As on nearly every morning, she set out alone for a short walk soon after breakfast. Elizabeth had been allowed, yet without explicit remark, to walk in the gardens of Rosings.
Although she would never have voiced it aloud, the grandeur of the house, rising amidst enchanting parkland and broad meadows, drew her with a force she could scarcely resist. She had been somewhat astonished that Lady Catherine, who was in most particulars exceedingly prejudiced, should have accorded her this privilege. Yet after several dinners at Rosings, she perceived that the mistress of the estate subsisted chiefly upon the praises of those around her, and that she herself was expected to visit the park, thereby furnishing material for such commendation.
Half amused, she smiled at the notion, following with her eyes a flock of birds which scattered noisily into the trees, as yet bereft of leaves. Even so, they offered a pleasing spectacle, for all had been carefully trimmed during the past week. The garden, without doubt, would prove most splendid once spring had fully come, and each season likely rendered a landscape more enchanting than the last.
Her walk had brought her far nearer to the house than she intended. All unknowingly, she found herself close at hand whenRosings’s main door was suddenly opened. Two gentlemen stepped forth, and her heart ceased its motion the instant she recognised one of them—it was Mr Darcy. Genuinely alarmed and somewhat embarrassed, she cast a glance behind her. Yet she could not now avoid the meeting, for several hundred yards lay between her and the gate, while but a dozen steps divided her from the staircase of the mansion.
She contrived to smile and conceal her confusion. Yet it was unlikely that the gentlemen had observed the colour upon her cheeks, for a brief, though rather heated, exchange had passed between them. At length, they descended and drew near to where she stood. After bowing before her, he said, “Permit me to introduce my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Then, his gaze resting upon her with an expression she could not interpret, he added, “Miss Bennet.”
The moment was, without question, most singular. The unexpected encounter before a house where she had no immediate reason to be, the short discourse exchanged between the two gentlemen, and his impassive countenance—from which she inferred that Mr Darcy was not pleased by the meeting—all united to leave her with an acute sense of unease. Yet, to her surprise, he conducted himself with perfect propriety, and the smile upon her lips deepened, for it seemed that the gentlemen were, in truth, more disconcerted than herself.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, after a few awkward phrases and a bow, re-entered the house, murmuring something about a forgotten pair of gloves, though Elizabeth could have sworn he held the very article in his left pocket. She turned her gaze from Mr Darcy for a moment, and when she looked again, her astonishment was vivid. The countenance, which had been unreadable lately, was now softened by a look almost approaching a smile—reserved yet undeniably courteous.
“My family does not excel in subtlety.”
Elizabeth confessed inwardly that the surprise of encountering him had turned almost to shock at so evident a display of ease. She did not answer, but continued walking beside him in that agreeable temper.
“I fear I may have presumed too far upon the liberty of walking in Rosings’s park and have ventured too near the house—”
“Because you encountered me?” Still with composure, he invited her, by a courteous gesture, to proceed along the path at his side.
“In the first place, because the invitation referred solely to the outer paths and not to the principal avenue.”
“I do not believe, nevertheless, that any prohibition was expressed. You are welcome in every part of my aunt’s domain.”
Almost involuntarily, she turned her eyes towards him, endeavouring still to reconcile the gentleman before her with the one she had known in Hertfordshire. Yet again, she was met with a look of unaffected civility.
“You appear surprised, and yet I cannot perceive the cause.” He toyed idly with the small stones along the path. The gesture brought a smile to her lips, for her father had often done the same. For a moment, she was tempted to remind him of those days that followed the Netherfield ball, when all had departed without a word of farewell. She refrained. The morning was fair; he seemed altered for the better, less proud and more disposed to civility than she remembered him. Though she loved Jane dearly and longed to understand Mr Bingley’s sudden withdrawal, she resolved to preserve the pleasantness of the morning and to enjoy his company as though meeting him for the first time.
“I did not expect to meet you today, for although I had been informed of your coming, I did not imagine your arrival so near.”
“Oh—then you knew I was coming… That we were coming,” he amended quickly, recollecting his cousin, who had appeared and vanished like an apparition.
“Indeed, I did. I have dined several times at Lady Catherine’s table, and on each occasion your arrival has been the principal topic of conversation.”
“Yes, there is little else to engage the mind here. The colonel and I visit at least once a year, and I dare say our visit is looked forward to. Lady Catherine seldom journeys to London, and her chief amusement lies in receiving guests. Yet she excels in hospitality, and that is a merit not to be slighted.”
She glanced at him, awaiting further remark, and inclined her head. She had ever regarded Lady Catherine as equal in pride and presumption to the gentleman she had met at the Meryton assembly. Her dinners, though often tedious, were undeniably grand.
“I must agree. The house is most imposing, and her cook quite excellent.”
“You are partial to Rosings?” His curiosity was far removed from formality. As she hesitated, he continued, “It is impossible not to admire Rosings, yet—”
“It seems as though all stands untouched by time—unchanged—as if for a hundred years nothing had stirred.” She completed his sentence, suddenly certain that they thought the same.
“And do you believe that the past century has wrought great change in other corners of our lives?”
“At the very least, in matters of fashion,” she replied, laughing, and indicating with a gesture the simplicity of her pelisse. “Merely thirty years ago, ladies still wore those voluminous skirts—often supported by hoops or panniers—forming a figure so unnatural and so fatiguing to endure through the day—”
“And the wigs—worn by ladies and gentlemen alike,” he said, wincing at the remembrance of such encumbrance.
“Precisely. When I first entered the dining-room at Rosings, the decoration seemed drawn from a tableau of Marie Antoinette. The splendour of the former century is to be admired, yet I could not bear to inhabit so excessively adorned a scene.”
“Pemberley is wholly different.” His tone held that fondness she remembered well, for only when he spoke of his estate in Derbyshire did he appear truly open to sentiment.
“In what manner different?” she asked eagerly and with unhidden curiosity.
“My mother was a woman of our time. She embraced the natural simplicity which this century has sought to restore after the extravagance of the last. My father was at first alarmed by her notions. Yet he was soon convinced that rooms freed from superfluous ornament, and furniture reduced to elegant utility, formed a far more agreeable habitation.”
