Page 1 of Time Stands Still

Chapter One

Waking to the grey and sober light of a Kentish morning, Elizabeth Bennet found that sleep had granted her no respite. The turmoil of her thoughts had followed her even into dreams, and now, in the pale dawn, they pressed upon her with renewed force. The Parsonage was silent around her. That suffocating civility which governed every waking hour was at least merciful enough to allow her solitude in these early moments.

The chamber she occupied, though afforded every comfort that Mrs. Collins's housekeeping could provide, was scrupulously ordered in a manner that left little room for disorder or for the inhabitant's own preferences. Its window overlooked a small, meticulously manicured garden, a testament to Mr. Collins's tireless efforts to impose order upon nature, much as he sought to impose his own notions of propriety upon every aspect of life. Beyond it, the spire of the church pricked the skyline, a constant reminder of his clerical authority and the sphere of influence commanded by his esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

As she stood for a moment by the window, a voice, unmistakably that of her cousin, carried up from the garden below. He was not merely speaking, but proclaiming, his intended audience a long-suffering gardener who was no doubt attempting to go about his work.

“Mark my words, Goodman,” Mr. Collins declared, his tone one of profound discovery. “There is nothing so beneficial for the cultivation of an early potato as the dews of a fine April morning! Her ladyship, Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself, was saying only last week that the potatoes at Rosings owe their superior flavour to a judicious application of morning dew!”

Elizabeth turned from the window with a small, weary smile. It was a perfect encapsulation of the man: a mundane observation delivered with the gravity of a holy writ, and all of it, inevitably, traced back to the divine authority of Lady Catherine.

A familiar ache settled behind her ribs as she began to dress, the events of the preceding day replaying in her mind. Her walk with Colonel Fitzwilliam, a man whose easy manners and amiable conversation had been a rare source of pleasure during her visit, had concluded with a revelation that tainted the memory of it. It was one thing to suspect a man of pride and ill-humour; it was quite another to have it confirmed that this very pride had been the instrument of her sister’s heartbreak.

She could picture it now: the Colonel, with an air of casual confidence, relating the tale of his cousin’s recent triumph in “saving a friend from a most imprudent match.” He had spoken with no malice, entirely unaware of the wound his words inflicted. To him, it was but an amusing anecdote of Mr. Darcy’s formidable influence. To Elizabeth, it was the final, damning piece of evidence against a man she had already judged and found wanting.

“He congratulated himself on his success,” she murmured to her reflection in the looking-glass, her fingers tightening around the ivory handle of her hairbrush. “He congratulated himself, while my sister, my dear, sweet Jane, is left to bear the consequence of his interference.”

A painful heat rose in her breast. Jane, whose heart was so open and whose nature was so gentle as to be incapable of seeing fault in others, had been deemed unworthy. Mr. Bingley, a man whose affection for Jane had been as plain as day to anyone with eyes to see, had been turned aside by the meddling of a friend who presumed to know his heart better than he himself. And that friend was Mr. Darcy. The man who had slighted her at the Meryton assembly, who had stared at her with cold disapprobation for weeks, and whose every action seemed calculated to remind those of lesser fortune of their inferiority.

Her mind, once settled in its conviction, worked with feverish efficiency to assemble all his past transgressions into a formidable case for the prosecution. His arrogance in Meryton, where he barely deigned to speak to anyone not of his own party, was entirely consistent with his general character. The embers of dislike she had harboured for weeks were now kindled into a flame of righteous anger.

With a sigh, Elizabeth rose and made her way downstairs, schooling her features into an expression of pleasant composure. By the time she reached the breakfast room, the mask of cheerful politeness had settled firmly into place.

Charlotte, now Mrs. Collins, and her sister Maria were already seated at table. Maria Lucas, who had come to Kent with Elizabeth to visit her elder sister, looked up from her plate with uncomplicated cheerfulness. While Charlotte was quietly directing a servant about some household arrangement, Maria remarked to her, "The butter this morning is quite superior, Charlotte. I do not think I have ever tasted better."

