Page 11 of The Difference of a Darcy
She had not known where to look as the carriage drove them southward. Charlotte’s contented composure clashed strangely with Mr. Collins’ constant preening, and Elizabeth could not decide which was worse: the cloying boasts of the husband or the resigned serenity of the wife.
She could not blame Charlotte, not really. Her friend had made a practical choice. And Elizabeth had agreed to come, had nodded with all apparent willingness when her father gave his consent.
But now, walking down the stairs of Hunsford Parsonage, she felt keenly how verynotat home she was.
Mr. Collins had been effusive in his eagerness to show off the house, pointing out every chair, every servant, every stick offurniture that Lady Catherine had either provided or approved. He had, with unmistakable satisfaction, paused before the fireplace in the drawing room to mention howthis very hearthmight have belonged to another, had circumstances aligned differently. He even hinted, with a sanctimonious smile, thatsome ladiesknew not their own best interest.
Elizabeth had smiled as one might at an overfed cat, said nothing, and blessed heaven when he left shortly after to present himself to his patroness.
Once he was gone, the house felt lighter.
Charlotte, free from her husband’s hovering presence, decided to tour the home again, properly this time. They met the maid-of-all-work—a shy girl with red cheeks and capable hands—and the cook, a middle-aged woman who doubled as housekeeper and greeted Charlotte’s arrival with something like audible relief. It was clear the staff had not quite known what to expect in a mistress, and the discovery that she was practical, composed, and nothing like her husband was received gratefully.
Together, the ladies walked through the modest gardens, now dormant beneath frost. They inspected the hen coop, visited the kitchens, and reviewed the linens. Elizabeth listened with real pleasure as Charlotte began to speak of routines and improvements, of how the small parlor off the back would be made her private sitting room.
“It appears to be the quietest part of the house,” Charlotte said, half-smiling as she pushed open the door. “I believe I shall move a few of my books and keep my correspondence here. Mr. Collins may have his study, and I… I shall have this.”
Elizabeth turned slowly, taking in the small square room with its single window overlooking the hedgerow. “It is an excellent idea. You deserve a space of your own.”
Charlotte flushed. “I hope my husband will approve.”
The day passed in relative ease, broken only by Mr. Collins’ return before dinner. He burst into the parlor flushed with success, announcing that they were all invited to Rosings on the morrow for the formal presentation ofhis wifeto Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter—and, as he added with particular pomp, to anephew of her ladyship, presently visiting Rosings, though he could not say which one, for she had several.
“One of the sons of her brother the earl, no doubt,” he declared. “Or perhaps her late sister’s eldest child. Such fine connections, and always gracious to her humble servants. Her ladyship said nothing of the holidays, but I suspect a Christmas dinner or musical evening shall be proposed in the coming days.”
Elizabeth listened with a composed expression, noting silently that Charlotte appeared rather less enthused than her husband. It was a strange kind of triumph, to be dragged before Lady Catherine only days after one’s wedding, but it was clearly what Charlotte had expected.
When the clock struck nine and the lamps were trimmed, Elizabeth excused herself early, pleading fatigue from travel and cold weather. In truth, it was not weariness that sent her upstairs but a quiet desperation to escape the subtle, unbearable reminder that Charlotte and Mr. Collins now shared a bedroom.
She took her candle and book, settled into the small chamber they had given her—plain, but tidy and warm—and tried to lose herself inEvelina. The prose was charming, the heroine witty, but her eyes would not still. They kept returning to Longbourn, to Jane’s soft, sad smiles, to the empty place where hope had once sat.
This was to be her Christmas: a parsonage in Kent, a pompous clergyman, and a strained silence. No Gardiners. Nobustling children. No candlelit drawing rooms filled with music and cheer.
Only duty. And Charlotte.
She turned the page with a sigh and pulled the coverlet tighter.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth followed Mr. and Mrs. Collins up the long, winding path to Rosings. Her shawl—thick and warm, woven by her Aunt Gardiner two Christmases past—was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and she was very glad she had thought to bring her sturdiest boots from home.
The wind bit at her cheeks, and the sky hung gray and heavy with the promise of more snow. It was not terrible weather for walking, but neither was it entirely suitable for a visit to a baronet’s widow and her delicate daughter.
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed just slightly as she stepped over a patch of icy gravel. Surely, if Lady Catherine wished to make a proper impression upon her new rector’s wife, she might have thought to send the carriage.
But then again, Lady Catherine de Bourgh did not appear in company to please—only to be pleased.
At least from what I gather based on Mr. Collins’ information.
She watched as Charlotte leaned slightly toward her husband, murmuring something that caused Mr. Collins to straighten proudly and quicken his pace. There it was again—that curious, subtle influence her friend had begun to exercise. A word here, a gentle correction there. Charlotte was learninghow to manage him, how to steer him without ever letting go of his reins.
From a practical standpoint, the match made perfect sense. Charlotte was nearly seven and twenty, plain, prudent, and without fortune. Mr. Collins was absurd, yes, but he also had a living, a patroness, and no vice except pomposity. Already the parsonage was beginning to run smoothly under Charlotte’s quiet governance. She would make it her own.
But I could never have borne it,Elizabeth thought, her breath rising in white clouds.Not for all the patronesses in Kent.
If Mr. Bingley had not come to Netherfield—if Jane had been unprotected—might her mother have pressed Mr. Collins upon her instead? A chill crept through her not caused by the weather.
