Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
T he next day, Colonel Fitzwilliam informed Darcy he would make a tour of the grounds while Darcy occupied himself in poring over Rosings’s ledgers. Darcy was not surprised; not only did Fitzwilliam do this each year, but he had never had a head for numbers, nor any inclination to understand how their aunt spent her late husband’s money. Darcy wished he himself did not have to see the lavish expenditures the lady made on her own and—to a lesser extent—Anne’s behalf, while also being reminded how stingy she was with her servants and tenants. Reviewing Rosings’s books grated on Darcy’s nerves almost as much as being in Lady Catherine’s company, but at least it was a silent endeavour.
The problem was that Darcy did not need silence. He needed conversation. Conversation with Elizabeth.
He had found her again this morning upon the path that skirted the edge of his aunt’s property. And again, they had walked in almost complete silence. Why could he not tell her what he felt? Was that not what courting was for? Of course, their understanding was unspoken; he did not need to explain himself to Elizabeth. He had simply met her under the crook of the great oak that stood just out of sight of the parsonage and fallen into step with her. The day he had first joined her, he had been unsure of his welcome, for she was certainly not very lively or conversational, but then she had hinted that she enjoyed this particular path for solitary near-dawn rambles, thus informing him where and when he could meet her alone.
Yes, unlike any other person in the world, she knew him. She understood him. He doubted there were two souls alive whose thoughts and feelings were so harmonious. If his uncertainty led him to contemplative reticence during their strolls, she saw it in his countenance and did not feel the need to fill the air with unnecessary claver. And when he got too lost in his harried thoughts, she seemed to know exactly when to break in and force him out of his brow-knitting reveries.
“I admire the camaraderie you seem to have with your cousin, the colonel, Mr Darcy. It is clear you two are dear friends,” she had offered that morning while he was ruminating on how close he had come to speaking lies with Fitzwilliam the night before.
“Indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam and I have been the best of friends as long as I can remember. We grew up in the same county, and as such were often together as youths. And since reaching adulthood, we have only grown closer.”
“He seems to be the best sort of man; I have enjoyed his company exceedingly since you came to Rosings.”
“Only his?” Darcy asked in an admittedly anaemic attempt at flirtation.
“No one could say that you and I have not been much in company,” Elizabeth answered in what Darcy assumed was her modest deflection of his forwardness. Of course, she would put off any coyness until he did the honourable thing and made their attachment official. What a rare, wondrous woman!
“The colonel has had much to suffer, and is thereby worthy of the greatest respect,” Darcy offered, happy to return to a subject that stirred such a warmth in him. “He feels the injustice of his birth keenly—to be denied one’s heart’s desires simply because of the year one was born. To be forced to pick up arms and be shipped all over the continent to make a living when one was raised and educated to be a gentleman. It is not an easy life for him, yet he bears it with dignity.”
“There are not many men of whom so much might be said. It is high praise indeed that it comes from your own mouth, too. You, who know him so well. I have not known you to lavish praise undeservedly.”
Darcy nodded at her personal compliment. It was clear she understood the honour of his attentions, for she recognised fully that he did not bestow his good opinion casually.
“I was surprised to hear Lady Catherine express such strong feelings about the state of your library,” Elizabeth said after several yards in silence.
“Of the subject of my library, I do not wonder at your surprise, though I doubt you were truly astonished by my aunt wielding strong opinions on any topic,” he joked, sparing her a sideways glance. Her pursed lips and subtle dimple told him his quip had hit its mark, and he felt like a king for having even slightly amused this marvellous woman.
“Indeed, I was taken aback,” she finally confessed, “for her vehemence shocked even the colonel and Miss de Bourgh. No doubt they were unaware of Lady Catherine’s attachment to the place.”
“As was I,” Darcy had told her. “To my memory, I cannot recall her spending even a moment within the library’s ‘hallowed walls’ as she called them.” Lady Catherine’s eruption had conjured up his mother’s memory, along with the pain and unyielding distrust he harboured on her account. He prayed Elizabeth would not address the cold reaction he had betrayed upon mention of her name.
After the way Lady Anne had abandoned him, his father, and even her small babe, Darcy could not think of her without bitterness. How his aunt could speak of her as if she were a saint whose memory should be held on high, he could not fathom, for she knew as much about her sister’s inconstancy as he himself did. Lady Catherine was there the night she left; the night Lady Anne Darcy broke all of their hearts.
