Chapter Eighteen
Thoughts chased one another through Elizabeth’s mind, a buffer against the din of the ride back to Longbourn.
Fortunately, the gentlemen were ahorse, for the carriage couldn’t hold Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth and her sisters, and Mr. Bennet and Mr. Collins, whom Elizabeth had managed to avoid after leaving him beside the punch bowl.
Charlotte, too, had quickly abandoned the man.
The only person Elizabeth saw willingly approach William Collins all evening was Mary.
They reached Longbourn to a reinvigoration of the clamor inside the carriage, not a lessening of it, the house full of high-pitched delight and rambling stratagems. As predicted, Fitzwilliam’s secret was out, and Mrs. Bennet now made firm plans for his union with Kitty.
Moreover, Miss Darcy had informed Elizabeth’s younger sisters that a militia was to arrive in Meryton soon, prompting considerable delight.
Topped off by Mr. Bingley’s marked attention to Jane and Mr. Collins’ stipulation that he would marry one of her daughters, Mrs. Bennet practically glowed with the promise of seeing at least four daughters married, for Lydia would, she did not doubt, claim a handsome redcoat.
Little did their mother know that Kitty had no hope when it came to Colonel Fitzwilliam, whether he held affection for Elizabeth or not, as she’d begun to think, and hope, that he might.
Kitty was simply not suited to the austere, serious colonel, any more than Elizabeth was to Mr. Collins, who appeared to have turned his attention to Mary.
That suited Elizabeth perfectly. The man was mad to have thought she would have him for her husband.
Finally, head throbbing from the emotions and commotions of the evening, Elizabeth made her way to her and Jane’s room as the house retired.
There, she undressed slowly, wondering if she needed to gird against a fresh monologue on Mr. Bingley.
The evening before, Elizabeth had fallen asleep to Jane’s whispered report on his childhood near the sea.
Going out with the fishermen when still quite young, at his grandfather’s insistence.
His seashell collection that Miss Bingley had stolen and smashed to bits in an attempt to make jewelry.
How his grandfather had died and he’d been sent off to a fancy school to learn how to pass as a gentleman, but he still longed for a cottage by the ocean.
Jane readied for bed in silence, likely rehearsing such thoughts, and they settled to sleep with their quiet cozy about them, like an extra blanket. Letting out a long, slow breath, Elizabeth closed her eyes. Instantly, Fitzwilliam’s visage formed before her leaden lids.
“You truly found a wounded gentleman in that old sheep house in which we used to play?”
Fitzwilliam’s serious eyes and strong jaw disappeared like smoke rings in the wind. “I did.”
“How can that be? Are you certain he is a gentleman? You should not have approached him alone. Why were you even on Mr. Grason’s land?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes, finding her sister a dim outline against the starlight beyond their window. “Is this an inquisition?”
“I…I am worried about you. You have been walking a great deal and speaking very little.”
“Speaking very little?” Annoyance flashed through Elizabeth. “How can I speak when I must learn Mr. Bingley’s favorite color? That his first hound was named Biscuit? That he will always say he would like a touch of sugar in his tea, but he truly cares for a great deal of sugar? That—”
“I am sorry I have been tormenting you so,” Jane interrupted, her hurt palpable despite the darkness.
Elizabeth felt as if she’d kicked a young Biscuit. “No, I am sorry. You do not torment me. I am pleased that you have found someone to be fond of, especially a gentleman who seems as kind as Mr. Bingley.”
“Thank you.”
Silence stood between them, less an enveloping blanket now, and more of a wall.
“Have you been sneaking out to meet someone?” Jane pitched her voice nearly too low to hear, as if a whisper could mitigate the direness of that accusation.
Tamping down fresh irritation, Elizabeth smoothed a hand over her quilt.
“No. That is, not in the way you are implying. I chanced to meet Colonel Fitzwilliam while out walking and suggested that he and Miss Darcy should call on Longbourn. I merely returned the following day to ascertain if they enjoyed their visit.”
“So, you met only twice, and once was by chance?”
Elizabeth blushed. “Well, he, ah, found me out walking again.” Because she was waiting where they had met before. “He was seeking me. He wanted to report that there was another attempt made on Mr. Darcy so he could offer assurance that no one was harmed.”
“I see,” Jane said slowly. “And…and tonight, at Lucas Lodge? You seemed to be in deep conversation.”
“I will own to proposing that we meet,” Elizabeth allowed, but rushed on to clarify, “Only because I stumbled upon Mr. Fox. It is my hope that Colonel Fitzwilliam will know how to aid the man.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam? Not our father?”
