“Well,” he remarked, with a dry turn of the mouth, “there is a certain elegance in prompt departures. They save everyone the laborious task of pretending profound regret on the morrow.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes, partly to conceal a flash of amusement at her father’s wit and partly because she had already turned instinctively toward Anne, whose expression had altered into something very near quiet relief. It was not triumph, for Anne de Bourgh possessed too much honesty to triumph in the public disgrace of another, however deserved. Rather, it was the expression of someone who had at last ceased the weary business of waiting for the worst to happen and discovered that reality, however painful, was at least a burden that could be set down.
Darcy’s voice softened perceptibly when he spoke again, his attention turning toward his cousin with a protective grace.
“Lady Catherine asks to be excused from our company for a short time. She finds herself somewhat indisposed and has retired to her private room to recover after so much agitation. Her ladyship wishes me to assure you all that she intends to receive everyone again this evening, and she hopes you will do her the honour of remaining for dinner, provided such an arrangement is convenient to your own plans.”
Elizabeth looked up at once, her gaze meeting Darcy’s with an earnestness that surpassed mere politeness.
“I hope her ladyship is not seriously unwell. It would be a great misfortune if the trials of the day were to rob her of her health as well as her peace.”
There was, for the briefest moment, something in Darcy’s expression that made Elizabeth understand more than his carefully chosen words allowed.
“No,” he answered. “My aunt is only fatigued by the necessity of asserting her authority, and I have every confidence she will be herself again by the dinner hour—which, I suspect, is a condition for which the rest of us must now prepare to endure.”
Even Anne allowed the faintest smile to touch her lips at that, as though she appreciated the private truth beneath the dry humour.
Darcy continued, his manner becoming more practical.
“In the meantime, Lady Catherine thought a walk through the park might be preferable to further confinement indoors. The weather, I am assured, has been under sufficient discussion to justify a practical inspection.”
Mr. Bennet rose from his chair with considerably more readiness than he had shown at any other point during the long afternoon.
“On that point, I find myself in complete agreement with Lady Catherine. A landscape, unlike a talkative clergyman, rarely improves by prolonged indoor consideration.”
Mr. Collins looked as though he doubted whether walking among ancient trees could be considered morally appropriate under such scandalous circumstances, but as refusal where LadyCatherine was concerned bordered dangerously upon rebellion, he bowed in humble submission.
“If her ladyship considers physical exercise conducive to moral reflection, I can only admire once more the superiority of her judgement in matters both physical and spiritual.”
“Then we are all saved from our own thoughts,” Mr. Bennet replied, with sufficient dryness to end the debate.
Elizabeth rose and turned gently toward Anne, extending her hand with a warmth that felt like the beginning of a quieter friendship.
“Would you join us, Miss de Bourgh? I think the air of the park may prove kinder than sympathy, and certainly less exhausting than remaining stationary in this parlour.”
Anne looked at her for a long moment, and something in that silence held gratitude deeper than words would have improved.
“Yes,” she said quietly, her voice carrying more steadiness than before. “I believe I should like that very much—provided the company remains as agreeable as it is now.”
Darcy offered his arm to his cousin with a gravity that required no display to show affection, while Mr. Collins followed close behind, already preparing, Elizabeth suspected, an internal account of the day’s calamities.
Mr. Bennet took his daughter’s arm with the visible satisfaction of a man escaping both social scandal and theological instruction.
***
The door to her private chambers clicked shut behind her, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood for a moment in the silence it left. The woman whose very name had for decades served as a fortress of social order, sank into the plush velvet of her armchair. Her limbs felt strangely heavy, as though the weight of her own pride had at last become a physical burden. For the first time in her memory, the silence of Rosings was not a sign of peace, but of suffocating isolation.
A sob, jagged and raw, broke from her throat, startling even herself in the stillness. Lady Catherine was utterly alone. There was no shoulder upon which to lean, no confidant to whom she might whisper the full magnitude of her humiliation. Her sister, Anne—the only truly reliable soul her life had ever known—was gone, and with her had vanished the last refuge of uncritical loyalty.
She stared into the dying embers of the hearth. Her nephew Darcy had warned her, with all the solemnity of blood and affection. Her daughter had recoiled from Wickham from the very moment his shadow crossed the threshold of Rosings. Yet Lady Catherine had dismissed them all with the careless movement of a hand, blinded by a vanity she had mistaken for discernment.
Her gaze wandered to the door. She thought of Mrs. Fairfax, a woman of kind and steady nature, but a servant nonetheless; Catherine’s own rigid pride forbade such a confession. She thought of Mrs. Jenkinson, whom she had dismissed like a petulant fool in her haste to be alone with her new vicar.
The memory of Mrs. Jenkinson’s gentle intrusion now returned like a physical sting: “It must be a heavy burden, your ladyship, to stand alone at the head of so grand a house. If ever you wish for company, I hope you will call upon me.”
Catherine closed her eyes tightly, hot tears tracing paths through the rouge she had applied so carefully for him. How she had scoffed at that offer then, treating it as the overreach of a dependent rather than the kindness of an honest heart. Now it stood before her as a debt of companionship she could never collect without first confessing the full extent of her disgrace.
A fresh wave of remorse washed over her. Accursed was that moment when, instead of driving him away like a rabid dog, she had smiled at Wickham with patient indulgence—less a mistress of the house than an almost willing accomplice to her own undoing.
