Chapter Fifteen
E lizabeth had expected a reply—hoped for one—but even so, when Aunt Gardiner set the letter before her with a knowing smile, she was not entirely prepared.
She had thought to open it at once, but now that it was here, she hesitated.
It was not nerves. No, certainly not that. She was simply prolonging the moment. Savouring the anticipation.
“I do not believe it will bite,” Aunt Gardiner teased, her eyes twinkling.
Elizabeth huffed a small laugh, then, with no further hesitation, unfolded the letter. Her eyes immediately found the first line. I must confess myself flattered by your selfishness, and it aligns most conveniently with my own.
Indeed? A slow smile curved her lips as she read on, her fingers tightening slightly on the edges of the page. His words were laced with a humour that she suspected most of society never knew he possessed.
He called into question his physician’s wisdom, blamed his cousin for any ink-smudged mistakes, and even presumed to give her advice on how she ought to pass the time. Or how she ought not, rather.
She laughed. “Presumptuous man.” She reached the end and ran her fingers lightly over the signature: Your most devoted correspondent in captivity.
Elizabeth knew she ought to leave it there. She had written first, he had responded, and they had each received their reassurance. That was all that was necessary.
And yet he had requested another letter. Her fingers tapped idly against the letter as her thoughts spun ahead.
“No, Lizzy,” Aunt Gardiner said firmly, watching her with an amused but knowing glance. “One letter for each of you is more than enough.”
Elizabeth bit her lip and nodded, though she was not entirely dissuaded. Another letter was perhaps too great a risk—but she longed to speak with him, and he wished to hear from her. They were only rooms apart! There had to be a way.
Her gaze flickered to the books piled on the bedside table. Yes. That would do.
Elizabeth’s fingers danced over them, searching for the perfect one to serve her purpose.
She trailed her fingers over The Rambler by Samuel Johnson before dismissing it—too moralising. The Vicar of Wakefield was tempting, but perhaps too sentimental. Then, her gaze settled upon a book of Greek myths.
A smile tugged at her lips.
With quick fingers, she flipped through the pages until she found a passage that suited her purpose.
At that moment, Jane stepped inside the chamber, balancing a tray with tea. “You are looking quite pleased with yourself,” Jane observed as she set the tray down.
Elizabeth grinned. “A most egregious accusation. I am merely reading.”
Jane laughed with a gentle shake of her head. “Then I shall not inquire why you are reading that particular book with such satisfaction.”
“I think that wise,” Aunt Gardiner said wryly.
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest in mock innocence. “It is always beneficial to reflect upon the stories of the ancients.”
“Indeed.” Jane, entirely unconvinced, poured them each a cup of tea.
Elizabeth glanced up at her sister, then tilted her head thoughtfully. “Would you be so kind as to locate a pencil for me?”
Jane, who had not been expecting such a request, arched a brow. “A pencil?”
“For notes,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “I find I must record a thought.”
Jane tipped her head as she assessed Elizabeth, the expression of amusement deepening, but she moved to the writing desk in the corner, opened a drawer, and retrieved a pencil. “Will this do?”
Elizabeth took it with a bright smile. “Perfectly.”
And with that, she lightly underlined the passage she wanted: “No affliction is greater than that of the wise woman whose words are disregarded by those who ought to take heed.”
Then, in the margin, she wrote:
“. . . and wise men as well. Those who disregard sensible advice should apologise.”
She slid a bookmark between the pages and shut the book with great satisfaction. Now, she needed only a willing accomplice.
At that moment, Miss de Bourgh drifted into the room, looking mildly interested in the proceedings.
“Oh, good day, Miss de Bourgh,” Aunt Gardiner said warmly. Jane asked if she would like a cup of tea, but Miss de Bourgh declined.
“I only wished to see how Miss Elizabeth fares.” She smiled at Elizabeth. “You have been much discussed.”
“Well, that is quite flattering, I thank you.”
Miss de Bourgh’s eyes sparkled. “I cannot say the discussions were always complimentary.”
Aunt Gardiner let out a soft laugh, and Elizabeth smiled.
“I fear I have caused you a bit of trouble.”
Her aunt patted her hand. “Elizabeth is a terrible patient, I fear.”
Jane nodded solemnly. “She has never been able to abide sitting abed.”
“I am perfectly well,” Elizabeth protested. “I do not require entertainment.”
“You do not require it, no,” Jane said fondly. “And yet, you seek it out with great determination.”
Aunt Gardiner chuckled. “In truth, I am quite impressed by her restraint of late.”
Miss de Bourgh regarded Elizabeth with quiet amusement. “Truly?”
Oh, she was going to like Miss de Bourgh very much indeed. Elizabeth tilted her chin. “I shall have you know that I have been exceedingly well-behaved.”
