She glanced at Charlotte. Her friend was calmly stitching a handkerchief, unbothered by her husband’s monologue. Charlotte caught Elizabeth’s eye, raised one pragmatic eyebrow, and mouthedten thousand a year.It was a sentence she had mouthed ten thousand times since they had descended the stairs.
Elizabeth shot her a venomous glare and returned her gaze to the fireplace.
The oppressive weight of a parsonage luncheon—which had consisted of roasted mutton, boiled potatoes, and a suet pudding that sat in the stomach like a boulder—began to take its toll on the gentlemen.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck two.
The rhythmic ticking seemed to act as a soporific pendulum. Sir William’s chin slowly lowered to his chest. Mr Collins’s monologue about the optimal dimensions of a carriage drive gradually slowed, slurred, and eventually ceasedaltogether. Within ten minutes, both men had fallen fast asleep on the sofas.
The room grew silent, a dust-moted tranquillity settling over the space, disturbed only by the sound of Sir William emitting a discreet burp every few minutes.
“Thank the Lord,” Elizabeth whispered, slumping back in her chair. “If I had to hear the word ‘chimney’ one more time, I might have stuffed my ears with the leftover mutton. How you can tolerate it, I do not know.”
“I developed a useful skill.” Charlotte did not look up from her needlework. “Listening only with half an ear. I highly recommend it for married life.”
“Charlotte, you are a cynic.”
“I am comfortable, Lizzy. And it is a commodity.” Charlotte paused, her needle hovering. “Have you given any more thought to your... correspondence upstairs?”
“I have thought of nothing else,” Elizabeth hissed, keeping her voice low lest she wake the snoring chorus. “I have no idea what the protocol is in such situations. I cannot face him. If I see him, I shall either laugh hysterically or demand to know if he requires medical attention. He wrote that I was the warden of his prison! How do you casually discuss the weather with a man who has appointed you his gaoler?”
Before Charlotte could offer another morally dubious, logical piece of advice, the tranquillity of the parsonage shattered.
However, it did not merely fracture. Oh, no, this would have been simple. It exploded.
There was a thunderous knocking at the front door, followed immediately by the sound of boots, rustling silk, anda barrage of voices in the hallway. It sounded less like a social call and more like an invasion by a very fashionable army.
The maid opened the parlour door, wringing her hands, her face pale. She stepped aside to reveal the Rosings party.
Mr Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Anne de Bourgh, and an unfamiliar gentleman who bore an uncanny physical resemblance to both aforementioned gentlemen swept into the parlour with an energy that instantly sucked the oxygen from the small room.
Elizabeth shot to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat.
Her eyes locked onto Mr Darcy. He was standing near the doorframe, and he looked mortified. He was paler than the maid next to him, although he was not wringing his hands. Elizabeth appreciated that. The moment he crossed the threshold, he averted his eyes from her, fixing them onto the iron fire poker resting by the hearth as if it held the secrets to the universe.
He knows,Elizabeth realised.He knows he gave me the wrong letter.
But there was no time to process Darcy’s statuesque paralysis. The newly arrived gentleman—a man of elegance, dressed in a charcoal grey riding coat that probably cost more than the parsonage itself—took command of the room.
He had a lazy, predatory grace, hair swept back in a fashionable windblown style, and eyes that danced with mischief.
“Good God,” the stranger announced, stepping past Darcy and taking in the sight of Mr Collins and Sir William snoring on the sofas. “We have walked in upon a wake. Are they deceased orrecovering from the décor?”
At the sound of the booming voice, Mr Collins woke in a flurry. He snorted, flailed his arms, and tumbled off the sofa. Sir William woke with a loud, final burp.
“What? Who? Lady Catherine?” Mr Collins stammered, smoothing his rumpled hair.
The stranger stepped forward, sporting a smile that belonged on a highwayman.
“Fear not, good sir. You have not been summoned to the headmaster’s study,” the gentleman said. “I am Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley. The significantly more charming cousin of one of these gentlemen and keeper of the other.”
Mr Collins practically swooned at the proximity of a peer. His knees buckled and he bowed so deeply his forehead nearly grazed the carpet.
“My lord! A viscount! In my humble abode! Oh, the condescension! The unparalleled honour! If Lady Catherine had informed me—!”
“Lady Catherine does not know I am here,” Lord Keathley interrupted. “I slipped my leash. I came because I wished to pay my respects to Mrs Collins upon her marriage.”
He turned his blinding charm onto Charlotte, bowing over her hand. “Mrs Collins. It is a pleasure. And I must compliment your strong constitution in putting up with my aunt. She is a formidable woman, and anyone who survives her dinner table without developing a nervous twitch deserves a medal. Or at least a very stiff drink.”
