“You must prepare the house just as if they were coming to stay with us,” he says, looking around. “My cousin is, of course, used to much grander accommodations than when last she came into Kent, but it would not do for her or Mr. Darcy to find fault with our home, however humble it may be.”
“I had not planned for there to be reason for them to find fault,” I say, with more asperity than I usually allow when speaking to William. But he seems not to notice.
“Perhaps you might ask her ladyship if she can suggest any improvements before Mr. and Mrs. Darcy arrive.”
My eyes close, just briefly. “Of course.” Almost, I say that perhaps he might ask Lady Catherine for advice about his gardens; but it is more likely that he would miss the slight and take the advice seriously. And what if Lady Catherine were to suggest some improvement that required Mr. Travis’s help? I pick up the shift again, keeping my eyes on my stitches so I do not have to look at my husband. My husband, who does not deserve my cruelty, even in thought.
He sits heavily in the chair across from mine. I make a stitch, and then another. He will leave soon, no doubt; he hasn’t the temperament for sitting still.
He lets out a great sigh, and I lower the shift. Though conversation is not our strength, perhaps a little of it might speed him on his way. “What is it?” I say; I am pleased that my voice does not betray my irritation. “You seem troubled.”
William rests his elbows on the arms of his chair and holds his hands up before his face, fingertip to fingertip.
“I am glad they come for the ball,” he says.
I look down at my lap. At the ball, Elizabeth and her husband will see William presiding over the proceedings alongside her ladyship. They will see his importance here. Neither of us has ever acknowledged that before he proposed to me, William requested Lizzy’s hand in marriage; but I remember the way we both fretted about every detail before she, my father, and Maria came to visit after we were wed. I am less anxious now, but William, it seems, is not.
“Elizabeth has always loved a dance,” I say for want of something better.
He clears his throat. “Yes. I remember. She was always . . . too lively, really.”
I glance at him, and his eyes widen.
I have only a moment to wonder what it is he imagines he sees in my face, and then suddenly he is out of his chair and kneeling beside my own; I nearly stick him with the needle in my surprise. “My dearest Charlotte,” he says, and clasps my free hand in both his own. “I hope you do not think—you mustn’t distress yourself—Lady Catherine was most eloquent on the subject of my cousins’ misfortune—it seemed that an easy means of alleviating their distress was in my power—but I would not for the world have you think—” He presses my hand between his palms, apparently overcome; I can only look on in amazement.
“God and Lady Catherine sent me to Hertfordshire,” he says. “And I know that it was so that we, my dear, who are the most perfectly suited of all couples, might find each other.” He raises my hand to his lips.
I do not know what to say, and so I am silent. William cradles my hand in his own; I want to pull away. And then, all at once, I think of Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s brute of a husband, and I am lanced with a fierce gratitude for William’s gentle foolishness. For his own part, William seems content to smile up at me from his awkward position. The clock strikes the hour, and he glances from it to my face. “Do you mean to work much longer, my dear?”
He can mean only one thing by that question, and after such a declaration as he just made, I can do nothing but set my sewing aside. “No,” I say. “I suppose not.”
HE FALLS ASLEEP immediately after, and I am left awake beside him, my mind unquiet. I drum my fingers against my thighs, flex and release my toes. William snorts in his sleep, and I roll over on my side so that I am facing the breadth of his back. It moves gently as he breathes. I put out a hand but do not quite touch him.
It is strange to think that I know this man so intimately, and, at the same time, so little. I know his habits as if they were my own. His tastes, his peculiarities, the way he smells, the weight of his body on top of mine. But there is something, some essential thing, missing—there must be more to him than these accumulated details.
I think of his lips on my hand, the fervency of his assurances in the parlor. My fingers curl back into my palm and I draw my hand away from his back. Sometimes I have moments of pure astonishment when I realize that William, it seems, is very sure that he knows all of me. He believes that I am the person he sits across from at dinner every evening; he thinks he understands the woman with whom he lies at night. I suppose this means that I am a good wife. But I cannot think of a single time that I have shared more than the barest surface of my thoughts with him, and keeping myself always in check can sometimes feel so very draining.
