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There is not.

"I beg your pardon?" I say.

"He is awake." The Colonel shuts the door behind him and leans on it, as though something might try to follow him in. "Pettigrew says he will do. A cut, a great deal of bruising, a headache he will be complaining of for a week. He knew me. He knew our aunt, which I should not have wished on him." He drags a hand down his face. "And the first thing he asked for was you."

"Me."

"Where is Miss Bennet, he says. She will be worried. Fetch her up, Fitzwilliam. We are engaged." He looks at me. "He smiled, Miss Bennet. I have not seen Darcy smile like that since he was twelve years old and the cook gave him a whole cherry tart to himself."

The teacup rattles in its saucer. I set it down before I drop it.

"Colonel," I say carefully. "Is he—is he in his right mind?"

"Pettigrew thinks so. Mostly." He hesitates. "He has lost a day. He remembers walking down to the parsonage yesterday evening. After that, nothing. Not the night. Not the ride. Not the tree. He swore at me for suggesting he had gone out before breakfast."

He remembers walking down to the parsonage.

After that, nothing.

For a moment the little parlor tilts like a boat.

"I confess," the Colonel says, "I am a little behind. When did all this happen? You might have told a fellow. I would have been the first to wish you both joy." He tries a smile. It does not fit him well this morning. "Though I own I am surprised. I was not aware you liked him above half."

I open my mouth. Nothing whatever comes out of it.

This is the second time in a day I have had nothing to say to a gentleman of that family. It is beginning to be a habit, and I do not care for it.

"Colonel," I manage. "Might I have a quarter of an hour?"

He studies me. Whatever he sees in my face, he is gentleman enough not to remark on it.

"Of course. I shall tell him you are composing yourself. He will like that." Something wry comes into his voice. "He thinks composure very proper in a lady."

He goes. The door closes.

I put both hands over my face.

***

I have perhaps four minutes of quiet before Lady Catherine de Bourgh sails in.

She does not enter a room. She takes possession of it. Mrs. Jenkinson trots behind her with a shawl, and behind Mrs. Jenkinson, pale and silent as ever, comes Miss de Bourgh, who stops just inside the door like a ghost who has lost interest in haunting.

"Miss Bennet." Lady Catherine looks me up and down. She lingers, with great feeling, on the mud. "You are still here."

I rise and curtsey. "Colonel Fitzwilliam asked me to wait, ma'am."

"Did he." She lowers herself into the best chair. "I have just come from my head groom. He is a very stupid man. He says I never gave orders for that bough to be cut, when I distinctly remember thinking of it at Michaelmas." She arranges her skirts. "Now. You will explain to me what you were doing in my lane before seven o'clock in the morning."

"Walking, ma'am."

"Walking."

"Your ladyship was so good as to tell Mr. Collins that I ought to walk in the park every morning while I am in Kent." I fold my hands. "For my headaches."

Miss de Bourgh makes a very small sound. When I glance at her, she is looking at the carpet with tremendous attention.

Lady Catherine's nostrils flare. "I did not advise you to walk into my nephew."