Chapter Twenty-Three
Lucas Lodge, Hertfordshire
Elizabeth
Elizabeth pulled on her gloves, the fine kidskin clinging disagreeably.
Never had her hands felt so irritated within their confines; she longed to tear them off and cast them aside.
The carriage had not even reached Lucas Lodge, and already she wished herself back at Longbourn.
How rash she had been to promise her father she would socialise more.
Since Netherfield had been leased, she had attended more assemblies and card parties than in the last two years combined.
How very amusing, she thought. I have turned into my father as he once was. Mr Bennet still preferred the quiet of his study to the noise of company, but he exerted himself now. I shall have to emulate him, she resolved, as the carriage slowed to a stop.
Papa climbed down first, and offered his hand successively to Mrs Bennet, Elizabeth, Jane, and Mary.
The brightness of the Lodge met them at once—candlelight, chatter, and the rustle of gowns as ladies moved between the rooms. Instinctively, Elizabeth looked for the Netherfield party; realising it, she checked herself with an inward shake of the head.
I am behaving like a ninny. Why should I be concerned with the whereabouts of my neighbours?
Jane’s glance roved the room likewise, and when she did not immediately see Mr Bingley, her countenance fell. They exchanged a look of understanding before following Mary to the refreshment table. Elizabeth, unwilling to hover idly, sought Charlotte instead.
Her friend stood with her mother and Mrs Long, the latter deep in a dissertation on her rheumatism. Charlotte’s eyes brightened at Elizabeth’s approach. Grateful for the rescue, she stepped forwards, and together they escaped to a less crowded corner.
“I appreciate your intervention,” the older lady jested. “Another word on Mrs Long’s ailments, and I might have gone quite mad!”
Their laughter drew curious glances, but Elizabeth felt her tension ease. “I have news that will interest you. My friend Lady Westland is to visit. At last, you shall meet her.”
“I am pleased to hear it, for I began to wonder if she was a creature of your invention.”
“And more news still—my father’s cousin, once heir to Longbourn, is to come in November. He will be here at the same time as Lady Westland and her son.”
Charlotte’s heightened interest could not be mistaken. “Indeed? What sort of man is he? An eligible one?”
Elizabeth laughed outright. “You leap straight to the most practical consideration, Charlotte. His letter was sensible. He has lately lost his father and wishes to renew family acquaintance. Mr Collins writes that he has been granted a profitable family living in Kent.”
“And your mother—does she intend to have him for one of her daughters?”
Charlotte’s bluntness startled Elizabeth into another hearty laugh. She had not even considered the notion. “Do not forget, my mother has improved a great deal in the last few years; she is more settled. I believe she is content to let nature take its course in such matters.”
“What of you, Lizzy? Would you consider Mr Collins for marriage if he were eligible?”
“Eligibility alone would never suffice, Charlotte.”
Her friend regarded her with gentle earnestness. “I know you loved him, Elizabeth, but is it right to deny yourself companionship in marriage forever?”
The reminder that all of Meryton believed her the devoted widow of a deeply mourned husband—that she had loved him—stirred the disquietude she could never wholly silence.
“I have no reason to marry unless there is mutual affection,” she told Charlotte, hoping to end the topic.
“Fiennes left me amply provided for; and Elinor’s fortune will ensure she need never depend on another.
If any lady wishes to pursue Mr Collins while he is here—if they find they can like him, I shall not hinder the match. ”
Elizabeth curtsied and withdrew, crossing the throng to the open garden doors.
The cool October air swept in, bringing with it the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth.
She breathed deeply, grateful for the relief after so many bodies pressed into Sir William’s overcrowded rooms. He could never bear to leave anyone off his guest list, as he often told her father, and the result was evident in every stifled sigh and fluttering fan.
She stepped into the garden and moved towards a bench half-hidden by an arbour.
Her shawl, a blue and cream cashmere, hung loosely about her shoulders.
It complemented her gown, which was of the same blue, with cream lace falling softly over the skirt.
Of all the gowns purchased in the first months of her marriage, it was by far the most elaborate, and seldom worn.
The waistline sat a little lower than current fashion dictated, a mode she thought infinitely more becoming.
“Mrs Fiennes?”
