Page 4 of Time Stands Still

The door opened, and Mr. Collins appeared, flushed from his morning exertions in the garden. In his hand he held a letter, which he waved with an unmistakable, reverential excitement. The sight was so eerily similar to her memory of the previous day that a chill prickled Elizabeth's skin, a sudden, sharp discord in the morning’s placid composition.

“From Rosings, my dear!” he declared, handing the note to his wife with the air of a man presenting a holy relic. “An invitation, I am sure of it! Her ladyship’s kindness is truly without bounds.”

Charlotte read the note with her customary composure. “It is as you say, my dear. Lady Catherine requests our company for dinner this evening. She has been so good as to include all of our party.”

“Her ladyship is certainly in want of company,” Elizabeth observed, a note of dryness escaping her, “to extend an invitation for a second consecutive day.”

Charlotte looked up from the letter, her brow furrowed in utter incomprehension. “A second day, Eliza? What can you mean? We received no invitation from her ladyship yesterday.”

Elizabeth stared at her friend. The denial was so calm, so utterly certain, that the room seemed to tilt for a moment, and she placed a hand upon the table to steady herself. The polite chatter of the breakfast table faded into a dull roar in her ears. “Charlotte, you are laughing at me. It cannot be that you have forgotten. You received an invitation, and you, Maria, and Mr. Collins attended dinner at Rosings in the evening. I remained here, on account of a headache.”

At this, the entire table fell silent. Mr. Collins stared, his mouth slightly agape. Maria looked from Elizabeth to Charlotte with wide, bewildered eyes. It was Charlotte who spoke, her tone imbued with a concern that Elizabeth found more alarming than any jest.

"My dear Eliza, I fear you must be quite mistaken. You say yourself that you were indisposed with a headache; is it not possible the lingering effects of your ailment have caused you to confound one day with another? Perhaps you dreamt it."

The blood began to beat a little faster in Elizabeth’s temples. They were all looking at her as though she had lost her senses. But she knew. She knew with a certainty that defied all their gentle reasoning. She remembered the precise weight of the silence in the parsonage after Charlotte had left for Rosings. She remembered the shock of Mr. Darcy's arrival, the strained civility of their conversation, and the astonishing, insulting words of his proposal. The memory of his confession, his struggle against his better judgement to love her, was burned into her mind.

“It is my head,” she said, falling back on the old excuse, though the reason for it now was a desperate need to end this unnerving conversation. “I am not myself. Forgive me. I… I do not believe I can attend this evening.”

The expected protestations from Mr. Collins followed, but his words were a mere drone, a meaningless sound that could not penetrate the desperate workings of her own mind. For what could Lady Catherine’s displeasure signify in a world where nothing was as it seemed? Elizabeth’s entire focus was inward, her thoughts a hopeless tangle. Was it her memory that was false, or theirs? Could she truly be in the grip of some feverish delusion? The questions spun in her mind, offering no purchase for rational thought, only a bewildering, profound confusion.

She retreated to her chamber as soon as she was able, not for rest, but for reflection. How she longed for a brisk walk, for the cleansing wind and open fields of Kent. But she was trapped, a prisoner of the very headache she had feigned. Restless and agitated, she sat at the small writing desk, took out a piece of paper, and began a letter to Jane. If she could only recount the events, set them down in black and white, she might be able to tether herself to reality. Dearest Jane, she began, a most extraordinary thing has occurred… She wrote of Mr. Darcy's visit, of his declaration, of her own angry refusal.

But as she reread the words, they seemed the stuff of fiction, a wild and improbable tale. How could Jane, so sensible and so gentle, ever be brought to believe such a thing? Elizabeth could almost picture her sister’s kind, concerned face, her brow furrowed with worry, not for the insult of the proposal, but for the state of Elizabeth’s own mind. Jane, whose own heart was so free from guile, would first search for any other explanation. She would conclude that Elizabeth had dreamt the entire encounter, a feverish fantasy born of her headache. And how could Elizabeth argue otherwise? The event itself was so profoundly unlikely, so contrary to every known aspect of Mr. Darcy’s character, that even she, who had lived it, was beginning to feel the edges of her certainty fray. Was it not more plausible that she had imagined the whole affair, that her resentment had conjured a phantom Darcy to rail against, than that the proud, disdainful master of Pemberley had offered his hand in marriage while simultaneously cataloguing her family’s deficiencies? To commit such a story to paper felt like an act of madness in itself. With a sigh of frustration, she put the letter aside. The impossibility of explaining her situation, even to her dearest sister, left her feeling more isolated than ever.

She spent the remainder of the day in her chamber, pacing the floor in a state of growing disquiet. After some time, a light tap sounded at her door, and she started involuntarily. It was Charlotte.

“And how is your head, Eliza?” she asked, her eyes conveying quiet concern.

Elizabeth stared, her own heart hammering against her ribs. The exact words. It was happening again. The last of her rationalizations fell away, leaving only a cold, stark horror. “It is no better,” she whispered, the phrase feeling foreign and rehearsed in her own mouth.

Charlotte’s features softened with sympathy. “I am sorry to hear that. We are just preparing to leave. Is there anything I can bring you?”

Every syllable was a fresh torment, another bar in the cage that was forming around Elizabeth. It was a perfect, horrifying echo of the day before. She found she could not command her voice to answer, and could only shake her head, praying her friend would not perceive the terror in her eyes. Charlotte, taking the gesture for a sign of tiredness, gave a small, sympathetic smile and withdrew. Soon after, Elizabeth heard the familiar sounds of departure from below: the booming tones of Mr. Collins, Maria’s lighter replies, the crunch of the carriage wheels on the gravel. Then, the house fell into a heavy, absolute silence.

She waited. For what, she did not know, but a dreadful sense of inevitability had taken hold of her, cold and certain.

Then, it came. The sharp, violent ring of the house bell.

The sound seemed to mock her, a summons she had been expecting with a dread she could not name. Her bewilderment was now a chilling horror. She forced herself from her chair, smoothed her dress with trembling hands, and descended the stairs, arriving in the hall just as Sarah was opening the door.

“It is Mr. Darcy, miss,” the maid whispered.

He stood upon the threshold, and for a long moment, Elizabeth could only stare. He was precisely as he had been yesterday, his tall frame filling the doorway, his countenance a compelling mixture of nervous anxiety and grim resolve. He stepped inside, his gaze finding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.

She led him to the drawing-room, her legs trembling so violently she feared they might give way. She could not bring herself to speak. What could she possibly say? She gestured towards a chair, and he took it, though he could find no ease in his posture.

He began to speak, his usual inquiry after her health barely commenced before Elizabeth, her mind consumed by the foreknowledge of his purpose, cut him short with some indistinct, agitated murmur, merely waving a trembling hand for him to be seated. He complied, his brow furrowed with a momentary perplexity.

The silence in the room was thick and suffocating, weighty with unspoken and momentous purpose. Finally, he began, the words emerging in a low, strained rush, as though he had struggled in vain to contain them.

“I have fought against a sentiment that has proven… inescapable. Logic, reason, every consideration of my place and yours… they have all been overwhelmed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

A wild, desperate laugh broke from Elizabeth’s lips. It was a sound devoid of mirth, sharp with disbelief.

Mr. Darcy stopped, his declaration cut short. He stared at her as if she had struck him, his countenance reflecting profound confusion and wounded pride. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice cold and stiff.

“The meaning?” she cried, rising from her chair. “The meaning is that I heard these very words from you yesterday! Are you so lost to all sense of propriety that you would torment me by repeating a scene I have already endured? Or have you, too, forgotten the events of the day past?”