Miss de Bourgh lifted a brow. “So it is pure coincidence that my cousin the colonel sought me out to deliver a letter?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, schooling her expression into perfect innocence. “I have no knowledge of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s daily habits.”
Miss de Bourgh studied her for a long moment before making a sound very much like her mother. “Mm.”
“I do hope you will not think me ungrateful for your generosity.” Elizabeth was not speaking in jest. Her chamber was beautiful, and Miss de Bourgh had been very kind to allow her to remain—and to host her relatives too.
“Oh, I have no concerns about you at all,” Miss de Bourgh said mildly. “I am merely thinking of Darcy. He is rather a protective sort and would not wish you to stir from your room before you were entirely well.”
Jane bit back a smile, and Aunt Gardiner lifted her teacup to hide her amusement.
Elizabeth, for her part, only smoothed her hands over the cover of the book in her lap.
“Yes,” she said lightly, “about Mr. Darcy. I wonder if you might assist me with a small favour?”
Miss de Bourgh gave her a long, unreadable look. “That depends,” she said slowly, “on what you require.”
She held up the book. “A minor favour. I simply need this returned to Colonel Fitzwilliam, as it is not mine.”
Her hostess’s gaze flickered between Elizabeth and the book. “No, it is mine.”
Elizabeth met her eyes. “Are you certain?”
Miss de Bourgh considered this for a moment, then, with a very small smirk, extended her hand.
Elizabeth placed the book in her grasp. “You are most obliging.”
Anne turned it over in her hands. “And what do you suppose,” she said idly, “Colonel Fitzwilliam will do with this book?”
Elizabeth arranged her features into an expression of the purest innocence. “I would not presume to say.”
Miss de Bourgh glanced at Jane. “Is she always like this?”
Jane, who had been observing the exchange with an affectionate smile, nodded. “More or less.”
Anne shook her head in mock despair. “I suppose it is too late to warn Darcy.”
“Oh,” Aunt Gardiner said, setting her teacup in its saucer, “I believe he already knows.”
“Then I shall be sure to tell Richard to return the book promptly,” Miss de Bourgh said with a little laugh.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “That is very thoughtful of you.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a long-suffering look. “Well, then, that is settled. But not tonight, Elizabeth. This little game of yours must proceed very discreetly.”
Elizabeth sighed but nodded. “Very well, Aunt.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a warning glance, but Elizabeth merely settled back against her pillows, her fingers absently tracing over the place where Darcy’s signature graced the bottom of his letter.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Catherine.
Darcy was leaning back against the mountain of pillows the servants had brought for him to use when he could bear being prone no longer. The day was fine, and he wished to be out in it, walking with Elizabeth. When Fitz entered Darcy’s chamber, Darcy’s eyes shot directly to the book tucked under his arm.
His cousin smirked with an ill-disguised amusement as he handed it over. “Another delivery from the oracle.”
Darcy ignored him, taking the volume and opening it to the page where she had placed a bookmark. He found her chosen passage and her annotation. He smiled. She had compared him to Cassandra, the prophetess that no one had believed. And she had issued him a challenge.
It was not his habit to ask for apologies. It had been instilled in him from childhood that a gentleman should endure slights and betrayals with dignity. That his strength should be in action, not complaint.
But Elizabeth saw it differently. She had sent this message with a purpose. He had been owed an apology. And somehow, she suspected that he had not been given one. Well, he had already had one from Fitz. Aunt Catherine’s would take more time. It would be more satisfying if she offered it without prompting, but that might not be possible, in the end.
A loud voice echoed from the corridor. “What is this nonsense about allowing him to sit up? Have you no sense at all?”
Fitz grimaced, and Darcy released a long breath just as Lady Catherine stormed through the door, her skirts billowing, her expression fierce with indignation.
“Nephew,” she announced, as though delivering a royal proclamation, “this cannot stand.”
Darcy, still holding Elizabeth’s book, tipped his head slightly to one side as he peered up at his aunt. “Of course not. I am not standing, I am reclining.”
Lady Catherine scoffed. “Do not be impertinent! I have had enough of that from Miss Elizabeth!”
Darcy clenched his jaw. “Miss Elizabeth’s impertinence, as you call it, is delightful.”
“What did Miss Elizabeth say?” Fitz inquired.
“Never you mind,” his aunt replied.
“She said,” Anne called from the doorway, her voice mild but betraying clear amusement, “very kindly, I might add, that Mother was exhausting herself needlessly and that admitting Darcy was right about the folly might be just the restorative she required.” She smiled. “Though she was not nearly as direct as my summary.”
Fitz’s bark of laughter filled the room, and Darcy felt a surge of pride that he had won the protection of such a woman.