The sound of Mr Darcy’s voice from the open doors made her start.
She turned to greet him. “Good evening, sir. I wondered whether you would attend. You made mention of it when you rescued my daughter.”
“Pray forgive our tardiness.” He grinned and moved to stand beside her. “Miss Bingley suffered some…ah…trouble with her wardrobe.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, a look questioning the excuse. His mild mortification told her all she needed. “Miss Bingley thinks very well of herself,” she observed. “She is elegant and refined.”
“But not at all to my taste.” The firmness of his words sent her heart fluttering in surprise.
“Poor Miss Bingley,” she returned, the irony gentle. “She tries exceedingly hard to impress you—at least whenever I am in company to witness it.”
He regarded her, as though seeking to read her thoughts. “You do not appear much in company.”
She hesitated. There was a question beneath his words, and, weighing candour against discretion, she considered how to reply before resolving to give him the truth. Part of the truth, she amended to herself.
“Since my husband’s death, society has held little appeal. My time is better spent with my daughter.”
“I see.” He shifted one foot to the other and gestured towards the nearby bench, and she accepted the unspoken invitation. When they were seated, he turned to face her. “May I own that I have missed your presence when you are absent?”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Have you, sir? Are there not enough ladies and gentlemen in Meryton to provide you diversion?”
“Are you teasing me, Mrs Fiennes?”
“Perhaps a little, Mr Darcy.”
The reverse of a similar moment of gentle raillery in London drew laughter from them both, and a brief reflection from Elizabeth on how far they had come.
His hand rested on his knee, and she noticed his fingers twitch slightly before he answered. “There are indeed many hereabouts to satisfy curiosity—and even to weary it—but none whose company I prefer to yours.”
The import of his words made her heart sing.
“You are a flatterer,” she said teasingly, hoping to break the moment’s intensity.
The heaviness that settled on her then was not the oppressive sort of impending storm she had known with Fiennes—tumultuous, angry, and consuming—but another kind entirely.
It pulsed with warmth, with the suggestion of something unlooked for. Attraction, her mind whispered.
She could read it in his gaze. He regarded her steadily, his eyes warm, and features gentled.
He did not look away. It was as though he truly saw her—a woman of feeling and thought, not an object to be possessed nor a prize to be won.
The awareness was heady: to be well regarded, not as a show to please another’s vanity, but as a person worthy of esteem.
“Flatterer I may be yet no one could call my words false. It has been a delight to renew our acquaintance, Mrs Fiennes.”
Elizabeth felt the familiar panic rising within her. You are mine! Fiennes’s snarl rang sharp in her mind. I will not tolerate this flirtatious, wanton behaviour.
In an instant, the candlelight of Lucas Lodge was gone. Fiennes stood before her once more, his breath foul and hot against her cheek.
“How dare you embarrass me!” he hissed, his rage vibrating through the hand that gripped her arm and shaking it. “Flirting and laughing with Colonel Wilson—despicable!”
“I did not—no, you misunderstand—”
He had struck over her protest, words cutting as keenly as any blow.
“I saw how he looked at you. No, Elizabeth, it will not do. You were nothing before me. I gave you my name, bestowed a fortune on you, and this is my repayment? You will be more…selective…in your company henceforth.”
The memory dissolved, leaving her trembling.
“Mrs Fiennes? Are you well?”
Mr Darcy’s voice recalled her. He touched her sleeve lightly, and she flinched before she could master herself. She prayed he had not observed, but the firm set of his features betrayed that he had.
She quickly rose. “I am cold. I believe I shall return to the party.”
He straightened at once, a mask of politeness settling over his countenance. “May I attend you, madam?”
The warmth of a moment earlier had fled; his tone courteous but distant. Her heart contracted at the thought that she had wounded him.
“If you like.” She smiled at him, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. “I thank you, sir.” She took his offered arm, the contact stiff and uncertain. All the brightness of earlier conversation had vanished, leaving her feeling anxious and frightened once more.
Within the parlour they parted. Feeling unequal to further company, Elizabeth sought her father and quietly requested to return home. His look held concern, but he agreed, reminding her that she needed no leave to withdraw.
