Page 3 of Mr. Darcy Forgot I Said No

“That cannot be right,” I tell the empty room.

The room does not dispute it.

I cry, which is absurd, because I have won. I have said everything I have wished to say since October, and I said it well.

Then I think of his hand trembling as he took up his hat, and I cry harder, and I do not understand myself at all.

***

“Lizzy? Lizzy, are you within?”

Charlotte’s voice is in the hall. I press my handkerchief to my eyes, quickly, as I did at nine years old when I was caught in the Lucases’ apple tree.

“In here.”

She comes in with Maria behind her, both of them pink from the walk home from Rosings.

“Oh, Lizzy, you missed everything,” Maria says. “Lady Catherine told me I hold my fork like a farmer’s daughter, and then she told Mr. Collins his sermon wanted shortening, and then—”

“Maria,” Charlotte says, “would you see whether Mr. Collins wishes for his tea in the book room?”

“But I have not told her about the—”

“Afterwards, my dear.”

Maria goes, sighing. Charlotte does not sit. She stands by the window Mr. Darcy addressed, unties her bonnet, and looks at me with great good sense.

“You have been crying.”

“I have a headache.”

“Headaches do not commonly redden the eyes.”

“Mine is an uncommon headache.”

“Hmm.” She lays the bonnet on the sill. “Hodges says Mr. Darcy called.”

Of course Hodges says. The Hunsford maid sees everything that passes in the lane, and reports it before it has finished passing.

“He did,” I say. “Briefly.”

“Hodges says he stayed above a quarter of an hour, and left at a pace she calls unchristian.”

“He came to ask after my health.”

“How very attentive of him.”

“Charlotte.”

“I only remark it.” She studies me a moment longer. “Shall I ask you nothing?”

“I cannot tell you tonight. Indeed I cannot.”

“Then not tonight.” She nods once. That is what I love in her: she knows the difference between a door that is shut and a door that is locked. “But you will go up early, and I shall send you tea, and if you are still this color in the morning, I am sending for Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Who in the world is Mr. Pettigrew?”

“The apothecary. Lady Catherine thinks him very inferior.” Charlotte almost smiles. “So naturally he is excellent.”