Page 77 of A November to Remember

“You can always come back in the spring. If you still wish to.”

“The spring,” Charles said, dragging a hand over his face.

“A few months in London will clarify everything.” Louisa adjusted a cushion behind her back. “It is the best thing for you, and the best thing for her. A gentleman should never offer his hand while in doubt.”

Charles ran his hand through his hair, resigned to a fate he did not want but felt obligated to accept for the good of everyone involved.

“Very well. We host the ball and we leave for London the next day.”

An abrupt snort erupted. Mr Hurst shifted his considerable bulk on the armchair. He opened his bloodshot eyes, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head to look at Caroline.

“You are not saving Charles from a mistake, Caroline. You are saving yourself from a sister-in-law who is better than you.”

The colour drained from Caroline’s face. She opened her mouth, ready to unleash an indignant denial.

Mr Hurst did not wait for it. He turned his face away from her, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Hughes. Bring me a glass of port.” He closed his eyes and resumed snoring.

Caroline refused to acknowledge the insult. She focused her attention back on her brother, forcing a smile onto her lips.

Charles had finally lifted his head. He looked from the snoring Mr Hurst to his sister, offering a weak, apologetic smile, attempting to lighten the awkward atmosphere before it suffocated them all.

“Well, at least I am not the only man in this house suffering from romantic complications.” Charles leaned back in his chair, attempting to sound cheerful. “Our guests are hooked.”

Caroline smoothed her skirts, recovering her composure with an airy laugh. “Whatever do you mean, Charles?”

“Darcy.” Charles shook his head, a genuine laugh escaping him at last. “Darcy is in love with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He confessed it to us upstairs. He said she is the only woman in England he could ever endure.”

The words struck Caroline’s ears like a falling chandelier. She stopped breathing, the room tilting sideways. Mr Darcy. Her Mr Darcy. The master of Pemberley. Ten thousand a year. He loved the mud-walking, sarcastic, country girl with the ruinous family.

“And the colonel!” Charles continued, oblivious to the fact that his sister had just turned into a statue. “He is pursuing Miss Mary Bennet. He forbade Keathley from matchmaking her to that dreadful clergyman.”

Caroline’s throat had closed, her mind refusing to accept the information.

Charles smiled at her, offering the ultimate, comforting reassurance. “But do not fret, Caro. There is still the viscount, and he is the biggest catch of them all, is he not?”

Caroline turned the exact colour of Louisa’s beetroot juice.

Collins had visited the Meryton circulating library every day since his arrival in Hertfordshire. It occupied a single room above the haberdasher’s, reached by a narrow staircase that protested beneath his weight. He walked to the section dedicated to moral philosophy and examined a spine stamped with faded gold lettering. Five days had passed since his arrival in Hertfordshire. Five days of profound condescension freely offered to his country relatives, and five days of it being woefully misunderstood. The Longbourn drawing-room, from which he had escaped not twenty minutes earlier, was no place for a gentleman of reflection.

He pulled a heavy volume of sermons from the shelf, dusting the cover with his handkerchief. Tillotson, 1694. The prose was stern, the margins generous, and the font so small it would discourage a casual reader within three sentences. Her ladyship approved of Tillotson. She had said so on three separate occasions, once during a supper at Rosings, once during an inspection of the church roof, and once while standing in his vestibule pointing at a crack in the plaster that she believed reflected poorly on his character.

The Bennet family was a severe disappointment. He had arrived at Longbourn fully prepared to bestow himself on one of his fair cousins, offering the ultimate Christian charity by healing the breach of the entail. He had explained this noble sacrifice to Mrs Bennet with perfect clarity on his very first evening. She had responded by adjusting her lace, ignoring his magnanimity, and launching into an exhaustive history of a neighbour’s pig wearing a velvet collar. To be ready to bestow such elevated consequence and not be appreciated!

His cousins were no better: they avoided him actively. When he entered a room, the younger girls scattered like frightened partridges. Miss Elizabeth mostly ignored him, and Miss Bennet did not seem to listen when he spoke. She smiled, though. Miss Mary had a commendable appreciation for literature, but he could never reach her side; she was perpetually guarded by Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Collins shuddered, clutching the volume to his chest. He respected the colonel as the nephew of his esteemed patroness, naturally. But the man was terrifying. During afternoon tea two days prior, Collins had reached for a buttered scone at the precise moment the colonel had reached for the same pastry. The massive officer had turned his head and stared. Collins had retracted his arm immediately, fearing the gentleman might decide to consume his hand alongside the clotted cream.

And then there was Viscount Keathley. The viscount smiled constantly, spoke of Lady Catherine frequently, and agreed with everything Collins said. It ought to have been flattering. Yet, a cold sweat broke out on the back of Collins’s neck whenever the nobleman praised his weather vane. He could not decipher the man. Collins never quite knew if he was being lauded or mocked. Furthermore, he had not seen Mr Darcy since the very first afternoon of his arrival. The master of Pemberley had vanished, leaving Collins to navigate the elegance of the Fitzwilliam brothers and Mr Bingley alone.

Even Mr Bennet remained aloof, retreating behind his newspaper and offering nothing but dry grunts to his heir. Collins brushed a speck of dust from his white neckcloth. It mattered not. He was the heir. He held the ultimate triumph. Mr Bennet’s feelings would not alter the legal documents of the estate.

If the Bennet girls proved unworthy of his olive branch, there was always an alternative: Miss Charlotte Lucas.

She was a sensible young woman, and she seemed to be thrust next to him at every conceivable opportunity. She was guided to the chair beside him at tea, left stranded with him near the pianoforte, and frequently abandoned in his vicinity by Mrs Bennet. She was not a beauty, and she wore eminently practical garments. But she was tolerable, he supposed. She had a remarkable capacity for listening. She had sat for an entire hour while he detailed the emotional sensitivities of his hens, nodding at all the appropriate intervals. She understood the gravity of poultry management; she would make an acceptable parson’s wife.

The bell above the library door chimed merrily.

Collins peered through the narrow gap between two shelves to see three gentlemen strolling into the establishment. He did not recognise them, but their attire bespoke some consequence. They appeared to be men of business from London, or perhaps upper-tier stewards. They walked the aisles, talking and laughing freely, unbothered by the quiet atmosphere of the library.