It was the eve of his father’s annual harvest feast; he had been nigh on twelve. His mother had used little Georgiana as an excuse to eschew the festivities. With Pemberley House completely empty, his mother had had no impediments to her flight. When the rest of the family had returned from the festival, his mother was gone, along with half of her gowns, brushes and combs, and a handful of the Darcy family jewels.
Darcy schooled his expression, lest the scowl he felt forming at the memory take full form. He had no wish for Elizabeth to note the evidence of his implacable resentment while he was wooing her. The thought occurred to him that the distrust he held towards most women on Lady Anne Darcy’s account was non-existent in Elizabeth’s case. No wonder he was so intent on having her by his side.
“She has spent no more time at the parsonage than Pemberley’s book-room, I would wager,” Elizabeth said, and Darcy was relieved at the turn in topic. “But that has not stopped her from instructing Charlotte minutely on its running as well as the placement of its furnishings.”
“I am well aware,” Darcy said, unable to conceal from his voice the disdain he felt for Lady Catherine’s high-handedness and her obsequious parson’s willingness to set aside the preferences of his own wife to please his patroness. “I hope it does not distress Mrs Collins too terribly much.”
Elizabeth looked at him, surprise evident in her features. “I believe she bears it rather well,” she said after a moment’s reflection, adding, “I am heartened to hear that one such as yourself might give any thought at all to the sentiments of a lady so beneath his notice.”
Darcy stopped walking then. She took another two steps before turning around to ascertain what had caused him to pause in his course. He knew Elizabeth enjoyed expressing opinions which were not her own, but this statement disappointed him—had they not grown past such games? He just stared. There was no one else about; she did not have to play as if they were enemies here in the forests of Kent, where only the trees would hear them spar.
“Have I not visited with her several times? Why should you think I consider her beneath my notice?” Should she still think me so imperious after I have shoved aside all such considerations to court her so assiduously?
“I think Mrs Collins the most capable of women, and as she is a particular friend of yours, I hold her in uncommon esteem. As I do you.”
Now Elizabeth stared at him. He awaited her response, but was to be disappointed, for at that moment, a tall stable hand rounded the corner a few yards ahead and doffed his floppy hat to greet them.
“Good day, Jem!” Elizabeth said with a bright smile, and Darcy had to force himself to swallow the bile rising in his throat at being interrupted by a servant, even if he was impressed that, not only did she know his name, but the two seemed to have a rapport.
“Good day, Miss Bennet, Mr Darcy,” Jem Scarlett returned in his southern country accent.
“How does little Samuel fare? Is he any better?” Elizabeth asked, her compassion and empathy striking a chord in Darcy’s heart.
“The boy is right hale, Miss Bennet, I thank you. And my wife thanks you for the hearty soup. She says she’s sure it was just that what gave him back his strength.”
She had brought soup to the son of a lowly stable hand. Elizabeth, a fine lady of gentle birth, had not only taken notice of the servants, but had come to know them such that she could ascertain the health of their family members. And she cared enough to see to their comfort.
At Pemberley, he made it a point to know the names of every servant on the estate, along with as many of their spouses’ names as he might encounter. But he never would have expected such solicitude from a gentlewoman so wholly unconnected with his aunt’s estate. Elizabeth Bennet was truly a wonder.He knew he would be able to trust her with his estate, his servants, his home, and his heart.
After another brief back-and-forth between Elizabeth and the appreciative servant, the three bowed their goodbyes, and she was gone. Darcy had not meant to bid her goodbye. There was so much more he wished to say! But instead of being able to ply her with assurances of his admiration and ascertain whether she was ready to affirm their attachment, he was obliged to make his way back to Rosings and pull out the long-neglected ledgers his aunt’s steward had laid out for him weeks before.
And so, here he sat, dutifully absorbed in the steward’s scrawled records when he would rather be immersed in Elizabeth’s loveliness. This was going to be a tedious morning, made even more so by the fact that he had not slept well in days. Darcy let out a resigned sigh, then scrubbed his face with both hands, shoved his fingers through his ashy curls, and set to sharpening his quill, but not before pounding his fists on the desk in frustration.
Would he ever have the chance to say aloud what his heart was screaming in his chest? Would the moment ever come when he could tell her—and show her—just how much she meant to him?