I roll over and put my fingers to my lips, close my eyes.
Perhaps, I think, just as I begin to relax into sleep, William does not give himself fully to me, either. The thought seems unlikely, absurd, but it is disconcerting, nevertheless, and my eyes open again. Perhaps we are both caught in this elaborate pantomime.
Chapter Sixteen
There is a thrumming throughout the congregation today—I can feel it under my boots, in the vibrations in the air around me. I keep my eyes upon William, who reads his sermon placidly without seeming aware of the charge to the atmosphere, his emphases, as usual, in entirely odd places; but I am distracted.
After the service, Mr. Travis greets both William and myself as he leaves the church. “A moment,” I say, and draw him a little aside with the excuse of asking after his father.
“He is well, thank you,” Mr. Travis says. He looks down at me, the lines about his eyes deepening as he smiles.
We speak of the harvest, which is nearing, and the preparations at Rosings Park for the harvest ball, with which William has lately been very preoccupied. “Will your father attend, do you think?” I ask. The Meryton assemblies were always filled with men and women whose dancing days were long behind them but who seemed still to find enjoyment in the close company of so many people.
Mr. Travis shakes his head. “I will be surprised if he does, though I’ve no doubt he will encourage me to attend regardless. He is . . . he moves so slowly, these days. I do not know that he could manage the walk to Rosings Park.”
“I wish we kept a carriage, so that I might offer it to you and your father from time to time.”
“I doubt if he would accept. He is . . . maddeningly prideful at times. And the older he gets, the more stubborn he becomes.”
Speaking of the ball makes me think of Elizabeth, and I am suddenly refilled with some of yesterday’s exuberance. “I have news,” I say, the words bursting forth, and oh, it feels good to share my joy. “My dear friend Mrs. Darcy is coming here in time for the ball.”
“This must make you very happy,” he says, with such warmth that I feel, with sudden certainty, that my happiness is of special interest to him, and I am all at once disconcerted. I struggle to take up the conversation again.
“I—yes, it does. Make me happy, that is. To see my friend, and then so soon after to see my family—for Lady Catherine has given leave for us to visit Hertfordshire for my sister’s wedding—yes. I am very happy.”
“I am glad.”
My cheeks are too warm, and I cannot think what to say next. But Mr. Travis replaces his hat and says, “I fear my father will be expecting me. Have a good day, Mrs. Collins.”
“Oh—of course.” I nod as he bows. “Good day.” A quick smile, a lingering glance, and he is gone, pausing only briefly to exchange greetings with another farmer.
I turn away, force myself to think of what I should be doing. I ought to collect Louisa so Martha can go home with her family, and so the baby can nap—
“Mrs. Collins! Oh, Mrs. Collins!”
It is Mrs. Prewitt, the draper’s wife, bearing down upon me like a great ship, the ribbons on her bonnet trailing behind her like s
ails. She has the arm of a young woman I have never seen before threaded through her own. “Mrs. Collins!” she says again, puffing slightly, when they have reached me. “I am glad we did not miss you—may I present my niece, Miss Mary Harmon? Mary, this is Mrs. Collins.”
Miss Harmon makes a pretty little curtsy. She is, I think, somewhere between twenty and five-and-twenty, with smooth pale hair and a pleasing figure. It is suddenly obvious what all the low, gossiping murmurs were about during the service; it is rare for a young woman of marriageable age to turn up in Hunsford.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harmon,” I say; she smiles and murmurs a thank-you. Mrs. Prewitt, whose tongue is rarely still, hastens to fill the brief silence that follows.
“Mary is visiting from the north. My sister and her husband settled there some years ago—a beautiful place, but with such nasty weather!—and in all the time since her birth, Mary has never come here for a visit!”
“How do you find Kent?” I say.
Another smile. “It is lovely, Mrs. Collins. Though the journey here was a long one.”
