Chapter Five
“T hey make such a fine pair,” Lady Catherine said to no one in particular. “Anne has always found such comfort in Darcy’s company. Why, I remember when they were children, he would read to her for hours when she was ill.”
“How kind of him,” Elizabeth replied neutrally. She was relieved that Lady Catherine had not asked her to play, for she was only now beginning to feel warm again and had no desire to remove her hands from where she had slipped them beneath the blanket.
“Indeed. Few young men show such consideration, but he has always been so tender with her.” Lady Catherine’s tone grew wistful. “They used to play together in this very gallery—well, Darcy would play while Anne watched. Such happy times.”
Elizabeth had been told by Mr. Wickham, a militia lieutenant and former friend of Mr. Darcy, that the marriage Lady Catherine seemed to hope for was a settled thing. She had not been in the company of Miss de Bourgh and Mr. Darcy together very often, but when she was, they did not seem inclined to that sort of attachment. It was difficult to say why she had begun to doubt Mr. Wickham’s information. Mr. Darcy was gentle with Miss de Bourgh and solicitous of her welfare. He adjusted his long stride to match her shorter steps, paused when she needed rest, and occasionally made comments that brought a fleeting smile to her pale features. But it was not the kind of care one gave one’s intended. And while Lady Catherine seemed to wish for the pairing, there was no absolute statement of attachment.
It frustrated Elizabeth that she could not put words to these feelings. She simply did not think that this hope of Lady Catherine’s would be fulfilled.
Mr. Wickham had said that he and Mr. Darcy were no longer friends. Perhaps his understanding was simply outdated. Or perhaps he had been wrong. And if he had, would that not suggest she ought to at least reexamine the other things he had told her?
She closed her eyes and surreptitiously slid her feet closer to the fire. One error did not mean everything he had told her was incorrect. But it also meant he was not always right.
Elizabeth and Charlotte exchanged glances as Lady Catherine continued to extol the virtues of Miss de Bourgh and delight in Mr. Darcy’s attention to her. Colonel Fitzwilliam caught Elizabeth’s eye and gave her a knowing look and the slightest shake of his head. It suggested he too saw what she did. At least she was not the only one.
“And of course,” Lady Catherine went on, “Anne has always appreciated Darcy’s taste in books and music. They both have such refined sensibilities.”
Mr. Collins nodded vigorously. “Indeed, such compatibility is a rare and precious thing. Your ladyship’s wisdom in fostering such a connection cannot be overstated.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, now seated near the window with his book, raised his eyebrows slightly but maintained a studied attention to its pages.
“Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine suddenly pronounced, “you must tell me how you find my suggestions regarding the parsonage garden?”
Not that anything in the garden was likely to survive this torrential storm, but that was in Charlotte’s favour, for her husband would be required to mitigate the damage. He would be in his garden a great deal more than usual in the coming weeks, as soon as the rain stopped.
As Mr. Collins began his lengthy response, Elizabeth’s thoughts wandered. She rubbed her hands together. The fire’s heat seemed unable to fully penetrate the damp chill that had settled into her bones during their walk through the rain. She caught Colonel Fitzwilliam watching her with sympathy.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, setting aside his book, “I trust you have had the opportunity to explore some of Rosings’ paths?”
“I have ventured out on the drier days,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “The grounds are lovely.”
“I make it a point to tour the entire park each spring when I visit,” the colonel said. “Though I confess I have yet to do so this year.”
The door to the drawing room opened, admitting a draft of cooler air along with Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh. Elizabeth noticed how they separated naturally, without awkwardness or lingering touches. More telling was how Lady Catherine’s stream of praise suddenly ceased, as though their physical presence made such matchmaking unnecessary—or perhaps impossible.
“Anne, you must not tire yourself,” Lady Catherine said instead, her previous topic forgotten. “Come and sit by the fire.”
“In a moment,” Miss de Bourgh told her mother. “Miss Bennet, we have selected two books for you. I was unsure whether you might already have read Scott’s The Lady of the Lake .” She glanced at Mr. Darcy. “Darcy was sure that you had. So I also brought this book, which I have only just finished.”
