tea began and to our collective dismay Lady Catherine demanded that Miss Darcy have the honour of pouring.

No one could help her as she took her position by the teapot, alone in a public performance.

That Lady Catherine began barking out instructions and corrections made the scene an agony.

When the second cup chattered a little in its saucer and betrayed Miss Darcy’s trembling hand, I went directly forward, took the cup, and passed it to Anne de Bourgh.

I returned to help the girl, but Mary was before me, and we three made quick work of the tea.

The look we earned was one of unvarnished gratitude, and then I realised that Mr Darcy’s sister was indeed a shy girl with a natural reserve could give the impression of haughtiness, much like her brother.

Much like her brother! Was Mr Darcy indeed uncomfortably shy behind the wall of his considerable consequence?

Was he a man who was more at ease in the sparse company of intimates, a man who struggled to be sociable when in company?

I thought of the times we had been alone and the way in which he nettled me and how often he made me laugh with real pleasure.

Were he indeed seated on the high horse of his arrogance, he would never have lowered himself to entertain me.

I looked at him where he stood, strung too tight, and ready to snap.

He looked so watchfully at his sister, I thought that if he could do so without embarrassing her, he would wrap her in a blanket and carry her to the nursery to keep her safe from the world, safe from her horrid aunt.

Well, he could do nothing for her in Lady Catherine’s lair, but I could.

“Might you tell me, Lady Catherine, if there is any truth to the rumour that your park boasts of a labyrinth?” I asked.

For a quarter of an hour, the woman’s attention fixed upon educating me about Sir Lewis’s pet project and away from her niece. When she seemed about to turn back to Miss Darcy, I spoke again.

“Did Sir Lewis model his maze after the Fontanellato in Parma, your ladyship? I have seen engravings of the pattern in a book.”

She waved in annoyance. “The labyrinth at Rosings is twice as large as what the Italians could do.”

“Twice as large? My word! The Fontanellato maze is spread over seventeen miles. Where is this wonder, Lady Catherine, and may I—would you indeed allow me the privilege of seeing it?” I spoke with enthusiasm and turned to Charlotte.

“We could make a day of it. Certainly, it would require more than a day to navigate, but how delightful to walk a fraction of such a wonder!”

The weakness of a despot is the inability to be wrong about anything, and having come dangerously close to exposing Lady Catherine’s ignorance, I earned the distinction of becoming her sworn enemy.

Miss Darcy subsided into a meek pose so as to be invisible.

Mary sat tense and still beside me, and Charlotte’s expression became pinched with concern as Lady Catherine swelled up with wrath and rounded on me. Maria looked close to fainting.

“Seventeen miles? Bah, impossible! You should not believe anything written by an Italian, Miss Bennet. I do not know what your mother was thinking to have so neglected your education. I would be embarrassed to be in company, knowing so little as you do. And never—never—would I allow Anne even to stick her nose into a book about Italian doings. Foolish and vulgar country!”

Mr Collins agreed in a righteous pucker. I smiled sweetly at him and then at my hostess.

“My ignorance has betrayed me, Lady Catherine. Do you indeed think the study of Italian is detrimental to a lady?”

I was enjoying myself immensely, but by the look of thunder on Lady Catherine’s face, I thought perhaps I should not have gone so far as to trip her up a second time. I expected to be expelled from the room by force, but Mr Darcy thought otherwise.

“The labyrinth of Rosings Park takes up a mere two miles, Miss Bennet,” he said in the flat voice of the well-informed, “and the Fontanellato, according to my father whose grand tour included Parma, is the largest in the world. My own sister will have likely read about it. I have engaged an Italian master for her education, since a lady must have some knowledge of the classic languages to be called accomplished. The man came recommended to me by the Duchess of Wessex.”

“He is the shortest man I ever saw,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected lightly.

“Is he? But I envy you, Miss Darcy. My sister Mary and I have dabbled in Italian but with little success. We began by attempting a very bad translation of Mozart’s The Shepherd King, and alas, we ended our efforts there.”

“ Figaro was performed in London this year,” Miss Darcy timidly offered. “I understood a little, at least.”

“Did you like it? But how grand that must have been. Do you go to the opera often?”

“My brother takes me,” she said in a fading voice. We were none of us unaware of Lady Catherine’s growing outrage.

“Yes, but I took you to that one, Georgie,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said in an overloud, jolly voice. “And yes, Miss Bennet, it was very grand if you enjoy caterwauling.”

Our strategy was plainly to cut Lady Catherine completely out of the conversation. This was only possible because she was momentarily struck mute by my audacity.

“German operas are far superior,” she said coldly upon recovering her voice. “When I was being courted by Sir Lewis, we took in a work of Handel.”

“No, no, Aunt,” the colonel said with a wink at Mary. “How can you say so? So harsh and guttural, not romantic at all.”

Between Mr Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself, we went about contradicting every statement Lady Catherine made until she called a halt to tea.

Standing abruptly, the great lady said, “Mr Collins, go and prepare your sermon for tomorrow. I have no wish to see you—any of you—beforehand. There will be no dinner after, Mrs Collins. You had better tell your cook to feed you. My niece is here, and we wish to dine as a private family party.”

On the walk home, Mary and I dawdled behind. “You should not have antagonised her, Lizzy,” my sister said in a low voice.

“I should not have, no. I am afraid I am now persona non grata. So much for our fond hope of being invited to practise on her pianoforte. But at least Lady Catherine could not harry poor Miss Darcy when she was busy barking at me.”