Charlotte, her instructions concluded, turned and smiled with quiet satisfaction. "Her Ladyship has very particular notions regarding dairy management, which Mr. Collins was most attentive in relaying to me. And I must own, for all the attention given to the subject, the results speak for themselves."

Elizabeth took her seat, and Maria, ever eager for pleasant conversation, turned to her. “Can you believe it, Elizabeth, it is the fifteenth of April already!” Maria began, her tone full of simple delight. “Today marks a whole fortnight since we arrived. I shall be quite sorry to leave in a week’s time.”

“Indeed,” said Elizabeth, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes. “The time has passed quickly.”

The door opened, and Mr. Collins appeared, flushed from his morning exertions in the garden. In his hand he held a letter, which he waved with barely contained excitement.

“From Rosings, my dear!” he declared, handing the note to his wife with the air of a man presenting a holy relic. “An invitation, I am sure of it! Her ladyship’s kindness is truly without bounds.”

Charlotte read the note with her usual composure. “It is as you say, my dear. Lady Catherine requests our company for dinner this evening. She has been so good as to include all of our party.” Her eyes met Elizabeth’s across the table.

A feeling of profound distaste rose in her. To go to Rosings, to sit in that oppressive drawing-room and make polite conversation, was a trial on any day. To do so now, knowing she must face Mr. Darcy, felt impossible. The prospect of enduring his cool, appraising gaze while this fresh anger stirred within her was more than she could stomach. To feign civility while imagining all the ways she might reproach him for his cruelty was a hypocrisy that made her feel ill.

As Charlotte and Maria began to express their placid delight, Elizabeth saw her only path of escape. "Charlotte," she said, pressing a hand to her temple, "I fear I must beg you to make my excuses to her ladyship. I have woken with a dreadful headache and feel quite unequal to the pleasure of such a visit."

Mr. Collins, who had been beaming at the prospect of an evening spent in close proximity to his patroness, turned to her, his jaw slack and his eyes wide. His face, which had been rosy with excitement, became ashen.

“A headache, Cousin Elizabeth?” he stammered, his voice cracking. “Surely it cannot be so severe as to prevent you from paying your respects to Lady Catherine! To refuse such an invitation… it is a slight of the highest order! Her ladyship will be most grievously offended, I assure you. She does not look kindly upon those who neglect her invitations!”

“Then she will have to look unkindly upon me,” said Elizabeth, her own voice sharper than she had intended. “For I am in no state to be fit company for anyone, least of all Lady Catherine de Bourgh. To appear before her in my present condition would be a greater insult, I think, than to stay away.”

“My dear cousin, you do not understand!” Mr. Collins was now on his feet, pacing the small space between the table and the fireplace. “Her ladyship’s good opinion is not a thing to be trifled with! My own position, my very happiness, is contingent upon her favour! She will think me a poor host, unable to manage my own guests! She will think…”

“She will think that your cousin is unwell,” Charlotte interrupted, her voice calm but firm. She rose and placed a steadying hand on her husband’s arm. “Mr. Collins, you are over-anxious. It is no great matter. We shall simply explain that Elizabeth is indisposed. Her ladyship, who is the very picture of health, is surely not so unreasonable as to demand the presence of those who are suffering. It would reflect far more poorly upon us to bring a guest to her table who is clearly in pain and unable to appreciate the honour being bestowed upon her.”

She delivered this little speech with such serene confidence that Mr. Collins was momentarily silenced. He looked from his wife to Elizabeth, his mouth agape, his mind clearly struggling to reconcile his fear of offending his patroness with his wife’s unassailable logic.

“Then… you will make my apologies, Charlotte?” Elizabeth asked, pressing her advantage. “You will convey my profound regret and disappointment?”

“Of course,” Charlotte replied, giving her husband’s arm a final, reassuring pat. “Leave it to me. Now, Mr. Collins, do sit down, my dear, for breakfast is served.”

Thus managed, the crisis of the breakfast table was averted. Mr. Collins, though still agitated, was sufficiently subdued by his wife’s authority to allow the matter to rest. He soon departed for his garden, eager to impart his wisdom upon his potatoes, while Maria retired to the drawing-room to write a letter.