Chapter Sixty
Colonel Fitzwilliam had two problems on his mind.
One was what to do about Mrs. Younge. The other was what to do about Mary Bennet.
The two problems were vastly different. How to contain the threat that was Mrs. Younge was one thing; the question of why his thoughts kept turning to Miss Mary was another entirely.
How was it that Miss Mary had recognised him?
It was in every way improbable. And the immediate comprehension in her large, dark eyes was equally improbable.
Was she not a gently bred young lady? Finding him standing over a fresh corpse should have been in every way horrifying to her delicate sensibilities; instead, she had reacted like a seasoned veteran, understanding at once what had happened and what needed to be done.
He should thank her. He should find a way to tell her that he appreciated her. That would be the right thing to do, would it not? But how could he do so?
Perhaps his mother would have some ideas.
***
“Mother, I would like to purchase a gift for a young lady.”
The Countess’ brows rose to her hairline. She repeated, in disbelief, “A gift? For a young lady?”
The Colonel actually reddened. “Well, not that sort of gift,”
“Not what sort of gift?”
“Not a courting sort of gift; just a thank you sort of gift.”
“And why would you need to send a thank you gift to a young lady?”
The Colonel shook his head. “You did not want details, as I recall.”
“But a young lady helped you?” She was mystified.
“Yes; a young lady I had met when I first visited Darcy. Her family owns the estate next to the one Bingley is leasing. By all rights, she should have screamed, and I would have doubtless been apprehended at once.”
“So she saw you?! Heavens!”
“She did, yes.”
“Why did she not scream, then?”
“She recognised me. I was dressed like a labourer, my face hidden by a hat, but somehow she knew who I was.”
The Countess understood directly, of course.
She was a mother, but she was not blind.
She was acutely aware that her second son, though not conventionally handsome, had a physique that would be unforgettable to a young lady who could appreciate it.
And this particular young lady evidently could appreciate it.
Even more interesting was the fact that her son seemed to appreciate the young lady as well, despite having been unimpressed by all manner of young ladies in the past! Well, well, would wonders never cease?
He was still looking at her, waiting for a response.
She cleared her throat. “Well, you do not wish to give rise to expectations, I suppose.”
“No, certainly not,” he said at once.
The Countess stifled her smile. A gentleman could not give a young lady of good breeding gifts without giving rise to expectations, but she would let him sort that out for himself.
If he had a wife, he would have to quit the Army, and that was her dearest wish.
“Hmmm. Well, she would have to be measured for gloves or slippers, so those are out. Does she play?”
“She does, yes; but I have no way of knowing what music she has already.”
“True; perhaps a fan?”
“A fan,” he repeated. “Yes, that sounds nice. Will you select one for me?”
“No,” she said immediately. “You must select it for her yourself.”
***
Thus it was that Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself in a shop on Bond Street.
He ended up purchasing not just a fan, but a bonnet as well.
They seemed to go together, this pretty ivory fan with blue flowers painted on it, and the bonnet with blue flowers gracing the brim.
He pictured her wearing his bonnet, and he felt warm inside.
Warm? Was he warm? Yes, he really did feel warm. Perhaps he was sickening?