The morning began not with the solemn pealing of church bells, but with the pacing of Mr William Collins. Elizabeth sat at the breakfast table, a half-buttered scone suspended in her hand, watching the vicar traverse the faded rug. He was in a froth, attempting to simultaneously rehearse an overwrought Easter sermon and the grace of “unparalleled eloquence” he had vowed to deliver over Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s soup that evening.
“For we are granted a new dawn, a glorious resurrection of the spirit,” Mr Collins intoned to the sideboard, gesturing with a piece of bacon. “Much like the unparalleled condescension that raises us from the humble dust of our daily toil to the dizzying heights of the Rosings dining room! Oh, Mrs Collins, does ‘dizzying’ sound too informal? Perhaps ‘staggering’? ‘Staggering heights of condescension’?”
“I am sure Her Ladyship will be appropriately staggered, Mr Collins,” Charlotte replied placidly, pouring coffee without spilling a single drop.
Beside Elizabeth, Sir William Lucas was polishing his shoe buckles with a napkin, his face shining with jovial anticipation. Maria Lucas was in a flutter over whether her pink sash was too worldly for the day, her giddy energy colliding with the vicar’s anxiety.
Elizabeth retreated into the sanctuary of her own mind. She reached into the pocket of her morning dress and touched Jane’s letter that had been delivered late Saturday evening, but was handed to her this morning by the servants.
She had waited until the relative safety of the morning chaos to break the seal, hoping the noise would mask her reaction. She smoothed the pages on her lap under the table, shielding them from Mr Collins’s line of sight.
She had expected a gentle, mournful reply to her own prodding letter regarding Mr Bingley. She had expected Jane to excuse him, to claim that his sisters were at fault, and to preach forgiveness.
Instead, Elizabeth read the opening lines, and the blood drained from her face.
My Dearest Lizzy,
I find that my reserves of understanding are depleted.
Elizabeth stopped breathing. Jane never depleted her reserves of understanding. Jane could find a redeeming quality in a plague of locusts.
Your letter struck a chord that has been humming in my breast since my arrival in London. I have spent the last four months defending a man who did not possess the courage to courtme. You are correct. A man who can be blown away from his own affections by a cold wind and a whispering sister is not a man I can rely upon for a lifetime. I do not wish him ill, Lizzy, but I find I do not wish him well, either. I simply do not wish for him at all.
It was a devastating coldness, frightening Elizabeth far more than any cruelty ever could. If gentle, angelic Jane Bennet had reached the shores of anger, the wound ran unimaginably deep.
Aunt Gardiner has been a marvel,the letter continued, the handwriting becoming hastier.And we are overwhelmed by our social engagements. It seems the London theatre district is exceedingly illuminating. I find that gentlemen who speak their minds, rather than smiling amiably at everything, are superior company. We expect you in London shortly, Lizzy. I find I need you here to help me laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Elizabeth folded the letter, a complicated knot of fear and pride tightening her chest. The Bingley ghost was officially exorcised, it seemed. Jane was surviving, but the pleading in the final sentence—I need you here—tugged at Elizabeth’s conscience. She was needed in Gracechurch Street.
“Cousin Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth jolted, shoving the letter back into her pocket. “Yes, Mr Collins?”
“You are pale,” the vicar observed, his brow furrowing in profound concern, while chewing thoughtfully his bacon. “You have scarcely touched your scone. I understand, of course. The prospect of dining at Rosings Park is enough to induce a physical tremor in the uninitiated. But you must not let your awe of Her Ladyship’s grandeur rob you of your sustenance!”
Elizabeth stared at him, deploying every ounce of her willpower to prevent hysterical laughter from erupting.
“You are very astute, Mr Collins,” Elizabeth lied, masking her turmoil with a performance of solemn gravity. “I am overwhelmed by the prospect of the evening.”
“Fear not!” Mr Collins beamed, patting his chest. “I shall guide you through the protocol. You need only follow my lead!”
If I follow your lead,Elizabeth thought,I shall end up face down on the carpet worshipping a soup tureen.
THE WALK TO THE HUNSFORDchurch was accomplished in a brisk, biting April wind. The parsonage party settled into their modest pew, and minutes later, the Rosings contingent arrived in a flurry of velvet, expensive cologne, and aristocratic mass.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh took her place in the proprietary pew, less a parishioner and more a visiting monarch inspecting a newly acquired colony.
Behind her filed the cousins.
Elizabeth kept her eyes firmly on her prayer book, but the gravitational pull of Fitzwilliam Darcy was impossible to ignore. He sat at the end of his pew, breathtakingly handsome in a severe Sunday coat.
When Mr Collins ascended the pulpit, the true comedy began.
The sermon was a theologically convoluted nightmare. Mr Collins managed to weave the concept of resurrection, thehumility of the flock, and the munificence of Lady Catherine’s charitable donations into a single narrative.
“For just as the heavens bestow the rain upon the humble earth,” Mr Collins boomed, gripping the edges of the pulpit, “so too does the great house on the hill bestow its patronage upon us! A patronage that lifts our spirits, much like a newly installed expensive glazing upon a windowpane!”
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Beside her, Charlotte did not flinch, but Elizabeth could feel the suppressed tremor in her friend’s shoulder.
