Page 25

As the congregation filed out into the pale January sunshine, the sequence of events was briefly disrupted by Lady Catherine, who had opinions about petals.

“I cannot think,” she announced, to no one in particular but also to everyone within ten feet of her, “why anyone would choose to throw flower petals. Wheat is far superior, since it carries a symbolism that petals entirely lack, and a deep legacy of tradition. If anyone had thought to consult me on this matter…”

Though several persons away, Elizabeth caught the commentary clearly. Mr Collins had described Lady Catherine as a generous benefactor and great lady who encapsulated all the virtues, but Elizabeth had privately thought that she sounded rather cold and overbearing. If anything, she was even more formidable in person than Elizabeth had expected she would be. Though she was petite in size, she gave the impression that she took up a good deal of space, and Elizabeth noticed people backing away as though unwilling to crowd her. She was looking about, her frown so deep as to be almost a scowl, but when her gaze met Elizabeth, it stopped there. For no reason Elizabet could think of, Lady Catherine was openly staring at her, and obviously with no very friendly feeling. They continued to look at each other for a long, breath-stopping moment, until the bridal couple stepped through the doors and the focus turned to them.

Never before, Elizabeth reflected, had she been so grateful for the appearance of Mr Collins.

The wedding breakfast at Lucas Lodge was crowded and warm, and smelled pleasantly of meats, fresh bread, and flowers. Elizabeth squeezed herself into a small space near the window with a plate of food that she was not really eating, watching everyone and feeling strangely detached from the festivities.

She was punished for her lack of attention when she failed to notice Lady Catherine approaching. The woman cleared her throat loudly, and Elizabeth jumped, startled. The older woman nodded grimly, as though Elizabeth’s inattention had confirmed something that she had suspected, and was both pleased at her prescience and disappointed in Elizabeth herself.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she said by way of greeting. In Lady Catherine’s mouth, her name sounded more like an accusation than a greeting — how dare she be Miss Elizabeth Bennet, indeed.

“Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth returned, offering a small curtsey. “I hope you had a pleasant journey here from Kent.”

“The roads were abominable,” the woman snapped, unable to pass up the opportunity to make a complaint. Surprisingly, she didn’t linger on the topic. If Lady Catherine would choose to abandon the opportunity to share her thoughts on what should be done to better maintain the roads to focus instead on whatever it was that she wanted from Elizabeth, it must be important to her. “I have been told that you are to visit Pemberley, my nephew’s house.”

Elizabeth blinked at the abruptness of the transition, but quickly rallied. “That is correct,” she said, nodding in confirmation. “Mr Darcy has invited my father, who is a great lover of books, to see his library, and has kindly included my elder sister and myself in the invitation.”

“I see.” Lady Catherine’s eyes flickered up and down her form, evaluating her as she might evaluate a piece of furniture that she was considering returning. “I know who you are. You are the girl who was discovered with my nephew’s friend in the library, in an indiscreet condition.”

Again, it was not a question, and so gave no opportunity for correction. Elizabeth kept her expression pleasant with some effort and tried to reply in kind. “I am Mr Bingley’s fiancée,” she said, focusing on the outcome rather than the event.

Lady Catherine made a sound that, had it been made by someone who was not the daughter of an earl, would have been called a snort. “A most unfortunate business. I am not surprised Darcy felt compelled to invite you to Pemberley, as he has always had an excess of generosity where his friends are concerned. I trust you understand, however, that his invitation is nothing more than an act of kindness toward Mr Bingley.”

“I had not imagined it to be anything else,” Elizabeth replied cooly, “but I thank you for clarifying it for me.”

“Good. Then we understand each other. Darcy is to marry my daughter, Anne, as has been the wish of both their mothers since they were in their cradles, and I will not have that arrangement disturbed by…” Lady Catherine paused, and let her gaze travel over Elizabeth once more, with insulting deliberateness, “…by any misapprehension on someone else’s part.”

