“I assure you, it does not,” she replied, rather more heatedly than she intended. Ignoring the way her father’s eyebrows rose, she excused herself to leave in search of Mary.
2
It was not Sir William who imposed his esteemed houseguest upon the Bennets but the lady herself. Miss de Bourgh arrived long before the hour for morning calls, one of two ladies sitting up front in a gig being driven apace towards the house and identifiable as belonging to Sir William only by dint of his future son clinging frantically to the luggage shelf at the back.
“What does Mr Collins mean, bringing her here at this time of day?” Mrs Bennet cried, attempting to shoo her children about the room until they, or at least the furniture, appeared to best advantage.
“I am not sure we can lay the blame for this at his door,” Elizabeth replied. “It looks rather more as thoughshehas broughthim.”
Mr Bennet, peering from the window with her, smiled at this. “And only just at that, for she does not look as though she would have stopped to scoop him up if he had fallen off.”
“Who is that driving them?” Mary enquired from her spot at the next window along.
Lydia left her seat at the table to look, drawing an exasperated cry from her mother, who had only moments before finished arranging her into it. “That is Miss de Bourgh.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure,” Lydia retorted petulantly.
“Do you not recall?” Kitty said, standing up from the sofa and drawing more strident objections from Mrs Bennet. “Mr Collins told us that Miss de Bourgh drives a little phaeton and ponies all the time around Rosings Park. A gig with one horse cannot present much bother.”
“She is evidently quite the horsewoman,” Jane remarked from the spot where her mother had positioned her and where she dutifully remained.
“There you are, Lizzy,” said her father, nudging Elizabeth with his elbow. “We have already found a way in which her talents surpass yours, and she has not yet set foot in the house.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she replied sardonically. She did not argue, however, for she could claim no extraordinary skill with horses.
Mrs Bennet abandoned her object of titivating her children to come to the window and see for herself, whereupon she tutted indignantly. “It is all well and good for those who can afford the extravagance of a phaeton and ponies. Some of us must make do with walking.”
Elizabeth glanced sidelong at her mother, surprised to hear something that sounded so much as though it was in her defence. She was more used to being scolded for her frequent sorties out of doors, Mrs Bennet’s favourite lament being that the maids could spend their time in better ways than scrubbing her petticoat and boots clean.
“I imagine she is too frail to walk such a distance. Wait until you can see her closely. She looks as though she would snap in a sharp breeze,” Lydia opined.
“Would, then, that she had stayed at home out of the wind,” said Mrs Bennet, turning away from the window to sit defiantly in her chair.
All speculation was brought to a halt when the visitors reached the house. Mr Collins led his companions into the parlour and presented them with a preposterous degree of ceremony. The lady who had been passenger in the gig was introduced as Mrs Jenkinson, Miss de Bourgh’s companion.
Miss de Bourgh herself was hale enough to walk into the parlour unaided but was wrapped in so many shawls as made it difficult to determine much more about her constitution. It was not immediately clear whether she was tall or short, broad or slight, graceful or ungainly. All that could be said of her was that she was frightfully pale, and she had a pinched, troubled look about her, as though she had lost something and was looking for it. She bore absolutely no resemblance to Mr Darcy that Elizabeth could perceive. She supposed it fortunate, since it would be exceedingly strange for anybody to be married to the mirror image of themselves.
“These are my daughters,” Mrs Bennet said once she and her husband had been introduced. She did not trouble herself to point out who was who as she rattled off their names.
Miss de Bourgh nodded but said nothing. There was an awkward silence as she sat down and waited impassively for Mrs Jenkinson to arrange each of her many layers, presumably to plug all gaps where a draft might find ingress. Tea was poured and handed around, and Mrs Jenkinson tested the temperature of hers before nodding to her charge that it was acceptable. Even after that, Miss de Bourgh did not speak. She only gazed slowly around the faces in the room, fixing finally and silently on Jane.
Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with her father, who shrugged, indicating his equal bemusement. “It is a shame Charlotte could not join you, Mr Collins,” she said. “I hope she is not indisposed.”
He answered somewhat haltingly that she was not. “Indeed, she would most certainly have joined us had she known we would call here.”
“You did not tell her you were coming?”
“Sneaking out already, sir?” enquired Mr Bennet. “That does not bode well for your connubial felicity.”
Mr Collins laughed in a way that did not mask how ill he liked the remark. “We did not—I would not—that is to say, it was not our intention to call at Longbourn.”
Mrs Bennet made a noise of affront and stiffened her spine.
“Of course,” Mr Collins continued hastily, “we meant to call on your good selves eventually, but today, the object was merely to show Miss de Bourgh a little of the neighbourhood. Only, when we happened to drive along the lane that leads to Longbourn, she expressed a wish to see it, no doubt aware that it is entailed upon me.”
“No doubt,” muttered Mr Bennet.
