Mrs. Jenkinson set down her teacup with a soft clink and cleared her throat. “Mrs. Collins, forgive me, but I wonder if I might have a word about the receipt you mentioned, the one for the tonic you mentioned that your mother taught you? Miss de Bourgh’s constitution might benefit from such a remedy.”
Charlotte rose immediately, ever the accommodating hostess. “Of course, Mrs. Jenkinson. I shall write it out for you. Maria, perhaps you might help me – you can show Mrs. Jenkinson the herbs in the stillroom while I write out the receipt?”
Maria nearly leapt from her chair, eager to be useful, to be noticed performing some service. The three women departed in a rustle of skirts and murmured conversation, their voices fading down the passage toward the back of the house.
The parlour door clicked shut.
Elizabeth found herself alone with Anne de Bourgh, and the room seemed to contract around them. The afternoon light slanting through the windows had taken on a thick, amber quality, illuminating dust motes that hung suspended in the air. The silence pressed against Elizabeth’s ears, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock and her own too-loud breathing.
She should say something. Make some polite observation about the weather, about the quality of Charlotte’s housekeeping, about anything at all. But her mind remained stubbornly fixed on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s revelation, on Darcy’s interference, on Jane’s lost happiness. Her anger sat like a stone in her throat, making speech difficult.
Anne reached for the teapot with movements that seemed oddly deliberate, almost ceremonial. Her pale fingers curledaround the handle, and she lifted it with exaggerated care. The spout hovered over Elizabeth’s cup, and tea flowed out in a dark stream, the liquid catching the light as it fell.
“You have finished your tea,” Anne observed. Her voice remained soft, but it carried a strange undertone Elizabeth could not quite identify. “Allow me. You must be thirsty, after taking such a long walk.”
Elizabeth watched, oddly transfixed, as Anne topped up the cup.
“Oh,” Anne said. “What is that bird, in the garden?”
Elizabeth followed the direction of Anne’s gaze, though the window, but saw no birds. “Where do you mean, Miss de Bourgh?”
“It flew away,” Anne said dismissively, and Elizabeth blinked, looking back at her. Anne was concentrating on the tea again, topping up her own cup this time.
“I find the gardens at Rosings particularly beautiful at this time of year,” Anne said, lifting her own cup to her lips and taking a small sip. “The grove of oaks, especially. So peaceful there, so removed from the main house. Do you walk there often during your visits?”
“I have walked there once or twice.” Elizabeth reached for her refreshed cup, grateful for something to occupy her hands. The taste seemed slightly different somehow, more bitter perhaps, or was that simply her mood colouring everything?
“You strike me as someone who enjoys solitude,” Anne continued. Her gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth’s face with unsettling intensity. “Someone who prefers her own thoughts to idle company.”
“I enjoy walking,” Elizabeth said. The words came out vague, distracted. Her mind had already wandered back to Darcy, to the image of him congratulating himself on separating Bingley fromJane. The arrogance of it. The casual cruelty. She took another sip of tea, barely registering the taste.
“And what occupies your thoughts during these solitary walks?” Anne’s question felt invasive somehow, too personal for their slight acquaintance. “Do you reflect on books you have read? On conversations that have troubled you?”
Elizabeth blinked, pulled reluctantly back to the present. “I think on many things. Whatever comes to mind, I suppose.”
“How vague.” A small smile touched Anne’s lips. “Surely someone of your evident intelligence has more specific preoccupations. Your family, perhaps? Your eldest sister, Jane, is she not called? Or your younger sisters, and their welfare?”
The mention of Jane made Elizabeth’s chest tighten. She set down her teacup with less grace than intended, the china rattling against the saucer. “My sisters are all very well, thank you.”
“But the eldest was in London recently, was she not? And did not see as much of certain acquaintances as might have been expected.” Anne tilted her head, watching Elizabeth’s reaction with avid attention. “How disappointing that must have been. For her, I mean. When one forms expectations of a connection, only to find oneself... overlooked.”
Elizabeth’s hands clenched in her lap. How did Anne know about Jane and Bingley? The question surfaced through her renewed anger, but she was too upset to properly consider it. “These things happen,” she said stiffly. “Not all acquaintances deepen into friendships.”
“Indeed.” Anne took another delicate sip of her tea. “Though sometimes the failure of an acquaintance to develop stems not from natural incompatibility but from interference. Do you not think? When well-meaning friends decide to protect one party from what they perceive as an imprudent connection.”
The words hit too close to the wound. Elizabeth felt heat flood her face again, her pulse hammering in her temples. She reachedfor her tea, needing to occupy her shaking hands, and drank deeply. The bitterness seemed more pronounced now, coating her tongue.
“I am sure I cannot speak to such situations,” Elizabeth managed. “I know nothing of interference in others’ affairs.”
“But if you did,” Anne pressed, leaning forward slightly, “if you knew someone had deliberately separated two people who might have made each other happy, what would you think of such a person?”
“I would think them insufferably arrogant.” The words burst out before Elizabeth could contain them. “I would think them cruel and presumptuous, no matter how good their intentions might be. To assume one has the right to judge another’s feelings, to decide they are not genuine or worthy…”
She stopped abruptly, horrified at her own loss of control. Anne’s pale eyes glittered with something that might have been triumph.
“How passionate you are,” Anne murmured. “How deeply you feel injustice. It must be exhausting, caring so intensely about everything and everyone.”
Elizabeth forced herself to breathe slowly, to regain the composure she had lost. But her thoughts scattered like startled birds, refusing to settle. Darcy’s face kept appearing in her mind, his proud expression, his cold civility, his evident disdain for her family’s circumstances. That he should have the audacity to judge Jane, to find her unworthy...