Elizabeth glanced at the title page: The British Novelists by Mrs. Barbauld. “Oh,” she exclaimed and looked up at Miss de Bourgh. “I have wished to read this. My father is not a novel reader and so has no intention to purchase it. Thank you.”
“Was Darcy correct about Scott’s poem?” Miss de Bourgh inquired.
“He was. Though I would enjoy reading it again. This is most kind, Miss de Bourgh, I thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Miss de Bourgh said as Colonel Fitzwilliam stood and offered her his chair.
Elizabeth stared at the books in her lap. How had Mr. Darcy known she had read Scott’s poem? She had brought it with her to Netherfield last autumn, but she had hardly the time to read it. Perhaps she had taken it to the drawing room one night, but to remember that small detail so many months later?
Her eyes moved to Mr. Darcy. He was watching her , not Miss de Bourgh, as the latter took her seat. Elizabeth quickly looked away, but not before noting that his gaze held none of the tender solicitude he had shown his cousin. This was something altogether different, and it made her cheeks heat in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.
The morning dawned damp and grey, though the rain had stopped. Elizabeth had been restless since rising, casting longing glances out the window, and Charlotte’s quiet observation only added to her unease.
“I am sure a brisk walk will do me good,” Elizabeth declared, though she knew the damp ground was hardly inviting. “If you do not mind, Charlotte, I shall return upstairs to change.”
“But it is cold and muddy, Lizzy,” Maria exclaimed.
Mr. Collins began to protest, but Charlotte simply gave her a knowing look. “Do not stray from the paths. While it does not look like rain today, the fields will still be wet after the storm.”
Elizabeth smiled and agreed. With her cloak drawn tightly around her, she set out toward the lane that led to Rosings, but rather than take the direct path, she turned toward the lesser-used trail she enjoyed, the one that wound its way through the park’s more secluded areas.
She needed time to think.
The conversation of the previous day had not left her mind. Mr. Darcy had watched her—truly been concerned for her, she thought. And though Elizabeth had quickly looked away, her mind had not allowed her to forget his gaze. It was a look that made her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.
What could he possibly mean by it?
The wet ground occasionally squelched beneath her boots as she moved along the path, the damp air curling tendrils of hair about her face. She ought not to be out so soon after the rain, but she had spent too much time listening to Mr. Collins recount Lady Catherine’s and Miss de Bourgh’s many virtues this morning to remain indoors any longer.
She did rather enjoy Miss de Bourgh’s company. She suspected that the woman’s mind was first-rate even if her body was frail. It was a shame her mother would likely not consent to allowing a continuing friendship between them.
Lost in thought, she turned a corner and nearly collided with a figure coming from the opposite direction.
“Miss Bennet!”
It was Colonel Fitzwilliam, his greatcoat dampened from the mist, his expression shifting from surprise to amusement. “Forgive me, I did not expect to find company in this weather.”
Elizabeth steadied herself, laughing lightly. “Nor did I. I thought to steal a moment of solitude, but it seems I must surrender that plan.”
The colonel chuckled. “I shall hope that means my presence is not unwelcome.”
“Not at all.”
He fell into step beside her, their pace unhurried. “I confess I had the same thought as you. It can be tiresome, being cooped up at Rosings for so many hours together.”
She arched a brow but remained silent. Lady Catherine was his family, and she would leave any comments upon the woman’s behaviour to him. Her mother’s behaviour was often just as improper, and she did not need anyone else to tell her so.
He sighed with exaggerated suffering. “My dear Miss Bennet, I fear you underestimate the trials of my position. I am not the king on this particular chessboard, and I must move carefully lest I be sacrificed for the sake of the greater game. It is exhausting.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “Then you have my sympathy, Colonel.”
They walked for some time, discussing nothing of great importance, though Elizabeth could not shake the sense that he was watching her closely. She was just about to ask him what was on his mind when he suddenly changed the subject.