Aunt Catherine huffed. “I am taking excellent care of you. Have I not ensured that your every need is met? Did I not personally oversee your physician’s recommendations? And have I not already begun arrangements to have that wretched stone folly removed?”
Darcy’s lips pressed together. Now the structure over which he had been ridiculed and dismissed for years was “that wretched stone folly.” Soon enough she would not recall that he had argued against it being built at all. “How generous,” he said drily.
Lady Catherine crossed her arms. “It is no longer a matter of taste but of practicality. I cannot have guests being crushed on my estate.” She tilted her chin. “And I will not apologise for maintaining my property as I see fit.”
Darcy regarded her for a long moment, and then—slowly—he shook his head. “No, I did not think you would.”
Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes. “You look at me as if I were some recalcitrant child.”
He said nothing.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “If that is the thanks I receive, I shall leave you to your book.” She turned to Fitz. “See that he does not undo all my efforts. I shall return when I am needed.”
With that, she swept from the room, her skirts actually snapping behind her. Anne gave them both a resigned look and followed her mother.
The door closed behind them and Fitz scratched the back of his head. “Well, that was an impressive display.”
“She knows she was wrong.” Darcy wondered if he had sounded like his aunt when he defended his actions in Hertfordshire to Elizabeth. He rather feared that he had.
“Of course she does,” Fitz said with amusement. “She simply prefers to revise history rather than admit it outright. If you wait a month, she will tell the neighbours that the folly was removed at her own suggestion.”
Darcy shook his head. “She is stubborn.”
“She is a Fitzwilliam,” Fitz corrected, as if that explained everything.
Darcy leaned back against his pillows, fingers drumming on the book in his lap. “Now, I must consider what to send to Miss Elizabeth in return.”
Fitz raised a brow. “Not tonight.”
Darcy frowned. “Why not?”
“Because you must let everything settle a bit first.” Fitz’s grin was positively insufferable. “Lady Catherine will be storming up and down the hall all evening, issuing fresh decrees. And if you send another missive too soon, Mrs. Gardiner might start to wonder whether she should be discouraging this little exchange. Miss Elizabeth seems to share your disdain for the sickroom, and so far, her aunt seems to think this will occupy her in a manner more conducive to her recovery. But she insisted it must be discreetly handled, and Anne agrees.”
Darcy muttered something under his breath.
Fitz clapped him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, cousin. It will give you time to craft something particularly to charm your lady. I know how determined you can be. Put your prodigious talents to work on this rather than Lady Catherine.”
Darcy huffed. He was not used to waiting, but Elizabeth was worth it. He leaned back, fingers laced together, hands on his stomach, and closed his eyes. He could almost hear the arch tone in her voice, see the knowing tilt of her head. She had set the board, and now she waited for him to make his move.
Well, he would not disappoint her.
The following morning, once Fitz had deemed the household sufficiently calmed and Lady Catherine had turned her attentions to haranguing the housekeeper over the precise arrangement of the cherubs in the drawing room, Darcy glanced over his reply.
He flipped through the well-worn pages of a book Fitz had brought up from the library at his request, one he had often read as a boy when they all visited Rosings. In it was a translation of the Odysseus and Circe story. He flipped through the pages until he found what he wanted.
With slow deliberation, he underlined the passage.
“Circe underestimated the man who stood before her. For though she had transformed many before him, he would not be so easily undone. Yet neither did he flee—he lingered, intrigued by the woman who dared to challenge him.”
Then, in the margin, he wrote: “A man forewarned is not always forearmed, and some spells are not meant to be broken.”
Satisfied, he snapped the book shut and waited for Fitzwilliam to arrive.
When his cousin sauntered into the room, Darcy held out the volume.
Fitz eyed it with amusement. “Odysseus?”
“Miss Elizabeth will enjoy it,” Darcy said evenly.
Fitz flipped through the pages, stopping at the underlined passage. He arched a brow. “Darcy, I hardly recognise you.”
Darcy did not reply.
Fitz chuckled. “Quite the scholar’s approach to courtship.” He tucked the book under his arm. “I shall ensure it reaches the proper hands.” He motioned to the pillows. “Do not sit up too long. You know what the physician said about your back.”
“Are you going to take Lady Catherine’s place as a scold?”
“You know,” Fitz replied, ignoring the jibe, “the sooner you are well, the sooner you and Miss Elizabeth can actually meet rather than sending these little tokens. Which would be more satisfying, do not you think?”
Darcy grumbled but rolled back onto his stomach, pulling a single pillow with him to rest his head upon.
“Thank you,” Fitz said. “Always good to have a compliant patient.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hall to deliver the book to Anne.
Now Darcy could only wait. What would she send back? Would it be another book or some other game?
He could not wait to find out.