Unexpected meetings ~ by Sofie

As much as I love Charlotte I have to escape from the parsonage every day for an hour or so and walk up into the beautiful grounds of Rosings Park. My cousin’s constant conversation is more than I can abide. Charlotte is made of stronger stuff than I – I believe she has the patience of a saint and, judging by the distant look I often see in her eyes during his pontifications, the ability to completely shut Mr Collins out as her mind wanders along much more pleasant avenues. I have no such gift and so need to run away into the verdant depths of the groves of the park.

Oh Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte! How I lament at the ease with which you threw away your freedom and accepted the most ludicrous and boring man of our acquaintance. How you have managed to find contentment is beyond me! But you have proved very adaptable and competent in managing your husband, I must admit. And your situation here in the Hunsford parsonage is nothing to complain of, not with such a magnificent estate right on your doorstep.

Rosings itself is so opulent, so pretentious in its grandeur, but the wonderful grounds are something else entirely. I love the trees, planted in such natural abundance but of varieties known for their elegance of form and beauty of foliage. I enjoy to walk amidst the sturdy trunks, touch their solidity, feel the strength of the life flowing within them, and relish in the near transparent freshness of the newly furled leaves. Such lovely mornings we are experiencing now. The sky cerulean, with only wispy drifts of cloud. The sun vibrant, scattering through the crossing branches and leaves, patterning the grass with patches of a warmer green. Birdsong fills the air; a medley created by sparrows in the long grass, chaffinches in the hedges, and starlings high above. All this is mine with just a short walk from the parsonage door, through the park paling and up a winding path. I wander it alone, taking in the glories of nature and letting my mind drift without care.

But somehow lately this splendour is not solely mine. I have to share it most unwillingly with none other than Mr Darcy. Why he should have also chosen my favourite haunt and made it his, I have no idea. The first time we met upon the path I thought he would merely nod in greeting and walk on. But instead he must have felt obliged to keep me company. I turned for home and he escorted me right up to the gate. We walked in quite an uncomfortable silence; he asking me the same disjointed questions about my family that had already been asked before; me keeping my responses short and initiating no conversation of my own, but to carefully inform him of my habit of walking in that very place every morning. I felt the warning was sure to save us from any recurrence of such an uneasy meeting - his delight in my company could only match mine in his.

Perversely it happened again not two days later. As much as I do not care for Mr Darcy, I must concede he is an intelligent man, so why did he not understand my hint? Rosings Park has very extensive grounds. We should both be able to walk about at our leisure without ever meeting, but unfortunately we met again, and again he felt the need to accompany me. Was it wilful ill nature, or some strange voluntary penance on his part? As we walked along he seemed almost entirely lost in thought, then he would turn and unexpectedly point out a tree and tell me not only its name, but the year in which it was planted. I was surprised at his knowing such things - he is a difficult man to comprehend. Sometimes he can be quite witty, though usually at another’s expense, as he was with Caroline Bingley during my awful stay at Netherfield when poor sweet Jane was sick. And occasionally I have noticed him wincing at some of his aunt’s more cutting remarks, almost as if he was embarrassed by her behaviour. But I know better than that. He has an abominable pride, just like her. There is little point in attempting to make out his character. I know from poor Mr Wickham that Mr Darcy has not the least shred of honour or human decency. His reasons for walking with me are quite beyond my understanding.

The third time he joined me was the most confusing of all. It was a lovely spring morning. I was admiring the delicate yellow and mauve crocuses that had sprung up overnight upon a bank when I heard a step, and looking up saw Mr Darcy coming towards me. He had the same brooding expression as always, his eyes focused upon me strongly in that unnerving way he has. By now you would think he had discovered my every imperfection and would have no need to look for more. This time, though I tried to refrain as much as possible from conversation, he was practically loquacious - if such a reserved man could ever be considered so. He opened with asking me of my pleasure in staying at Hunsford. I answered that it was a mixed pleasure, but tempered my remark with a smile, and did not elucidate.

He looked at me as if he comprehended and then surprised me by saying, "Do Mr and Mrs Collins have a happy marriage?"

The directness of his question took me off guard. "I had hardly expected it, but they seem very content." I then bit my lip and continued, "My friend is adept at managing her home."

He nodded and then after a short reverie spoke again. "It is fortunate for you to have a friend here - that will make your future visits more comfortable."

I could not understand his train of thought so I didn’t even attempt an answer.

"She will be sure of an invitation whenever you are visiting."

I looked at him to try and find the meaning in his expression that his words had not conveyed, but his face was averted. "I understand that Lady Catherine is uniformly condescending in all her invitations."

Mr Darcy smiled. It was the last response I had expected. I had thought he would have taken affront at what could have been interpreted as censure of his relative, but instead he understood me better than I had understood myself. "Your cousin does have a ponderous way with words," he said.

I was struck by how a smile could transform his face, but I knew better than to be taken in by him. He was too clever in his dealings with people, only look how he had treated Mr Wickham and cheated him of his rightful inheritance.

"Lady Catherine expects punctuality at mealtimes, more so than any other member of the family."

"She does?" I asked, wondering where such an obscure statement was intended to lead.

"Yes," he said, and then he left off gazing at the trees and looked straight into my eyes. "Rosings is very large and in some ways not well laid out. You will find the many corridors between the bedchambers and the dining room confusing at first, especially as you are not accustomed to such large homes."

What was he attempting to tell me? My brain was suddenly in a tumult as I thought back on our conversation. Did he mean to imply that I would be staying at Rosings on future visits? And if so, why? He could not possibly be intimating that his cousin and I . . . no! Colonel Fitzwilliam was most attentive and a very entertaining companion - but love? Marriage? I knew my feelings did not extend that far and though the colonel obviously enjoyed my company I had never detected love in his eyes. I understand the art of light flirtation. I could not be wrong. The idea of possibly receiving another unwanted proposal was most distressing. Turning down Mr Collins was difficult enough, and I found him repellent. Turning down a gentleman as engaging as Colonel Fitzwilliam is an ordeal I do not want to even envision. But what else could Mr Darcy be referring to? I knew not what to say, and I think my apprehension may have been apparent for his next comment was about the flowers growing along the pales. I answered with more enthusiasm than I felt, glad only to see the gate and my means of flight. Later I thought that surely I had misinterpreted him and jumped to erroneous conclusions. My judgement is not faulty. I would certainly know if a gentleman were falling in love with me.

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