She shook her head. “He speaks of other people’s importance as though it were his own. He repeats things—about Mr Darcy, about Lady Catherine—as though repetition itself grants authority.”
“And does it?”
Elizabeth thought of the way the pain had sharpened. Of how abruptly it had arrived.
“No,” she said. “But it demands attention.”
Papa’s mouth puckered a fraction, but then he seemed to dismiss some notion or other. He returned one of the books to the shelf, then stopped, his hand resting there as though he had misplaced the next thought.
“Forgive me,” he said lightly. “I may be misremembering. Supper conversations tend to blur into one another.” He glanced toward her. “When Mr Collins spoke this evening—before you left—do you recall what he was saying?”
Elizabeth frowned. “He was saying a great many things.”
“Yes,” Papa agreed. “But which of them proved intolerable?”
Elizabeth scoffed. “What did not? And why are you asking?”
Papa shrugged. “It is only that sometimes you appeared scarcely able to abide your own skin. Other moments, you looked rather engaged in the conversation. I was only wondering if the conversation itself was the cause for your discomfort or if it was something more transitory.”
“When have you ever heard of such a thing as the topic of conversation causing someone physical pain?” she retorted.
Papa chuckled. “Humour me, if you please. What was Collins saying when you were in the greatest discomfort?”
She considered. The question was uncomfortably precise.
“He spoke of Lady Catherine,” she said at last. “Of her views. Her guidance.” She paused. “And of Mr Darcy.”
Papa’s brows lifted a fraction. “At the same moment?”
“No,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Not at first.”
He waited, tapping his thumb on a book spine.
“When he spoke of Mr Darcy’s estate,” she continued, “or of Pemberley itself, I was… irritated, perhaps, but no more than usual.”
She searched the memory again, unwilling to trust it too easily. “I could still follow him.”
Papa nodded once, encouraging without approving. “And then?”
“And then,” she said, feeling suddenly foolish for the care with which she chose her words, “he began to speak of what Lady Catherineexpectedof Mr Darcy. Of how his conduct ought to reflect her authority.” Her fingers tightened together in her lap. “That was when I could no longer sit there.”
Papa was silent for a moment. He slid the book back onto the case, then paced round his desk. “At Lucas Lodge,” he said finally, “you were already unwell before we arrived, and displayed some considerable discomfort until you had situated yourself in the room.”
“Yes.”
“And Mr Collins was speaking then, too.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Do you remember what he was sayingimmediatelybefore you put your hand to your ear?”
She hesitated. The memory sharpened against her will.
“He was speaking of Lady Catherine again,” she said. “At least… I think so. He speaks of little else.”
“What about her?”
Elizabeth squinted. “Of her interest in certain important affairs. Of how fortunate it was that such influence was exercised so… attentively.”
