Chapter 23 Sugar
SUGAR
The next day, hobbling with a sore ankle and stiff ribs, I told Mr. Darcy and the colonel about the monstrous foul crawler in Meryton and the venom it sprayed.
“The French collected the venom of crawlers,” the colonel mused. “A dangerous task.”
“Worse than dangerous,” Mr. Darcy said. “Crawler venom is evil.”
“It is certainly poison,” I said. “But evil?” That seemed flamboyant.
“Old writings claim that crawler venom has power,” he said. “But they are superstitious scrawls. And revolting. I thought them repugnant fantasy. I should have paid more attention.”
Mr. Darcy and the colonel sent a report to the army. Then my routine resumed, albeit slowed. But I had wonderful news to cheer me while I healed. Jane was recovering.
Her first letter was encouraging. A week later, her second made me smile. She described a ball—the sparkling light from candles, the tunes that were played, and even her dance with a handsome man with tousled fair hair.
It was charming, although unusually rambling and fanciful. Jane has a warm soul, but she is concise.
I was a little disconcerted by her interest in a new gentleman, and by his resemblance to Mr. Bingley. But until I visited London to stuff Mr. Bingley in a crate and ship him to Netherfield, I would be grateful for any improvement over the wasting, silent sister I had left.
The second week passed, and my bruises faded. Spring burst forth. Charlotte and I became so casual it was like visiting a sister. Mr. Collins was unchanged, but his garden grew.
My walks resumed, but solitude was evasive. Gentlemen were constantly underfoot.
I met Mr. Darcy often. The first time was on my favorite path, in the exact spot where I had encountered his gamekeeper. It was like that patch was magnetic to men.
We exchanged somber greetings, and he offered to accompany me. I bit my lip and tried to think of an excuse. Calling the wyvern would not frighten him off; he grew up with one, after all.
While I considered that, we began walking in what could be mistaken for companionable silence. Mr. Darcy was, naturally, at the correct distance for a gentleman accompanying a lady.
But it did feel companionable. He was clearly a walker, comfortable with the rough trail and more relaxed than sitting at dinner.
“Rabb told me his view of the wyvern attack,” he said.
“And what is his opinion?” I said cautiously. I feared Mr. Rabb guessed more than I liked about my connection to the wyvern.
“That she intended to attack me, not you.”
I concealed a relieved sigh. That was harmless, the insight of a man experienced in observing animals. “The scent confused and frightened her. When you ran to help the colonel, she thought you a threat.”
“How could you know that?”
“Uh…” I should pay attention to my own words instead of worrying about Mr. Rabb. I invented an explanation. “She spread her wings, rather like our drake does before he… when he is angry.”
“And you threw yourself in front of an attacking wyvern?”
“I would have done it for anyone,” I said, quite truthfully.
“I was… I referred to your courage.”
“Oh. Quite.”
He fell silent in that way he often did, and we walked for a while.
“You must enjoy visiting Lady Catherine,” I said, for a topic.
“I observe that you do not.” His tone was amused, not accusing.
“That is a problematic response. I must either agree and offend you, or profess my enjoyment and risk more invitations.”
He did not smile, but perhaps his lips twitched. One needed a lens to analyze Darcy expressions.
I picked up a stick and tapped a few passing trunks. Since the experiment, the wyvern had been as affectionate as ever. Yesterday, I even tried throwing a stick for her. Her reaction had been far easier to read than Mr. Darcy’s. I would describe it as disappointed disdain.
It seemed I was required to do the talking, so I resumed.
“Visiting your aunt would be unpleasant if one were intimidated. But I find her interesting. She is utterly certain of herself. In most people that would be tiresome vanity. But at Rosings, she is a queen. I have never observed royalty before.”
“Can a queen not be tiresome and vain?”
“So far, the queen is entertaining. I shall change my mind when my head is lopped off.”
He said nothing. I suppose it was an odd conversation.
“You have not said why you visit your aunt,” I said, feeling rather adventurous.
I had wondered. He arrived the day after me and showed no sign of leaving. That seemed devoted for a nephew, at least one who did not need to flatter for an inheritance.
Twenty steps farther, he replied. “The bold answer would be that I enjoy the company.”