“You have been in Kent for some time now, have you not?”
“Nearly four weeks. I was here a fortnight before you arrived with Mr. Darcy.”
“And you have seen much of Rosings?”
“I believe I have walked nearly every path,” she admitted, “though I am sure there are some I have yet to discover.”
The colonel gave her a considering look, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his next words. “Have you ventured to the lake, then? There is a path that runs along the ridge toward the old orchard. It is seldom used now, but I have always found it a pleasant walk, particularly when one wishes to avoid . . . company.” He frowned, and Elizabeth was sure he had not meant to reveal his feelings to her. “It was always Darcy’s favourite view as a boy, though I do not think he has wandered up there in years.”
Elizabeth glanced at him sidelong. “Are you suggesting that I seek out a more obscure path to avoid others, or are you merely confessing your own habits of escape?”
His lips twitched. “A little of both, I suspect.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “An old orchard and a lake, you say? That does sound worth the walk.”
He gave her a knowing smile but said nothing more, merely inclining his head in farewell as they reached a point where their paths must diverge. The colonel had successfully piqued her curiosity, and she followed the direction he had indicated. The gravel path soon faded to softer earth, damp and rich from the recent rain.
The trees grew thicker here, the overgrown branches heavy with moisture. A faint mist clung to the lower ground, curling around the remnants of what must have once been a well-kept orchard. Gnarled trees stood in uneven rows, their twisted trunks showing their age. She wondered why it had been abandoned but supposed it could have been any number of things. The apple orchard at Longbourn had been partially attacked by a canker a few years back, and it had taken a great deal of care and attention to prevent it from spreading. Perhaps they had not been as fortunate here.
Elizabeth slowed, breathing in the damp, green scent of moss and wet bark. It was quiet here, the kind of silence that soothed. She wrapped her cloak more tightly about her and meandered deeper into the grove, letting her thoughts settle.
Why had the colonel asked her about Rosings? Had his interest been merely polite conversation, or had there been some underlying motive? He had looked at her in that way people sometimes did when they knew more than they were willing to say. Did he know something about Mr. Darcy?
She shook her head and pressed on, brushing past a low-hanging branch, not caring that it left a damp trail along her sleeve. At the end of the orchard, the path dipped down to a small lake, not much more than a pond, really. Had the colonel and Mr. Darcy played here as boys? It was amusing to think of them in such a way.
Alas, for all her musings, there were no answers to be found here. Only the quiet rustling of leaves, the distant “tur-tur” of the turtledoves, and the soft, rhythmic sound of her own footsteps.
As Elizabeth emerged from the orchard and reached the crest of a gentle slope, she paused to adjust her cloak. The weather was warming a little, or perhaps she was warmer due to the exercise. From this vantage point, she could just make out the parsonage in the distance, its nearly new roof peeking through the trees. Her gaze drifted beyond it, toward the narrow lane leading from Rosings.
A lone figure moved along the path.
Even from afar, there was no mistaking him. The tall man with a deliberate stride—Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening despite herself. He was heading toward the parsonage. Was he intending to call?
For a fleeting moment, she remained rooted to the spot, torn between lingering to observe him and retreating before he might notice her. It was absurd, of course. She had no reason to avoid him, and yet her thoughts about him were still jumbled. He did not like her, yet he stared at her so. He disdained the company of her family and neighbours in Hertfordshire, but visited the parsonage in Kent. And the memory of both his kindness and his unreadable expression yesterday—it was all too much to untangle.
And then, as if fate itself conspired against her, he paused mid-step.
Would he turn? Did he feel her watching him?
Elizabeth’s breath caught, but before she could be certain, Mr. Darcy continued his course, unhurried but determined. Then she laughed at herself. He was likely only calling to assure himself that the ladies had not caught colds from Mr. Collins’s ill-advised actions.
It was the polite thing to do. But she would not be there, nor would she enter the house in her current state—dirty hems and muddy boots—while they had such an august guest. She did not wish to see his censorious stare return.
Had it been censorious, though? It had. Had it not?
