Chapter III #3
Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, was different.
He admired her and saw a woman he found pleasing, but his conversation was deeper, more mature than anything she had experienced with Mr. Bingley.
The more she spoke with him, the more Jane began to understand that he was in situation and temper exactly the sort of man who would complete her.
From there, it was a simple leap to wonder about his situation, whether he could support a wife, if he even wished to take a wife.
It was fortunate for Jane’s peace of mind that he answered that question himself.
“I notice you are moving with greater ease, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Jane observed, noting that he was not leaning as heavily on his cane as he had been when he first came to Hertfordshire.
The colonel nodded and flexed his thigh. “It is improving to be certain. It will be some time yet before I am fit to ride a horse or return to my duties, but even the freedom to move about without this blasted cane would be a boon.”
Jane regarded him, wondering how to ask the question that occupied the most prominent space in her mind. She settled on an oblique reference. “You must be eager to return.”
The colonel chuckled, but the look he gave her suggested he understood what she had not said.
“Not so eager as you might think. I am pleased to do my duty, but I cannot think of a man who enjoys soldiering whose mind is not unsound. If I were to sell my commission tomorrow, my mother would compose a paean of praise.”
This time it was Jane’s turn to read something into his comment. “Your mother must have been most distressed by your injury.”
“Most distressed, indeed. My mother’s coddling is the reason I am here—Mother considered me unfit to even dress myself in the morning.”
“Did she not protest your removal to Netherfield?”
“Most vociferously.” The colonel chuckled.
“To my great fortune, my father understood something of my need to remove myself from a situation in which I was once again reduced to being a boy of ten and supported my going away. I still receive letters from my mother every few days, but that is better than enduring her efforts to manage my recovery.”
Jane could not help the giggle in which she rarely indulged, and Colonel Fitzwilliam looked on her, pleased by her reaction. “Given these troubles of yours, I cannot understand why facing the French is not the preferred option.”
“If I were not in Hertfordshire,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “you would be correct.”
They spoke about inconsequential matters for some moments, then he raised a subject that spoke again to the growing depth of his regard.
“Please pardon me, Miss Bennet, but I have something I should like to ask you.”
At Jane’s assent, he said: “Am I mistaken, or have your spirits lightened these past weeks?”
Surprised, Jane said: “That is curious, Colonel, for I am considered inscrutable. Even Lizzy, the dearest person in the world to me, cannot always understand my moods.”
The colonel shrugged. “Sometimes I am uncertain, but I fancy I have gained some understanding of you.”
The comment was secretly thrilling, but Jane pushed the sensation to the side in favor of considering what she might say. To be anything other than honest with the colonel would not do, and not only because she was truthful.
“When you arrived in Meryton,” said Jane at length, “it was not long after Mr. Bingley departed. As you know something about what happened when he was here, you understand that his retreat was . . . unexpected.”
“I can think of other ways to describe it,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Perhaps you are a better person than I, Miss Bennet, for I would not be so circumspect.”
“There is little other choice,” replied Jane. “I have no hold over Mr. Bingley, and I would not wish to control him even if I could.”
“What of his honor?”
Jane shook her head. “As Lizzy said, I know nothing of Mr. Bingley’s honor, and would not wish to keep a man in my company for such reasons.
I wish to love a man and earn his devotion in return—keeping a man’s attention for no other reason than duty would be a cold advantage next to what I hope to achieve. ”
Colonel Fitzwilliam considered this. “Then you have recovered from your disappointment?”
“I suppose I have, to a large extent,” mused Jane. “I never loved Mr. Bingley. Though his withdrawal was hard to bear, and I believe even now that I could have reached that state with him, I know now that he did not provoke that depth of feeling.”
“Then I am pleased to hear it, Miss Bennet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Bingley’s loss is my gain.”
It was some moments before Jane could understand the meaning of his comment, and when she did, she felt her cheeks heating. “I do not know if I am recovered enough from Mr. Bingley’s departure,” whispered she, unable to speak any louder.
“And I shall make no demands.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression of compassion warmed Jane all over.
“I do not act precipitously, Miss Bennet. However, I would like you to understand that my interest is not of a tepid variety. You are the best woman of my acquaintance, and I wish to know you better. Let us proceed with care, learn about each other before we confront such weighty subjects as love.”
“I agree,” said Jane, feeling rather breathless. “I shall anticipate it.”
The smile came easily to his lips. He opened them to say something, but his eyes darted to a point behind her, his tender expression turning to shock, then to rage in the span of an instant.
Confused, Jane turned to see what had caught his attention, but she could see nothing but the officers’ arrival.
When she turned back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, Jane noted the icy fire burning in his eyes—a clear sign he was displeased about something.
“What is it?”
It appeared he had almost forgotten about her, for he turned to her as if reminded of her presence.
The smile returned to his face, but this time it was tighter, grim determination replacing fury.
And Jane understood at once—not only was he a capable man, but he could be an implacable enemy when aroused.
What Jane could not understand was what had provoked his ire.