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"Your ladyship is entirely right," he says. "Entirely. I have been thinking it over during the sermon. Cousin Elizabeth, I am very much grieved, but I cannot countenance it. It would not be proper. I must take her ladyship's part." He bows to Lady Catherine, so low his nose nearly reaches his knees. "Your ladyship may depend upon me."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins. That is very proper."

Mr. Collins sits down, glowing.

That is once.

***

Charlotte and I walk home through the park in silence. It is a lovely afternoon, mild and blue, with the young leaves trembling on every tree. I do not notice any of it until we are halfway to the parsonage, and Charlotte says, "Well. That went better than I expected."

"Better? She has forbidden me the house."

"She has forbidden you his chamber. That is not the house." Charlotte opens her parasol. "And you did not lie to her once. I was listening very carefully. You are a great deal cleverer than I gave you credit for, Lizzy, and I have always given you a great deal."

"I feel dreadful."

"I know." She tucks her arm through mine. "But you did not lie. Hold on to that."

We are scarcely in the parsonage door before there is a knock behind us.

It is Lowe, Mr. Darcy's valet. He is a small, gray, quiet man, who looks at everything as though he is not looking at it. He holds out two notes on a silver salver, which he has apparently carried across the whole park.

"For Mr. Collins," he says, bowing. "And for Miss Bennet."

Mr. Collins, coming up the path behind us, nearly falls over the step in his haste. He seizes his note, breaks the seal, and reads it standing in the doorway, his lips moving.

I take mine. I do not open it. Not with three people watching.

"Will there be an answer, miss?" Lowe asks.

"I—I do not know yet."

"Very good, miss. I shall wait in the kitchen." He bows again, and turns, and as he turns his eyes rest on me, for just a moment, with something I would almost call sympathy. Then he is gone round the side of the house.

Mr. Collins lets out a sound like a kettle coming to the boil.

"Charlotte," he says. "Charlotte, my dear. Listen to this." He holds the note up to the light and reads aloud, in a voice of trembling reverence: "Mr. Darcy presents his compliments to Mr. Collins, and begs to thank him for his prayers, which he is told have been very constant. He hopes that when he is married, Mr. and Mrs. Collins will give him the pleasure of their company at Pemberley, and he will be happy to show Mr. Collins the chimneypiece in the great hall, which he understands Mr. Collins has heard of. It cost eight hundred pounds."

There is a short silence.

"Eight hundred pounds," whispers Mr. Collins.

"How very kind of Mr. Darcy," says Charlotte.

"Kind! It is condescension of the highest order. It is—it is—Pemberley, Charlotte. Pemberley." He turns to me. His eyes are shining. "Cousin Elizabeth. My dear, dear cousin. I wish you joy."

"You told Lady Catherine an hour ago that you could not countenance it," I say.

He pauses. Something flickers across his face, the briefest anguish.

"Her ladyship," he says at last, with great dignity, "did not say that I might not wish you joy. She only said that I must not countenance it. They are entirely different things. I am a clergyman. I understand these distinctions." He tucks the note into his waistcoat, over his heart. "I wish you joy, cousin, with all my soul. I shall write to your mother this very evening."

"Please don't," I say, but he has already gone into the book room, humming.

That is twice.

Charlotte looks at me. I look at Charlotte. Neither of us quite dares to laugh.