I open my mouth to respond, but Mrs. Prewitt is already talking.
“Oh, Mary adores Hunsford, don’t you, Mary? In fact”—she lowers her voice in a conspiratorial fashion—“I’ve high hopes that she might settle here for good. It is hard to believe that a young woman so pretty and hardworking has not found a husband, but perhaps it is just as well, for she could have her pick among the bachelors here, I’m sure.”
Miss Harmon colors. “Aunt,” she says, and Mrs. Prewitt waggles a playful finger.
“Hush, my dear. There is no point in being missish about such things.” She returns her attention to me. “Is there, Mrs. Collins? We all know how hard it is to catch a husband.”
I force a smile.
“There are not,” Mrs. Prewitt says, “so many eligible men in the village, but I can think of several possibilities. I shall count upon you, Mrs. Collins, to help me play matchmaker, for if you had not snapped up our parson, I daresay he would be top of my list!” She chortles while Miss Harmon and I glance at one another, and then, just as quickly, away.
I try to infuse my voice with the sort of laughing warmth at which Elizabeth has always excelled, but I fear I am falling short of the mark. “I will—ah—try to do my duty.”
Mrs. Prewitt smiles widely and makes a show of glancing around at the villagers standing nearby, talking together in pairs and groups. More than one glance is cast our way, and I can see Miss Harmon’s discomfort; obviously, she knows that she is the reason for so much attention. “Perhaps Mr. Ford,” her aunt says. “He is perhaps a little gray, but Mary’s father owns a delightful little inn—very respectable, or so Mr. Prewitt assures me—so it would be nothing for her to take up the work of a public house. Or perhaps a farmer—there is more than one I can think of who is in need of a wife. Mr. Green, or Mr. Travis.” A sly glance at me. “You seem on quite friendly terms with Mr. Travis, Mrs. Collins! Perhaps you could put in a good word for Mary, here, when next you two have one of your little chats?”
I stare at her without sensation. “His father is not well,” I say around a tongue that is suddenly desiccated. “I have been—that is—”
“Oh yes, his poor father,” Mrs. Prewitt says. “But in any case, it is just as well for me that you and Mr. Travis are friendly, as I said.” And she winks at me.
There is a burning, a scraping, against my skin. I am certain, all at once, that the eyes upon us, the whispers, have little to do with Miss Harmon’s arrival, after all.
Chapter Seventeen
William’s shout is loud enough that I hear it, just faintly, even in the stillroom. Only a moment later, and he bursts through the doorway to find me with my arms poised above my head as I reach to fasten a bunch of rosemary to its hook for drying.
“They are here!” William says. “My dear—the Darcys have arrived at Rosings Park! I only just saw them pass.”
I lower my hands, brush my fingers against the fabric of my apron. “They are earlier than I expected.”
“No wonder—their horses are very fine beasts, and their carriage, Charlotte—such luxury! Their coachman wears the most elegant livery.” He looks at the table, strewn with herbs I have yet to bundle and hang, and his brow creases anxiously. “This must be tidied.”
“I will be finished shortly,” I say, “though I do not think we can expect them here very soon, and even then, I hardly think Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are going to want to see our stillroom.”
He chuckles, a nervous sound. “I suppose you are right, my dear. But still—just to be sure—”
“I will see to it,” I say as soothingly as I can.
He returns to his book room, no doubt to resume watching the lane. For three days now, he has been watching the lane even more avidly than is usual for him, despite knowing that the Darcys were unlikely to arrive before today or tomorrow. Mrs. Baxter and Martha have been in a frenzy of cleaning and laundering. The parsonage looks as fine as ever it has.
I tie the last of the herbs into bunches and string them up, my fingers moving with the ease of practice while my mind drifts to thoughts of Rosings and what might be happening there. It is hard to imagine Elizabeth spending so much time in Lady Catherine’s company; when she came to Kent after my marriage, she was by turns bored and amused by our audiences with her ladyship, though she was far too polite for her thoughts to be obvious to anyone who did not know her well. And she has not been back since, despite having married Lady Catherine’s nephew. I try and fail to imagine my friend as a married woman, with a cap covering her dark hair and an attitude of deference toward her husband.
