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Mrs. Jenkinson nods, with great solemnity.

"He has counted the roses on the bed curtains. Two hundred and fourteen. He told my housekeeper that one of them is upside down, and asked her to have it seen to." Another finger. "He thanked the footman who brought up his dinner. By name. He does not know the footman's name. He asked it."

"That does sound very alarming, ma'am," I say.

"And this morning," says Lady Catherine, and her voice drops to a tone of real horror, "he sent a message to Mr. Collins, saying that he hoped the sermon would be a good one."

The whole room turns to look at Mr. Collins, who goes scarlet.

"It was a very kind message," he says faintly.

"It was a mad message," says Lady Catherine. "My nephew has sat through your sermons every Easter for three years, Mr. Collins, and has never once hoped anything of the kind."

Mr. Collins opens his mouth, considers which of two great persons he is about to offend, and closes it again.

Lady Catherine turns back to me. "So you see, Miss Bennet. I am not deceived. Whatever happened on Thursday evening in that parsonage, my nephew was not in a condition to know his own mind on Friday morning, and he is not in a condition to know it now. And you, it seems, have very conveniently decided to take advantage."

There it is.

I feel Charlotte, beside me, go perfectly still.

"What arts you have used," Lady Catherine goes on, "I do not pretend to know. Some I can guess. You were there in the lane. You were the first person he saw. A man insensible, a young woman of no fortune, a little weeping, a little hand-holding—oh, yes, I have heard about the hand-holding. Mrs. Jenkinson saw it through the door."

Mrs. Jenkinson looks at her lap.

"And now he is persuaded that he offered for you and was accepted, when everyone knows he is engaged to my daughter." Lady Catherine leans forward. "Tell me plainly, Miss Bennet. Are you engaged to my nephew?"

This is the moment.

I have been dreading it since the library. I could tell her the truth. No, ma'am. I refused him on Thursday. I called him the last man in the world. It would be the easiest thing I have done in three days. She would be delighted. She would go straight up those stairs, and in half a minute she would have told him everything, at the top of her voice, with relish.

I think of the young gentleman at Sevenoaks, and his fortnight of fever.

I think of Mr. Darcy laughing.

"Your nephew says that I am, ma'am," I say.

"I did not ask what my nephew says. I asked what you say."

"Mr. Pettigrew has said that Mr. Darcy is on no account to be contradicted." I meet her eyes. "I am sure your ladyship would not wish me to contradict a sick man. Not against the express advice of his physician."

Lady Catherine stares at me.

Across the room, by the fire, someone makes a very small noise. When I glance over, Miss de Bourgh has a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, and her eyes are watering, and Mrs. Jenkinson is patting her back and asking whether she has caught a chill.

"Miss Bennet," says Lady Catherine at last, in a voice like the North Sea in January. "You are an obstinate, headstrong girl."

"So I have been told, ma'am."

"You shall not see him again."

My heart drops. It is absurd that it should. Three days ago I did not care if I never saw Mr. Darcy again in my life.

"I have given orders," Lady Catherine continues. "You are not to be admitted to his chamber. Pettigrew may say what he likes. This is my house, and I will not have my nephew's wits further disordered by a young woman who walks about in the mud." She sits back, satisfied. "When Dr. Hollis has bled him, and Sir Augustus has examined him, we shall see how he feels about Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn."

"Your ladyship," says Mr. Collins.

We all look at him. He has risen. He is trembling.