Page 15

"No, ma'am. I believe that was the horse's doing."

"Do not be pert, Miss Bennet. It does not become a girl with no fortune." She turns her head. "Mrs. Jenkinson. Tea."

Mrs. Jenkinson flies to the bell.

"Mr. Pettigrew," Lady Catherine goes on, "is an ignorant, timid little man. I have told him so. My nephew will be quite well by tomorrow, because I have said that he shall be. I shall not have him lying about Rosings being excited. There is nothing at Rosings to excite anyone." She fixes me with a look. "I trust you understand me."

I do not understand her in the least, but I say, "Perfectly, ma'am."

"Good. You may go home."

"The Colonel asked me to wait, ma'am."

"The Colonel is a younger son. He may ask what he likes." She heaves herself up again. "Anne. Come. You are standing in a draught."

Miss de Bourgh does not move at once. She looks at me, for perhaps the first time since I came into Kent. Her eyes are a pale, washed blue, and there is something in them I cannot name. Then she turns and follows her mother out, and Mrs. Jenkinson follows her with the shawl, and the door shuts, and I am alone.

Alone, except for the thing in my pocket.

***

I took it in the lane.

I did not think about it. I only knew that men would be coming to carry him, and his aunt would be coming after them, and a letter addressed to me in Mr. Darcy's hand must not be found in his coat by Lady Catherine de Bourgh. So I put it in my pocket, and ran.

Now I take it out, and look at it.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

It is thick. The seal is unbroken. There is a smear of mud across one corner, and I do not know whether it is from the lane or from my glove.

"I ought not," I say aloud.

The parlor does not argue.

"He cannot remember writing it. It would be very wrong to read a letter a man does not remember writing."

It is addressed to me.

I break the seal.

Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.

"Disgusting," I say. "I never said disgusting."

I said a good deal worse.

I read on. It is very like him. Stiff, and cold, and proud, and I am almost glad, because a proud letter is a letter I may be angry with. He writes of Jane. He saw no particular regard, he says. Her manners were open and cheerful, as always, and he believed her heart not likely to be easily touched.

"You did not know her," I tell the page. "You did not try to know her."

Then he writes of my mother, and my younger sisters, and my father. The total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father.

I stop.

I think of Netherfield. Mama's voice carrying down the supper table: Such a match for Jane. Mary at the pianoforte, singing on and on when everyone wished her to stop. Lydia and Kitty shrieking over the officers. Papa watching it all with his book, amused, and doing nothing.

My face is hot. I read the passage again, hoping it will improve. It does not.