Chapter 5
Five
Elizabeth passed the remainder of the day in quiet introspection.
The hours drifted slowly by in the sun-warmed parlour, where she sat with Charlotte and Jane.
Their conversation was easy and unhurried, touching upon books, the weather, and inconsequential village news.
Elizabeth contributed little, yet neither Jane nor Charlotte appeared to expect more.
Jane, perceptive as ever, surely understood the reason for her sister’s reserve.
Charlotte, for her part, likely attributed it to the lingering effects of Elizabeth’s recent ordeal and saw no cause to press her.
Dinner passed in much the same manner—unremarkable, save for Mr Collins, who managed to fill the entire meal with a monologue on the excellence of Lady Catherine’s moral instruction and the unparalleled dignity with which she presided over Rosings Park.
He required no response and appeared content to admire the sound of his own voice.
To Elizabeth, it was intolerable enough to endure him for an hour; that Jane must bear such a man for life filled her with an equal measure of pity and dismay.
Afterwards, Elizabeth pleaded fatigue and retired early. Despite her agitation, she slept soundly for the first time in days. Even so, her rest was troubled with disjointed dreams of Mr Darcy’s face, a grove wreathed in mist, and a letter she could never quite bring herself to read.
She awoke at her usual early hour, the light just beginning to soften from grey to gold.
Although her body felt rested, her mind remained heavy with uncertainty.
Hoping to clear her thoughts, she dressed quickly and slipped from the house, her steps carrying her with purpose along the same route she had taken the morning after Mr Darcy’s proposal.
The spring air was brisk against her skin, the footpath still damp from the previous night’s dew. She walked with her eyes on the lane ahead, her mind turning over the same uneasy questions.
Almost without thinking, her hand rose to her throat, her fingers seeking the familiar weight of the locket she no longer wore. Had she truly lost it in her fall—or, in this strange and altered version of her life, had it ever existed?
The sun had risen high in the sky by the time Elizabeth reached the grove, casting long shafts of light through the trees.
She moved soundlessly beneath the budding branches, her thoughts pressing more heavily with every step.
The stillness offered some relief, but a sudden rustle in the underbrush drew her up short.
For one long moment she feared it might be Mr Darcy again. But as the figure stepped into view, relief mingled with surprise.
“Miss Bennet!” Colonel Fitzwilliam called, emerging from a side path and smiling broadly beneath the brim of his hat. “Forgive me if I startled you.”
Elizabeth exhaled sharply, the tension slipping from her shoulders. “Only a little, sir. I did not expect to find company here so early.”
He approached with his usual easy grace. “Nor did I. Indeed, I had thought you would still be resting. We were all quite dreadfully concerned for you, you know.”
“I am much recovered, thank you,” she replied, returning his smile. “But the fresh air does me more good than a stuffy parlour ever could.”
He nodded approvingly. “I know the feeling well. I am just making my tour of the park. Would you allow me the honour of accompanying you for a time?”
“I should like that very much,” Elizabeth answered.
Colonel Fitzwilliam fell into step beside her, and they continued forwards, following the path in easy companionship.
Elizabeth found herself oddly soothed by the officer’s presence, yet her thoughts were far from settled.
The last time they had walked together beneath these very trees, he had, quite inadvertently, let slip the devastating truth of Mr Darcy’s interference in her sister’s happiness.
But now, she hardly knew what to believe.
Jane was married to Mr Collins and showed no sign of affection for Mr Bingley, whom she professed to have scarcely met.
In this altered version of reality, had her conversation with the colonel ever taken place?
Suddenly, a new worry crept in. If Mr Darcy was indeed accustomed to sharing his private concerns with his cousin, had he then revealed to Colonel Fitzwilliam what had passed between himself and Elizabeth in Rosings Park’s gardens?
Her cheeks heated once again at the memory of her mortifying insinuations.
