Chapter 15 #2
After the first round of greetings, Darcy and his cousin began moving through the crowd with purposeful direction—and Elizabeth realized, with an odd tightening in her chest, that they were moving toward her.
Toward her and Charlotte.
Jane appeared at Elizabeth’s side as if drawn by the same current. She looked more uncertain than usual, not distressed, but aware, perhaps, of being observed. Elizabeth’s protective instincts rose, sharp and familiar.
Mr. Darcy reached them first, his expression composed, though his eyes warmed when they settled upon Elizabeth.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, and then, with equal formality, “Miss Elizabeth. Miss Lucas.”
His cousin followed with a smile that seemed to belong naturally on his face. “Ladies.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte said, perfect in her manner. “You have brought us quite a surprise.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I hope it is not an unwelcome one. Ladies, permit me to present my cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
The newcomer’s brows rose at Darcy’s phrasing. His smile widened, and with cheerful decisiveness he corrected him.
“Ah yes, it is Mr. Fitzwilliam now,” he said. “I am not a colonel any longer. Though I am allowed to keep the title, Cousin.”
Elizabeth’s interest sharpened. Jane, beside her, looked politely attentive; Charlotte looked intrigued.
Mr. Darcy’s mouth turned up almost imperceptibly. “Indeed,” he said. “My cousin has sold his commission. But, as he said, we may continue to call him ‘Colonel’.”
“Resigned,” Colonel Fitzwilliam amended again, still good-humored. “It sounds like I put myself upon the auction block.”
Charlotte’s laugh was quiet, but genuine. Even Elizabeth could not help the lift of her lips. The gentleman had a talent for making the world feel lighter—an uncommon gift in a room thick with speculation and heat.
“And you have newly returned from…?” Charlotte prompted.
“The Peninsula,” Fitzwilliam said easily. “And a rather different sort of battle, now, as I attempt to convince my mother that I can manage my life without her help or without causing the collapse of civilization.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked toward Darcy. She caught the smallest flash of amusement in his. It was gone at once, but it had been there. She felt oddly pleased by it, as though she had been permitted a glimpse behind a curtain.
Sir William, having delivered the Netherfield party into the room like prizes in a raffle, was swept away again by other guests. The press closed in, then shifted, opening a small pocket of space around Elizabeth and her companions.
Charlotte, ever mindful, glanced toward the refreshments, where a table groaned beneath the weight of pastries and cakes and warmed wine.
“If you will excuse me,” she said lightly, “I must ensure my poor mother is not cornered by the ladies of Meryton and forced to promise more invitations than she can deliver.”
Elizabeth knew that excuse for what it was—an opportunity offered, a retreat made gracefully.
Fitzwilliam turned to Jane at once, his manner still warm. “Miss Bennet, might I be permitted to escort you to the refreshment table? I have heard rumors from Darcy of Lucas Lodge’s lemon cakes, and I confess myself inclined to believe them.”
Jane’s smile deepened, not flirtatious but genuinely pleased. “You are very good, sir. I believe we may obtain cakes without risking our reputations.”
“Then my honor is safe,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said solemnly, and offered her his arm.
Jane took it with quiet grace, and they moved away together.
Elizabeth watched them for a moment and found herself not alarmed, precisely, but curious. Jane always drew admiration as naturally as a flower draws sunlight. This gentleman’s immediate attention had seemed less like predatory pursuit and more like sincere delight.
She turned back—and realized Mr. Darcy had remained.
Of course, he had. She smiled, glad to see him.
Mr. Darcy stood with a particular stillness Elizabeth had come to associate with him; he did not simply occupy space but claimed it by right of presence.
Yet his attention was entirely upon her, and it altered him, softening the severity of his countenance in a way she could never pretend not to notice.
“Your cousin appears very much at ease,” Elizabeth said, because she could not stand in silence beneath his regard.
“He is,” Darcy replied. “Richard has always possessed the ability to make himself agreeable wherever he goes.”
“And now he is simply Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said. “You said he resigned his commission.”
“I did,” Darcy said, and for a moment there was something like satisfaction in his voice.
“I meant to tease him by dropping his rank. Truly, he will always be Colonel Fitzwilliam. My cousin is eager to begin his life as a free man, or so he claims. He acquired a considerable sum. Prize money, chiefly. He has invested it wisely, with the intention to eventually purchase an estate.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened despite herself. “An estate?”
Darcy nodded. “An excellent opportunity for a second son. His fortune is sufficient to allow him independence.”
“How very extraordinary,” Elizabeth said, meaning it. A younger son with independence. A man who can marry as he wishes. She wondered what that felt like—choice unshaded by necessity.
“And he seems quite cheerful for a man who has only just returned from war.”
Darcy’s expression grew thoughtful. “Richard is resilient. He does not easily allow himself to be crushed by circumstances.”
Elizabeth heard admiration beneath the plain statement. Perhaps even affection. It was no small thing for a man like Darcy to admire openly.
“And you wished him here,” Elizabeth said, allowing a touch of teasing to return, “to distract you from haranguing Mr. Bingley.” Jane had confided in her sister Mr. Bingley’s complaints, which she said were disguised as friendly exasperation with his guest.
