Chapter Thirteen
Despite her unease about seeming to spy of the morning before, Elizabeth’s feet once more took her to Netherfield Park.
She hoped she might encounter Colonel Fitzwilliam again, to assess his reaction to her relations, who had not behaved as well as Elizabeth would like, nor as poorly as she’d feared.
More importantly, she longed to have his opinion on her family’s treatment of his young cousin.
Elizabeth could see that he cared deeply for Miss Darcy, and that her continued heartbreak tormented him.
She prayed he felt her method effective, for she suspected that disapproval of his sister’s treatment would reflect on his regard for her.
But if so, Elizabeth would not give in overly to remorse.
Whether Colonel Fitzwilliam approved of Miss Darcy’s reception at Longbourn or not, Elizabeth did.
One look at the other young woman had convinced Elizabeth of the laudableness of her plan.
Miss Darcy had entered their home miserable and wraithlike, with her face downturned and her greeting mumbled.
She’d departed chin high and flushed with her success at playing any and every bit of sheet music Mary placed before her.
And Colonel Fitzwilliam had seemed pleased. He’d smiled, the lines about his eyes crinkling and some of the strain leaving that strong jaw.
What would it be like to trace the line of that jaw? Elizabeth’s fingertips tingled at the idea.
She shook her head to dispel the notion and deliberately returned her thoughts to Miss Darcy.
Paramount was Miss Darcy’s improvement. After all, any inkling of a future Elizabeth might dream up with the tall colonel was only that, a dream.
Which was to say, nothing, truly, compared to the reality of that poor young woman’s shattered heart.
She rounded a low hillock to the sight of the very gentleman who occupied her thoughts. Tall and broad of shoulder, he stood where they’d spoken before, his horse tethered to a low shrub nearby. His hand came up in greeting.
Did he wait for her? Had he returned to this spot, as she had, in hope of another meeting? Giddy with the notion, she waved back, calling, “Good morning, Colonel.”
Even at a distance, she took in the way his shoulders snapped back, tension filling his frame. She pursed her lips, dismayed to have offended him yet again with his rank, but calling out, ‘Fitzwilliam,’ to him would have felt far too bold.
Still, when she reached him, she offered, “I beg your pardon. I meant, good morning, Fitzwilliam.” Her cheeks warmed. Why did the use of ‘Fitzwilliam’ without any honorific feel so daring?
He bowed. “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
Did he emphasize her name to show that he, at least, would abide by their agreement of the morning before?
Stung by what was tantamount to a reprimand, she replied, “If I am to call you Fitzwilliam, you must at least give me some inkling of why you do not wish to be addressed otherwise. Of what great offense is your rank?” And did he harbor some dark secret of which a woman ought to be aware?
He looked away, up the hill behind her. One she routinely skirted as that way lay old Mr. Grason’s farm.
About them, yellow stalks waved in a light breeze. A host of sparrows swept down to alight on the turned earth of the field, picking about for lost grain. Elizabeth waited, hoping she had not, again, been too bold.
“It is because of my cousin that you see fit to address me as such,” he finally said, meeting her gaze.
What odd phrasing. “He purchased your rank?”
The man before her shrugged. “It is decidedly due to him.”
He was beholden to Mr. Darcy, then. That could not be an easy thing.
No, obviously not, now that she thought on the notion.
Mr. Darcy, who had given Colonel Fitzwilliam the use of his carriage and stewardship of his sister.
A request between cousins, or an order from a gentleman who obviously felt himself above all others and who held Colonel Fitzwilliam in his debt?
So, his vague answer to her mother’s question about commissions yesterday at tea, that had indeed been designed to hide a lack of fortune. Elizabeth had suspected as much. Still, looking him up and down, she could not imagine it to be a great lack. Not with how finely the colonel dressed.
Yet, such awkward stiffness filled him at this moment.
Did he presume himself not wealthy enough to impress the ladies of Longbourn?
To impress her? Or did he dress well but wallow in debt?
He would not be the first gentleman to do so, but debt because of circumstances beyond his ability to control, or due to poor choices?
And did he require a wife to alleviate that burden, for Elizabeth could not.
Taking in the intensity with which he studied her, awaiting her response, Elizabeth finally said, “I understand.”