I would call enjoying her ladyship peculiar, not bold. But he had no living parents, and his sister was much younger. It must be strange to have so few family. “I suppose Lady Catherine reminds you of your mother.”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
“No,” he said, very definitely.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was also often walking, and I met him every day or two. Conversation ranged widely. I discovered, after some friendly prying, that he was the younger son of an earl.
“Of course, younger sons are little more than household pests,” he laughed good-naturedly. “I have neither title, nor property, nor funds. Just an obligation to advance our family by bargaining my ephemeral hint of rank to marry a woman of large fortune.”
“I think it rather pleasant that gentlemen can face the same challenge as ladies. What is the price to marry an earl’s younger son? I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds. But I fear I cannot bid. I should be hard-pressed to purchase a fashionable hat.”
I expected a laugh, but he was quiet before replying, “I am glad I accepted an officer’s commission in the regulars. It has reduced my dependence.”
“You seem at leisure. I thought the regulars to be consuming.”
“For a country at war, all of us seem extraordinarily at leisure. However, I am on leave after six weeks in Spain with Wellesley. That was a different experience. Battle swiftly removes the shine from glory. And Wellesley is a man who cannot abide leisure in himself or others. In that, he is like Darcy.”
I did not reply, but perhaps the colonel saw my expression because he continued, “You have not seen Darcy up all night, corresponding on matters of policy and government. I am relieved to see him finally take a breath and enjoy life. Since his father and mother died, he has been a driven man.”
Four weeks into my visit, I received a letter from my father. It finished:
“The greatest news, or absence thereof, is that the Monster of Meryton has made no further appearance. The constables twice drove dogs through the woods but found neither scent nor sign. I admit that your iron-barred flight, which I advocated, appears foolhardy.
Indeed, Lizzy, many neighbors more timid than yourself have returned to march about in self-satisfied triumph. Perhaps you should return. The estate suffers without your efficient interference, and I feel your sister Jane would benefit. Also, I miss you greatly.
Your loving father, James Bennet.”
I pondered his letter while the maid braided white ranunculus blooms into my hair. This evening would be my seventh dinner at Rosings, an outing I did not enjoy. I had heard more than enough of Lady Catherine’s proclamations and Mr. Collins’s pandering.
Charlotte was beside me, fastening a ribbon I had offered for her bonnet. She enjoyed my company—she told me so every few days—but my visit had exceeded our original plan.
Even so, I was resistant to my father’s suggestion. Surprisingly so.
“How long will Mr. Darcy visit?” I asked.
“You would know better than I,” Charlotte replied.
“He is much more tolerable here than in Hertfordshire.” I was trying to put my finger on what bothered me about leaving.
“Be careful, Lizzy. He began by calling you tolerable.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You walk together a great deal.”
“That is unavoidable. There are only so many paths.”
Although, the park was enormous. I just kept to my routine, even though it interfered with his.
Was I enjoying Mr. Darcy?
At dinner, I watched him while I stabbed my defenseless, and quite defeated, piece of trout.
Mr. Darcy wore his customary exquisitely tailored dinner dress, this evening black and gray with bone buttons and simple silk collars.
He was handsome in a tall, stiff sort of way. But that was nothing new. Everyone had noticed him when he arrived at the ball in Meryton. And why would it matter? We walked together. It was not like we attended balls.
He did speak more now. A few days ago, we debated East India trade policy. That had been fascinating, if occasionally intense. Was he a friend? That would be unexpected. I distinctly remembered deciding to hate him.
A footman, perfectly presented in knee breeches and a powdered wig, offered a plate of custard tarts topped with browned sugar. I declined.
Dinners at Rosings were infused with sweets. Sugary courses were offered between savory, and there were two or three desserts at the end of every meal. They were all cloying, and I had taken only a few bites in all my visits.
Mr. Darcy declined the tarts with one shake of his head. I had never seen him accept a sweet course.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine announced, ending all other conversation at the table. “I insist you try a tart.”
“They are rather sweet for my taste, madam.”
Her ladyship’s frown stirred. “You have not tried them.”
“I have tried others.” Lady Catherine scowled, far more vexed than I expected, so I tried to soften it. “I am not a large enough person to eat so many courses and then a tart.” I looked dramatically around the table and made a discovery. “Mr. Darcy is much more imposing. He may have mine.”
Immediately, I knew my joke had failed.
Mr. Darcy’s face hollowed, and the shoulders of his black dinner jacket moved to rigid alignment.