Across the room, Anne de Bourgh sat quietly beside her companion, very pale, and certainly not doing anything so strenuous as eating. She looked tired, and Elizabeth felt a surge of pity.

“I hope that Miss de Bourgh enjoys good health,” she said politely. “The journey from Kent must have been quite tiring for her.”

“Anne is in excellent health,” Lady Catherine said sharply, “and as a result is perfectly equal to any journey I require of her. Do not think that I do not recognise your impertinence as an attempt to change the subject. We are speaking of your situation, Miss Bennet, which is not a comfortable one. A young woman found alone with a gentleman, in a private room, in a house that was not her own, in a compromising position. Whatever the explanation, the scandal does not reflect well at all on you, or on your family. Indeed, I think that most people of sense would say it puts all of you in a poor light indeed, which, I regret to say, is precisely the light one might expect, given what is generally known of the Bennets.”

Elizabeth set down her plate. She laid it down gently, which required rather more effort than she had ever before expended on an item of dishware.

“You are very well informed, for someone who has met none of us before today,” she said evenly. “And you are quite right that people of sense are so difficult to predict. After all, one would think that my engagement to Mr Bingley, and the fact that engagement is so well-viewed that his closest friend has invited us together to Pemberley, along with members of both Mr Bingley’s family and mine, might have gone some way toward settling the matter. But I daresay that you are better placed than I to know exactly what all the people of sense are saying.” She smiled. “I wish Miss de Bourgh and Mr Darcy every happiness. Now, if you will excuse me, I must find my fiancé.”

She turned and left before Lady Catherine, who had grown increasingly red-faced throughout her response, could regroup.

It took her only a moment to locate Mr Bingley. Elizabeth drew in a harsh breath, at once unsurprised at what she saw and so saddened that she bit her lip to drive the feeling back.

Though the sadness was all for those she watched, and none for herself.

He and Jane had drifted, or perhaps gravitated like two magnets with opposing poles, to a quiet corner of the room near the fireplace. For once, there was no one beside them, no one between them, and there didn’t even seem to be anyone watching them with any particular interest. Not that there was anything to see, even if there had been an avid audience.

They were simply talking, with a friendliness and openness that must have been above even the most eager criticism. It was not their actions that caught Elizabeth’s attention, but the way they both seemed to be themselves in that moment, in a way she had not seen either be authentically themselves in months. Together, their conversation was easy and unguarded and quiet, the kind of conversation Elizabeth had never, in all their months of cautious, conscientious engagement, quite managed to achieve with Mr Bingley, despite all of his kindness, and the undeniable effort on both their parts.

Mr Bingley was looking at Jane as though he could not believe that she was real, the longing in his eyes palpably, painfully obvious. And Jane, sweet, proper Jane, who had spent months holding herself carefully still, who had said nothing and shown nothing and asked for nothing, was simply allowing herself to be, for once entirely present and unguarded in the moment. They both looked happy, just for this brief interlude together.

Elizabeth was happy for them, just for a moment, until the knowledge that it could never be came crashing back over her, and she half-thought she might weep.

Then Jane glanced up and saw her watching them, and the moment was over. The distance between them came back immediately, pulled down like a curtain at the end of a play. Mr Bingley, following Jane’s gaze, coloured slightly and stepped back half a pace, his smile toward Elizabeth forced and strained. The thing that had been so apparent between them, that warm, natural, impossible ease and comfort, went abruptly, painfully away. It was simply gone, as though it had never been. The loss of it cost them both, and Elizabeth could see them feel it.

She looked at them for a moment longer and took in the careful blankness of Jane’s expression, the slight stiffness of Mr Bingley’s, and that practically visible separation that had come between them when they realised she was there, and she felt something quiet and certain settle in her chest, like the relief of one arriving at the conclusion of a long journey.

She would find a way out of this engagement. Whatever it cost her, whatever it required, she would not let Jane and Mr Bingley pay for something that was not their fault. She would find a way out, and they would have this — the easy conversation, the unguarded looks, the innocent happiness. She was determined.