“Do you?” Fitzwilliam asked with a slight, bitter smile.
“I believe so. It cannot be easy to be beholden to such a…” She sought about, not wanting to insult Mr. Darcy too strenuously to his cousin’s face. Not when she had already learned that Fitzwilliam cared so deeply for family.
“Such a what?”
“Well, let us simply say that Mr. Darcy’s behavior since arriving at Netherfield Park has fully expressed how much better he believes he is than anyone else, let alone the populace hereabouts.” Or a poor cousin.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”
She had led them to dangerous ground. Still, anyone in Meryton would be happy to tell him.
Talk of Mr. Darcy’s behavior permeated the neighborhood, and the Bennet household, as gossip was gathered and repeated.
“If you must know, at his first appearance in our society, he refused to dance with any except Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst and spent the remainder of the evening strolling the room, issuing insults.”
Fitzwilliam stared at her, brow creasing. “Issuing insults?”
“Looking directly at me as he said it, his precise words were, ‘There is no woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with. Certainly, none are handsome enough to tempt me.’”
His eyes squeezing in a grimace, Fitzwilliam muttered, “Mr. Darcy said that? To you? For all to hear?”
His obvious discomfort alleviating any worry that he would defend his cousin, Elizabeth nodded, much of her amusement at the insult returning.
“He did. He was also heard to say that dancing with the ladies present would be insupportable, and that he was in no humor to give consequence to young ladies who were slighted by other men. Even though, as you must suspect in an area such as this, there are far more available ladies than gentlemen.”
Fitzwilliam scrubbed a hand over his face. “Please tell me there is not more.”
“Oh, there is a great deal more. He managed to insult almost everyone who attended.” Elizabeth could not help but grin.
“He maligned Lady Lucas’s new hat, suggesting that she had shot the pheasant herself and sat it upon her head in a presumption of fashion.
He commented that Mrs. Goulding’s gown could scarcely contain her frame, but confessed that made sense because it was twenty years out of date.
He observed that Mr. Jones could not possibly be the local apothecary because a gentleman with such small, beady eyes was fit for nothing more than life as a dung collector. He—”
“Enough,” Fitzwilliam cried. “Please. No more.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Truly, Mr. Darcy made quite an impression.”
“My cousin should take better care with the Darcy name,” Fitzwilliam growled.
“I imagine he would if he had any fear that word of his behavior might reach all the way to London from, as he and Miss Bingley repeatedly labeled our community, such a rusticated backwater as this, although truly he was so dreadful that the tale might travel that far.”
Surprise slackened much of the anger from Fitzwilliam’s features.
Elizabeth gasped, realizing the truth. “You think he intended for word of his behavior to reach London.”
With fresh surprise, Fitzwilliam focused on her. “Again, I did not realize I am so easily deciphered.”
Elizabeth flushed. “You appeared near anger one moment, that emotion gone the next.” With that revelation, more pieces fell into place.
“He was attempting to draw out his would-be abductors. He wanted to ensure that word of his location would reach London.” She frowned. “But then, why come here at all?”
“I believe he feels his chances of evading, and even capturing, any ill-doers to be greater here than in London, where there are many crowds. Not to mention, a great many dark corners into which those who hunt him can disappear.”
“I see.” It was worse than Elizabeth had first thought. She’d feared that Mr. Darcy’s presence might bring unsavory elements into their community but had not realized he intended for them to come.
“But I did not ride out this morning to speak of my cousin,” Fitzwilliam said.
Then he had, indeed, come here seeking her. Warmth suffused her. “Of what did you ride out to speak?”
“My…” He shook his head, his expression suddenly full of chagrin. “Well, Georgiana.”
“So, you did ride out to speak of your cousin?” Elizabeth asked with a laugh, understanding his consternation.
“I should have said, I did not ride out this morning to speak of Mr. Darcy.”
She nodded. “That would have made more sense, but I can see no harm done. I, too, hoped to speak of Miss Darcy. Please assure me that my relations and I did not worsen her sorrow with our lack of consideration for it.”
“On the contrary, you were correct. Your sisters’ treatment of her seemed to alleviate some of her misery.” He gazed down at Elizabeth earnestly. “I came to thank you. You cannot imagine what a relief it was to see her even somewhat restored.”