Oh, she could not face him just now.
Her decision made, she walked past the path to the parsonage and instead took the path that led to the hill where the folly sat. Over the top of the hill and down a bit on the other side was the shaded grove where the bluebells grew so abundantly. If she must wrestle with her thoughts, she would do so with an armful of flowers rather than under the scrutiny of Mr. Darcy’s penetrating gaze.
And if she lingered a little longer among the blossoms than was strictly necessary—well, that was no one’s concern but her own.
Elizabeth found the grove beyond Lady Catherine’s folly particularly restful. The newly leafed trees created a dappled pattern on the ground, and the bluebells made a lovely carpet beneath. She leaned against one of the trees and read Jane’s most recent letter before sighing and tucking it away.
She bent down to brush her fingers over the delicate petals. Jane’s letter was, as always, full of gentle assurances that she was well, that all was as it should be. But her sister’s words were too measured, her happiness too carefully conveyed. The wounds of disappointment had not faded, though she strove to conceal them.
Elizabeth swallowed against the lump in her throat. It was unjust. Jane, who had never harboured an unkind thought for anyone, should not be left to conceal her grief. If only Elizabeth had been able to hold her hand, to whisper encouragement, to promise that all would yet be well.
She had no proof, but in her heart, she knew Mr. Darcy had been involved in her sister’s unhappiness. Somehow, in some way, he had ensured that Mr. Bingley did not return. She could not say how she was certain, only that she was. After the better part of an hour spent carefully selecting blooms for her room, she heard heavy footsteps behind her. She straightened, a small bouquet in her hands, to glimpse Mr. Darcy walking over the top of the hill. Elizabeth remained perfectly still, partly hidden by the nearest tree’s massive trunk.
She sighed. Best laid plans, indeed.
Mr. Darcy paused and stood for a long moment in profile, studying something with such intense concentration that Elizabeth found herself following his gaze, wondering what held his attention so completely. But there was nothing remarkable to see—only Lady Catherine’s pretentious monument gleaming white against the morning sky. Why was he studying that? She turned away quietly to collect a flower. And another. She bent down to examine a third.
“Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth started. Mr. Darcy had apparently noted her presence and now stood at the edge of the grove, maintaining what she supposed he felt was a proper distance. She stifled another sigh and straightened.
“Mr. Darcy.” She bobbed a shallow curtsy and kept her tone carefully neutral. “I trust you are enjoying the fine day?”
“Indeed.” He paused, seeming to search for words. “I did not expect to find anyone else here, but you rarely allow anything to disturb your explorations.” His smile was faint and fleeting.
Elizabeth found this awkwardly polite Mr. Darcy amusing. “The grounds are particularly lovely at this hour. Though perhaps you prefer the architectural features to the natural ones?” She glanced up at the folly and then back at him.
Something flickered across his features, but his response was measured. “I find each has its place, though like you, I do not care for the folly, preferring what nature has arranged herself.”
“You have said that you disagree with your aunt’s enthusiasm for improvements.”
“My aunt and I do not share the same tastes.” Mr. Darcy hesitated, shifting his weight slightly as though considering whether to speak again, and Elizabeth allowed him time to decide. At last, he said, “I hope your family is well.”
Elizabeth stiffened. He hoped her family was well? A simple inquiry on the surface, yet from him, it carried more weight than he could know.
“They are as well as can be expected,” she said evenly. “As I mentioned, my sister Jane is in London with my aunt and uncle.”
Mr. Darcy gave a short nod. “I hope she finds her time there agreeable.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then replied, “I believe she had hoped for more from it.”
His brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
She turned the bouquet absently in her hands. “It is strange, do you not think? That Mr. Bingley, who was so attentive to my sister in Hertfordshire, should not call upon her in London when he is but a short distance away?”
There was the briefest pause before Mr. Darcy responded. “Perhaps he was unaware of her presence.”
Elizabeth glanced at him. “Yes. That is possible. I suppose his sisters would not tell him that she called.” She let the silence stretch for a moment.
