Throughout this exchange, Elizabeth could not avoid remarking that Mr. Wickham’s composure, though outwardly unbroken, was not entirely without vigilance; for more than once his attention returned, with quiet exactness, to Lady Catherine, as though her silence were itself a species of direction.
Lady Catherine, however, appeared satisfied that the proprieties had been observed. Without comment, she resumed the regulation of the table; and under her authority, the forms of dinner proceeded with unbroken regularity, though not, perhaps, without a degree of restraint perceptible only to those inclined to remark it.
Elizabeth, who had listened more than she had spoken, found her attention less engaged by what was said than by what was implied. There was, in the manner of Mr. Wickham, a composure too assured for mere recent success, and in that of Lady Catherine, a species of indulgence which seemed less the effect of caprice than of prior understanding. More than once, she observed that his eye, however freely it moved, returned,with quiet exactness, to her ladyship—as though her approval were not to be presumed, yet already secured.
Miss de Bourgh, on the contrary, betrayed a sensibility which she did not command; for if her silence was habitual, there was now in it an uneasiness bordering upon shame, and her countenance, though gentle, wanted that tranquillity which belongs to unquestioned arrangements. The removal of Mrs. Jenkinson, the sudden establishment of Mr. Wickham, and the undisguised composure with which he sustained his situation, could not, in Elizabeth’s judgement, be wholly accidental.
Without presuming to determine particulars, she could not but suspect that influence had been exerted where fairness had not been consulted; and though his manners continued to recommend him, they did so under a disadvantage which no elegance could entirely remove. Her expectations, once favourable, were not yet relinquished—but they were no longer unexamined.
In this first evening at Rosings, nothing was declared, and yet much was revealed; for though the forms of civility remained unbroken, Elizabeth perceived that beneath them lay a disturbance not easily reconciled with the order the house professed to maintain.
CHAPTER4
On Sunday morning, the Hunsford villagers and several inhabitants of the neighbouring town of Westerham gathered in the small yet elegant church, awaiting the new vicar’s first sermon with lively anticipation. The pews filled gradually, with subdued greetings, the rustle of garments, and the occasional clearing of throats lending a quiet animation to the sacred space. A pale light filtered through the narrow windows, softening the severity of the stone walls and lending the scene an air of solemn expectation.
Lady de Bourgh and her daughter Anne occupied the front row, their distinguished attire drawing the attention of all present. Just behind them sat Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth, and Mr. Collins, who fidgeted as he whispered to Elizabeth about his expectations for the new clergyman.
“Mr. Wickham has certainly generated quite a stir among the parishioners,” Mr. Collins said, his words trailing off as he glanced at Lady de Bourgh’s imposing figure. “I trust he shall meet the approval of our esteemed patroness.”
“Indeed, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, her eyes twinkling with restrained amusement. “It would be most unfortunate if he failed to do so.”
There was, in the general disposition of the congregation, a curiosity not wholly free from admiration; for novelty, when accompanied by recommendation, seldom wants for favourable expectation.
When at last Mr. Wickham appeared, a slight movement passed through the assembly. His clerical garments satsomewhat uneasily upon him, giving the impression less of habit than of assumption, as though the office had been adopted more readily than it had been grown into. His manner, though composed, betrayed a degree of effort; yet Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins regarded him with evident satisfaction, as though his success reflected favourably upon their own judgement.
The service commenced, and Mr. Wickham ascended the pulpit with a confidence that appeared to belie his true composure. His voice rang clear and strong throughout the church, captivating the congregation with his eloquence and animation. Despite her reservations, Elizabeth could not help but admire his command of language, even as she remained cautious of his character. His expressions were chosen with care, his gestures measured, and for a time, all seemed to justify the expectations that had preceded him.
From the subdued whispers among those present, including several of the town’s dignitaries, it was evident that many shared her impression.
“He does have a way with words, does he not?” murmured one elderly gentleman to another, nodding with satisfaction. “A fine addition to our parish, I daresay.”
“Indeed,” agreed his companion, casting a sidelong glance toward Lady de Bourgh’s composed yet watchful expression. “Though whether Lady Catherine finds him agreeable remains to be seen.”
As Mr. Wickham continued his sermon, Elizabeth observed her companions. Mr. Bennet, ever the detached observer, appeared lost in distant reflection, his expression one of mild curiosity rather than engagement, while Mr. Collins, in studied serenity, gazed at Mr. Wickham with an expression of attentiveapproval, as though each sentence confirmed some long-cherished expectation.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins whispered, leaning closer than discretion might recommend, “do you not think Lady Catherine appears rather… displeased?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, with careful neutrality. “But then again, our patroness is known for her discernment.”
“Ah, yes,” he sighed, nodding gravely. “One can only hope that Mr. Wickham’s performance shall meet with her approval. As you know, a vicar who fails to satisfy Lady Catherine de Bourgh does not fare well in this parish.”
Elizabeth could not help but wonder how long the new vicar might remain in Lady de Bourgh’s favour—and what consequences might arise should he disappoint her exacting standards. There was already, she thought, something in his manner too dependent upon that favour, as though success were not merely desired, but required.
The congregation remained attentive as Mr. Wickham expounded upon the meaning of the Parable of the Lost Son. Elizabeth followed his argument with interest; yet it was not long before she perceived a change. His voice, once steady, began to falter, and his words lost something of their earlier coherence.
“Y-yes, the f-father, you see, welcomed his l-lost son with open arms,” Mr. Wickham stammered, beads of perspiration forming upon his brow, “Just as… just as the father did… did in the parable.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed with concern. Her attention, wholly engaged, moved from the struggling vicar to Lady de Bourgh, whose expression grew increasingly severe, and thento Anne, whose compassionate gaze remained fixed upon Mr. Wickham. There was in Miss de Bourgh’s countenance a mixture of concern and something more difficult to name—an uneasiness which seemed to anticipate rather than merely respond to the scene before her.
“Pray do continue, Mr. Wickham,” Lady de Bourgh said, her tone cool and unyielding.
“Of course, m-my lady,” Mr. Wickham replied, his voice scarcely above a whisper.
A murmur passed through the congregation as several exchanged uneasy glances. At that moment, however, a gentleman—whose entrance had gone largely unnoticed—advanced quietly down the aisle and took a seat beside Miss de Bourgh. His bearing was composed, his manner assured, and his attire bespoke a degree of consequence not easily overlooked. There was nothing in his appearance to solicit attention, and yet he commanded it entirely.
“Who is that gentleman?” Elizabeth whispered.
“I cannot say with certainty,” Mr. Collins replied softly, “but he appears most distinguished.”