What could Elizabeth say to that? Mr. Fox’s situation seemed dire, and Mr. Bennet would not take the threat to him seriously enough.
Mr. Bennet rarely took anything seriously enough.
He preferred to meander through life giving a bit of a push here, a quick word there, and then stand back to see what happened.
Mr. Fox had been shot. He was in actual danger.
Colonel Fitzwilliam would know how to help, rather than stoking the fire to see what came to pass.
“Are you growing attached to Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Jane whispered, and Elizabeth knew she’d been silent too long.
“I do not know.” But that was a lie, for she did know, and she was.
Jane shifted, turning onto her side so she faced Elizabeth in the darkness. “I think you should be careful.”
“Careful? In what way?”
“There is something off about both Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley does not care to speak of them, and when they do enter conversation, he becomes…” Jane paused, and Elizabeth could all but hear her thinking. Choosing her words with care. “He becomes odd. Closed.”
“Yet Mr. Bingley seems not to mind that Miss Bingley is often in Mr. Darcy’s company,” Elizabeth protested.
“And tonight, he told me that the Hursts departed unexpectedly,” Jane continued without acknowledging Elizabeth’s words.
“I could tell that he regretted admitting their departure was unplanned the moment he said as much, and he would not tell me why they left. He kept changing the subject, and their reason so obviously pained him, that I did not pursue the matter for long.”
“Surely, that has nothing to do with Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“I cannot say. All I know is, something about the colonel and Mr. Darcy distresses Mr. Bingley, and you should learn what that is before you permit your heart to become engaged.”
“It could be anything from a disagreement over cards to…to…” Elizabeth broke off, not wanting to imagine anything too dire in Fitzwilliam’s past. “Well, to not caring for how supercilious Mr. Darcy is.”
“It is not only Mr. Darcy who troubles him but Colonel Fitzwilliam as well,” Jane emphasized.
Jane could be imagining the entirety of her worries, but Elizabeth would not accuse her sister of that. Jane only meant to protect her. “I will keep your words in mind.”
“That is all I ask.”
Elizabeth tugged the sheets closer about her neck to ward off the cold. Letting out a long breath, she settled for sleep. She would bear her sister’s worry in mind, but she doubted Mr. Bingley’s distress stemmed from anything more than dislike of Mr. Darcy’s presumptuous ways.
“Mr. Bingley told me the most fascinating story about learning to handle a team,” Jane said into the darkness, her voice light and cheerful now. “You see, he had already learned to drive a single horse cart but never how to manage…”
Letting her sister’s prattle about Mr. Bingley wash over her, Elizabeth smiled and drifted to sleep.
Elizabeth cracked open her and Jane’s bedroom door and peeked out. The hallway, though so dark as to render her nearly sightless, appeared empty. Boots and outerwear bundles in her arms, she stepped out and gently drew closed the door. She made her way to the top of the stairs in stocking feet.
Below, she needn’t be as careful, for the staff already moved about, laying fires, pressing garments, and seeing to breakfast. Still, Elizabeth endeavored to be as unnoticed as possible as she slipped through the kitchen, snagging some sweets on her way, and into the scullery.
In moments, she was outside, bundling her cloak close in the pre-dawn darkness.
By memory and the glow of a false dawn, she made her way through the chill air, seeking Mr. Fox first. Fitzwilliam would not be at their meeting place so early, and Elizabeth worried for the wounded man she’d left in Farmer Grason’s derelict shed, which she reached shortly after sunrise.
Mr. Fox had consumed little of the food she’d left, though mice had been at the cheese, and he muttered in his sleep.
Testing the teapot, she found that nearly full, and poured some.
After a moment spent trying to impart some small warmth into the icy brew via hands clutched around the cup, Elizabeth lightly touched the shoulder of the man on the sheep house floor.
“Mr. Fox?” she called softly. Then, remembering that was the name Mary had given him, switched to, “Mr. F? Sir? You must have tea. You have a fever and need liquid. I am sorry it is cold.”
Blue eyes, startling in the still dim interior of the shed, blinked open. “Who are you?” His voice came out a croaking whisper.
“Miss Bennet. We met yesterday. You have been shot.”
He blinked several more times.
“Please try to drink this. I am sorry it is so cold,” she reiterated and held the teacup to his lips.
He sipped eagerly, but slumped back against the wall after only half a cup, gasping as if he’d run a footrace. “Thank you.”