THE LETTER FROM Lizzy bearing the news of her engagement had come as such a shock that I found myself still sitting with it an hour later, mouth round with astonishment, when William arrived home from Rosings Park. He was gasping with the news that Lady Catherine had had a letter from her nephew Mr. Darcy, which contained the same information as the correspondence I still held in my hand, and that her ladyship was in a high fury.
“She has cut him off!” William said. “Entirely! She will never speak to him again. For him to have chosen someone like Cousin Elizabeth over Miss de Bourgh—it is unthinkable—so many hopes dashed.” He managed to appear both aghast that his cousin had the temerity to go so expressly against Lady Catherine’s wishes and thrilled that she had risen so high, for, “Now,” he said, in a hushed tone, “I will be related to her ladyship by marriage.”
WE ARE TO dine at Rosings. The invitation arrived not an hour after William left me in the stillroom; he has been alight with excitement all afternoon, banging around the house and driving me and Mrs. Baxter to distraction. Before we leave to walk across the lane and up the long drive to the house, I kiss Louisa good night, brushing my hand over her sleeping head. My fingers still smell of rosemary.
A footman shows us into the drawing room. Lady Catherine is seated in her usual place, with Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson beside her, and there, on the settee where William and I often sit, are Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth.
She smiles at me—a full smile, showing her teeth—but is otherwise restrained as we all make our greetings and William and I sit in the chairs Lady Catherine indicates. I look at Elizabeth, and she gives me that old, wry glance, just for a moment; and then Lady Catherine begins to speak, and Lizzy turns her attention to her.
“My nephew tells me that the roads were very dry all the way from Derbyshire,” Lady Catherine says.
Mr. Darcy makes no effort to reply, and Elizabeth leans forward a little on her seat. “We could not have asked for better weather in which to travel. Truly, the journey was much easier than I expected, even with an infant.”
I open my mouth to inquire after her son, but William is already talking.
“I happened to notice your carriage when you passed the parsonage, Mr. Darcy,” he says. “If I may be so bold, I have rarely seen a handsomer equipage—excepting, of course, Your Ladyship’s.” H
e gives a nod to Lady Catherine that is more like a bow.
Mr. Darcy says, “Thank you, sir,” and sets his jaw.
There is a little silence. Miss de Bourgh is looking off into the distance. I have long wondered whether she used to entertain the same hopes as her mother regarding marriage to her cousin, and looking at her now I cannot tell whether the disinterest she displays is genuine or affected. Her fingers toy with the fine embroidery at the edge of her shawl. I look at Lizzy to find that she is watching Miss de Bourgh as well, a considering expression on her face—a face, I realize, that is a little rounder than it used to be. Elizabeth is altogether more plump than she once was, and it suits her, just as the gown she wears—made of a deep blue silk, with the most exquisite lace at the bodice—suits her, and the delicate jewels at her ears and throat. In contrast, her hair is arranged simply—very like she wore it in Hertfordshire—but there is no denying that her position has changed.
“You did bring him then?” I say, to break the silence. “Little Thomas?”
Lizzy smiles. “We did. He is with his nurse just now, but I would love to bring him to visit you tomorrow. And I must meet your daughter, of course—how old is she? She must be nearly a year.”
“She is. She is walking, and she makes sounds that are nearly words—”
“I hope that you will play for us after dinner, Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Catherine interrupts. Both Elizabeth and I subside, and William gives me a look of admonishment. “I understand from Georgiana’s letters that you are learning from the same music master who taught her. I hope you have been practicing as diligently as my niece.”
“I practice often, Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth says. “Though my duties to Pemberley and to my family do take up a great deal of time.”
“There is no excuse for—” But Lady Catherine breaks off, for the drawing room door has opened to admit a liveried footman.
“Dinner is served, ma’am,” he says.
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