The corner of Darcy’s mouth lifted. “Bingley exaggerates.”
“Oh, does he?” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “You are ever upright and honest, and so I must take your part.”
Darcy looked at her, and something in his gaze steadied, as though her levity did not diminish her, but rather completed her. “I confess,” he said quietly, “I wished him here for more reasons than one.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The room felt suddenly warmer, though the fire had not changed. She forced herself to answer lightly, because she could do nothing else. “Then you have brought more variety to Hertfordshire. We are not often afforded novelty.”
“I thought you might be pleased,” Darcy said.
She did not know whether he meant novelty, or his cousin, or his presence at her side. Perhaps all three. The uncertainty pressed her to respond teasingly.
“I cannot promise my mother will be pleased,” Elizabeth said, grasping for safer ground.
“She will immediately decide whether your cousin is a suitable match for one of my sisters and act accordingly.” It was Elizabeth’s turn to exaggerate.
Mrs. Bennet was not an overzealous matchmaking mama, even if she did wish for fine matches for her daughters.
Darcy’s eyes flicked, perhaps instinctively, toward Jane and his cousin at the refreshment table. Colonel Fitzwilliam had leaned slightly toward Jane as he spoke; Jane listened with an attentive sweetness that made everyone feel valued. Their heads were close enough to suggest warmth, not intimacy.
At the same moment, Bingley appeared at Jane’s other side.
“There,” Elizabeth murmured. “As if summoned by the mere sight of her. Your friend is very attentive.”
Darcy’s expression turned unreadable. “Bingley is quick to attach himself where he feels interest.”
“Yes, he has paid my sister a great deal of attention. It seems, however, that Mr. Bingley is to have some competition.”
Darcy did not contradict her. He merely watched the scene with a stillness that suggested he shared her views—or carried a deeper one.
Elizabeth followed his gaze. Jane stood between two gentlemen now—Bingley on one side, Fitzwilliam on the other.
Bingley spoke with animation, his face glowing, as if Jane’s mere presence improved the world.
Fitzwilliam listened with amused interest, occasionally adding a remark that drew a smile from Jane.
Jane’s expression remained serene, but Elizabeth knew her sister well enough to see the faint uncertainty in her eyes.
“I do not know what Jane will think of having the attention of two gentlemen,” Elizabeth said softly. “One is enough to manage.”
Darcy glanced at her. “Do you believe she will be troubled by it?”
“Not troubled,” Elizabeth said, choosing her words carefully. “But Jane is not vain. She does not delight in conquest. She wishes only to think well of everyone, and such situations make that difficult.”
Darcy’s gaze returned to Jane. “Then I hope my cousin does not add to her discomfort.”
“If he continues to speak of lemon cakes and collapsing civilization, I think she will endure it,” Elizabeth said, and then, unable to prevent herself, added, “He is charming.”
Darcy’s eyes held a faint spark. “He is.”
The evening’s chatter pressed in around them; laughter rose and fell; the pianoforte sounded again as someone coaxed Mary away long enough to allow another lady to play.
Even within the crush, Darcy’s presence carved out a strange sense of privacy, as if the world could bustle and gossip and dig itself into a frenzy—and still, here, there was steadiness.
Elizabeth hesitated. The next words felt dangerous, even as they were necessary. “Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, “you spoke of the law regarding antiquities. Of gold and silver belonging to the Crown.”
His attention snapped fully back to her, alert now. “Yes.”
“And now the whole county seems determined to turn itself into a band of treasure hunters,” Elizabeth continued, keeping her tone light though the question beneath it was not. “You are not tempted?”
“I am tempted,” Darcy admitted, and the honesty of it surprised her more than a denial would have. “Not by gold for myself. But by what it represents to others. Security, relief, and a future. Your father made a very good point: it is easy to speak of law when one has never feared want.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She forced her hands to remain still. She forced her face to remain composed.
“You despise the notion of it being taken unlawfully,” she said.
“I do,” Darcy replied. “Because once one allows oneself to justify the breaking of law for a good cause, it becomes dangerously easy to justify it for a selfish one. And selfishness is abundant.”
Elizabeth felt the room tilt, just slightly, as her mind leapt to her father’s locked library. And necessity, she thought, and immediately wished she could think no more.
“You think this treasure hunt will become…more rigorous,” she said softly.
“I think it may,” Darcy answered. “The allure of treasure has that effect on people.”
Elizabeth looked past him, toward faces alight with curiosity and greed, toward hands that had held teacups tonight and would hold shovels tomorrow.
She pictured strangers trampling fields, prying at stones, tearing at earth like it was a purse to be emptied.
She pictured Mr. Bennet’s hard line in the library, his insistence that she remain silent, his conviction that time would solve what conscience could not.
She forced a smile. “Then we must hope Charlotte is right. They will find only mud and broken pots and be too embarrassed to speak of it again.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered on her. “Hope is not always enough.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “But it is a beginning.”
For a moment, he did not speak. Then his head inclined, and he smiled at her, eyes twinkling.
In the crowded warmth of Lucas Lodge—amid the press of bodies, the clatter of cups, and the fevered whisper of treasure—Elizabeth had the distinct impression that the evening had only just started, and that whatever came next would be far more complicated than a fanciful notion of gold.