As the carriage rolled into the night, Elizabeth wondered at her reaction. Surely he will despise me now, she thought. I have not been honest, and I have repaid his kindness with apparent coldness. How am I to explain—and will he still call himself my friend if I do?
The night air pressed cold against the glass, yet her cheeks still burned. What startled her most was not the memory she had relived, but how fiercely she wished to be thought well of by another man.
Darcy
I do not understand it, Darcy thought, a cup of punch in his hand and a deep scowl on his face as he stood by the darkened window looking into the night.
The evening had begun so well. Their conversation had been easy and lively; he had almost reached for her hand—had nearly asked permission to wait upon her.
Then, in an instant, something had shifted.
Her teasing humour vanished; a look of fear had played across her countenance.
For one dreadful moment, he had the impression it was not he she saw at all.
The sparkle of those fine eyes had been extinguished, leaving only terror.
Something haunts her. But what can it be? No answer came to him.
He turned the question over in his mind until Sir William called for the rugs to be rolled and the furniture pushed aside for dancing. Glancing about, he felt his heart sink as he realised Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. Miss Mary took her place at the pianoforte, and couples began to form.
Desiring to appear sociable, he invited Mrs Wilkens to stand up with him, hoping to gain some information from her as they did. It was ungentlemanly, perhaps, to speak of one lady while dancing with another, but curiosity burned too hot within to be ignored.
“I trust you have enjoyed the evening, sir,” Mrs Wilkens began with her usual good sense.
“I have. Your mother is an excellent hostess.”
After a few moments of polite discourse, Darcy turned the conversation. “Mrs Fiennes appears to have gone home,” he said. “I hope she is well.”
A soft laugh escaped Mrs Wilkens. “Eliza does not care for large gatherings. Her daughter is her whole world, and only lately has she once more begun to appear in society.”
“She is young—surely she still wishes to enjoy life.”
Mrs Wilkens gave a small shrug. “Elizabeth married very young—barely out. The matched astonished us all. More than one mama in Meryton was provoked to see the neighbourhood’s most eligible gentleman carried off by a mere girl.
Yet they seemed devoted—Mr Fiennes especially.
Then they removed to London. We were shocked to hear of his death.
Poor Elizabeth returned to us much altered, changed as only grief over losing a loved one might do. ”
He inclined his head gravely. “Pray forgive me for prying,”
Conjectures began forming in his thoughts. Her terror, her sudden withdrawals, her avoidance in certain company—none of it spoke of mere bereavement. He resolved to think on it no further for the moment and addressed his partner. “Tell me, madam, how is the hunting near Lucas Lodge?”
The remainder of the set passed pleasantly, and afterwards, courtesy demanded that he stand up with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst before securing Miss Bennet for the final dance. Miss Bingley filled the measure with her customary observations:
“Miss Long’s gown is something to behold, is it not? And Mrs Goulding appears to be enjoying herself—I believe that is her fourth glass of punch. I ought to try it myself; it must taste exceptionally good to merit such attention.”
Darcy’s patience wore thin. He made no reply, allowing his silence and the scowl he wore to speak for him. It went unnoticed; Miss Bingley remained blissfully unaware of his silent reproof.
When the final notes ended, he withdrew to a quiet corner, weary of the press of bodies and the ceaseless chatter.
Being in company was not his favourite activity.
Like Mr Bennet—and Elizabeth—he preferred quiet evenings at home.
The chaos made him long for his bed, and standing near a window, he stared out at the merrymakers, wishing the evening at an end.
A rustle to his right warned that his respite was at an end. Miss Bingley.
“I believe I can guess the subject of your reverie,” she murmured, slipping to his side.
He scarcely heard her. His thoughts were full of the enchanting widow with whom he was rapidly falling in love.
“Pray, sir, of what have you been thinking?”
He turned at last, his patience at an end. “Of the pleasure a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “Indeed? Whose eyes merit such praise?”
“Mrs Elizabeth Fiennes.”
Her expression made him wish to laugh. “Mrs Fiennes?” she repeated, then rallied with brittle laughter. “Then tell me, sir, when am I to wish you joy?”
“I know not, Miss Bingley, but I promise you will be the first to be informed when the lady accepts my proposal.”
Leaving her astonished, he crossed the room, finding even the heat and noise preferable to spending another minute in her company.