Mr. Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “I believed—” He hesitated. “It did not seem that her feelings were deeply engaged.”
Elizabeth cast her gaze down towards the bluebells at her feet before tamping down her anger and looking up again. “I wonder, Mr. Darcy, how certain one can be of such things, merely by observation.”
His expression did not change, but she saw his posture shift slightly. “I am not careless in my judgements.”
“No, I suppose you would not think yourself so.” She took a deep breath. “My sister has always conducted herself with propriety. If she did not wear her feelings openly, was it fair to assume she had none?”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “Bingley admired your sister, certainly, but he made no offer, not even—”
“No offer?” Elizabeth interrupted. “Mr. Bingley specifically stated he would wait for Jane’s health to improve before setting the date of the ball and then danced the first and the supper dance with her. Sir William Lucas remarked on the expectation of an engagement in your presence . The whole neighbourhood knew of Mr. Bingley’s attentions! You must be aware that when a gentleman shows such marked preference, it is only proper that he should make his intentions clear.”
“His departure accomplished that, did it not?”
Her cheeks flushed. “It did,” she said icily. “In the worst possible way for my sister’s reputation.”
“Bingley made no declarations,” Mr. Darcy repeated doggedly. “He offered no promises, sought no assurances. If your sister’s reputation has been impugned, the damage was not done by him.”
Elizabeth could hardly believe his intransigence—she knew her own mother had been instrumental in the rumours, but Mr. Darcy and his friends were not without fault in the matter.
“He declared to Jane that his intention was to return.”
Mr. Darcy glanced away.
“And then Mr. Bingley closed Netherfield without even the courtesy of taking leave of those he so recently called his friends. Was that the behaviour of a gentleman?”
Darcy’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “He acted as he believed best.”
“Did he?” she shot back. Oh, this man vexed her. “Or did he act as you and his sisters told him was best?”
Mr. Darcy was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he inclined his head in an abbreviated bow and turned away.
Insufferable man! Elizabeth remained where she stood, watching Mr. Darcy retreat over the crest of the hill. Her hands clenched around the bouquet she held, and she was forced to bite back the words she wished to hurl at him as he fled. The matter was far from settled, and this would not be the last time they discussed it. Not if she could help it.
Only when Mr. Darcy had disappeared over the crest of the hill did she take a deep breath and let it out noisily. She had never been so forward with a gentleman, particularly one unrelated to her, but the way he tried her temper had made her bold. Too bold, perhaps, but she did not regret it.
She strolled slowly to the folly. From here she could see Mr. Darcy, still walking, his long legs eating up the ground before him. He made it to the road and turned toward Rosings. Elizabeth glanced inside. She had not intended to stop at the folly today, but something perverse in her told her that she should sit on the stone bench precisely because Mr. Darcy did not like it.
Elizabeth moved across the slanted floor, took her seat, removed her bonnet, and unfolded Jane’s letter again. Her fingers were trembling, a consequence of speaking so angrily to Mr. Darcy. The folly was cool and quiet, the stone roof offering shade from the strengthening sun.
Elizabeth reread the carefully penned lines, the words betraying her sister’s lingering sorrow. “As for myself,” the letter concluded, I know you will ask me how I am. Fret not, for my health is sound, and I am, as I remind myself daily, blessed in my family. I dare say I was foolish to have allowed myself to hope for what was never meant to be. Mr. Bingley is no doubt happily engaged in London society, and I am glad that he is well. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are the kindest of hosts, and I find much pleasure in the company of my dear little cousins. I have made a firm resolution to be happy and content, and so I am.
Elizabeth’s heart ached. How could the man not have seen Jane’s adoration of his friend? And who was he to tell Mr. Bingley that Jane did not love him? For what Mr. Darcy had said just now had suggested he had done just that. How could he possibly be so certain of a lady’s feelings when he did not know her, had hardly even spoken with her? Was he so convinced of his own infallibility?
“You may not share your tastes with Lady Catherine, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, “but in your conceit, you are more similar than you care to admit.”