“You are most welcome, and I, in turn, must thank you for your willingness to attempt my suggestion.”
“That hardly seems to deserve thanks.”
“That you believe so is testament to what a fine gentleman you are.”
His gaze roamed her features, and Elizabeth wondered when they had come to stand so close. Warmth raced through her, threatening her cheeks as she gazed into those dark, troubled eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth—” he began, at the same time as she blurted, “For how long did Miss Darcy remain less sorrowful?”
Silence returned them to staring.
He cleared his throat, taking a half-step back. “She spoke with animation on the ride back to Netherfield Park. And later that afternoon, I found her practicing one of the pieces she played at Longbourn. To time.”
Elizabeth had no idea why Miss Darcy would not play a piece to time, as she had evidenced considerable skill the previous afternoon, but she smiled at how pleased Fitzwilliam sounded. “Perhaps you will call again, then, or we should call on Netherfield Park.”
“I would…that is, I am certain Georgiana would like that.”
“I will make the suggestion of a call to my mother.”
“Yes. Your mother.” He took another step back. “I should return for breakfast.”
“As should I,” Elizabeth admitted, though she hated to see him depart.
She answered his bow with a curtsy, then watched him readjust his horse’s reins, mount, and ride away.
Before disappearing from view, he turned back once and waved.
Elizabeth returned the gesture, hoping he didn’t realize how much she enjoyed taking in how well he sat his horse, and the easy competence with which he directed the animal.
With a sigh, she set her legs to moving, taking her away from the now empty bit of farmland in which she stood. After all, with Fitzwilliam gone, no reason existed to stay. Nothing more than the memory of his presence, and she would carry that back to Longbourn with her.
And what a lovely day for a walk. Yes, clouds made a low ceiling in the sky, but how the varying shades of cream and gray mingled, hinting at light above, held quiet beauty.
As did the sweep of limbs, half-laden still with colorful leaves.
Would they gleam more brightly if they saw the sun?
Certainly, but even without that great orb to warm them, the glow of Fitzwilliam’s approval, of his happiness and relief at seeing his young cousin improve, gave a cheerful brightness to all Elizabeth saw.
She could not help but smile as she walked, and that smile remained even as she reentered Longbourn, via a back door that let her into the scullery off the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” Mary asked sharply.
Elizabeth blinked, for even the sunless day without was brighter than the little room. Her eyes adjusted until she could see her sister’s frown. “Out walking.”
“So late? Everyone is already at the breakfast table.”
“Is it important that I dine at precisely the same hour as everyone else?” Elizabeth asked, making a show of removing her bonnet. “I was not aware Mama had instituted a rule.”
“There is no rule, as you well know.”
Setting her bonnet on the little bench in the corner, Elizabeth started on her cloak. “If there is no rule, then I am not late.”
“I saw the smile on your face when you entered.”
Elizabeth dropped her cloak beside her bonnet. She bent to work the laces of a boot, hiding her face from Mary as she grimaced. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You were smiling.”
“It is a lovely morning.”
Mary snorted. “It is cloudy and cold.”
“The perfect temperature for a brisk walk. You know I enjoy walking quickly.”
“You must have walked a great way to be out so late and walking quickly.”
Must Mary be so tenacious? “I suppose I must have.”
“Where did you walk?”
“Netherfield Park’s lands.”
“You went to spy on Mr. Bingley and his guests?” Mary’s voice held equal parts outrage and condemnation.
“Certainly not. I went nowhere near the manor house.”
That met with silence. Working on the laces of her other boot, Elizabeth grinned.
“Well,” Mary finally huffed. “You should not walk there. Not now that Mr. Bingley has let the place.”
“I will keep your advice in mind.”
Mary huffed again, likely aware that was Elizabeth’s polite way of saying she didn’t care what Mary thought of her behavior. “I am going to have my breakfast. I will tell Mama you will be in soon.”
“She sent you looking for me?” Elizabeth asked, a shock of alarm going through her. It was one thing for Mary to have noticed she was late for breakfast, but Elizabeth did not need her mother’s attention fixed on her.
“No, but I will tell her regardless.” Her mouth pressed into a thin line, Mary strode from the scullery.
Elizabeth raised her gaze skyward in silent supplication. She could only hope that, as usual, Mrs. Bennet would ignore her middle daughter.