Turning to survey the colonel out of the corner of her vision, Elizabeth took a fortifying breath. She was just on the point of raising the topic when the gentleman spoke.
“You gave us all quite a fright, Miss Bennet,” he said with quiet sincerity. “Darcy especially. He was deeply concerned.”
Elizabeth looked over at him, startled, but said nothing.
He glanced at her before continuing, “When you first awoke, I heard that you seemed rather…confused. You mentioned a letter and a missing locket. Darcy said that you appeared quite agitated.”
“Yes. There are still…inconsistencies in my recollections. Holes, I suppose. Particularly regarding my time here in Kent. I cannot, for instance, recall precisely when I first made your acquaintance—or Mr Darcy’s.
Would you…would you do me the kindness of reminding me how and when we were introduced? ”
Colonel Fitzwilliam slowed slightly, casting her a look of mild surprise.
“Certainly. If I recall correctly, we met about a fortnight ago, on Easter Sunday. We were introduced outside the parish church, then Lady Catherine invited you all to come to Rosings in the evening.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “And before that? That is to say, Mr Darcy and I were not previously acquainted? We met for the first time here in Kent?”
He gave a slight shrug. “I believe so. Darcy did not mention otherwise, and he would have done if there had been a prior acquaintance.”
She shifted her gaze to the path ahead before saying slowly, “Would you mind describing that first evening? Forgive me, I know it must seem strange, but I need to fit the pieces of this puzzle back together somehow.”
“Not at all,” he answered with an easy smile.
“Let me think… We dined early. Lady Catherine always insists upon an early dinner as she believes it improves the digestion. Afterwards, we retired to the drawing room, and that is when you all arrived. I remember there was some conversation about books—Mrs Collins mentioned a circulating library in Westerham—then a brief debate about the pleasures of travel versus the comforts of staying at home. You expressed a preference for the latter, if I recall, while I argued the benefits of variety.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a slim smile. “And Mr Darcy?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brow furrowed. “Actually, this part I do remember because it was rather odd. Darcy looked at you quite seriously and declared that you were well known for professing opinions which were not, in fact, your own.” He gave a low chuckle.
“I thought it a curious remark at the time, especially considering the two of you had scarcely exchanged a dozen words.”
Elizabeth went still, her smile fading. A flush of heat prickled along the back of her neck, followed by a cool, creeping sensation that settled low in her spine.
“And, did I play the pianoforte that evening?” she asked, suddenly eager to turn the conversation.
“Oh yes,” the colonel said, brightening.
“You played and sang quite charmingly. I think even my aunt was impressed by your proficiency—I remember her complimenting you on your fingering and extending an offer to play at any time on the pianoforte in Mrs Jenkinson’s room,” he added with a wink.
“In truth, it was one of the most delightful evenings I have ever spent at Rosings Park. We so rarely have such agreeable company.”
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, but he went on, his expression thoughtful.
“I am quite certain Darcy felt the same. He looked at you a great deal, which, I can assure you, is not his habit.”
Elizabeth stared back at him. “We conversed, then?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam paused, frowning slightly as he searched his memory.
“I believe so. At least, as much as Darcy converses with anyone. He is not…well, he is not known for his conviviality, nor for being particularly voluble among strangers. But I recall him speaking to you more than he did to anyone else that evening.”
Elizabeth’s gaze wavered, the weight of the contradictions pressing heavily upon her mind.
The colonel chuckled, adding, “Of course, he will not have to concern himself with avoiding female attentions much longer. Once he is married, he will be quite safe.”
She turned to look at him. “Married?” she echoed, a strange staccato quickening in her chest.
“To our cousin Anne,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied easily. “Lady Catherine has always intended it, and Darcy, I suspect, is at last resigned to the arrangement. I believe the match is soon to be settled.”
His words sent a sharp jolt through her, followed by a nameless ache that coiled low in her stomach. Her steps slowed briefly before she forced herself to match the colonel’s leisurely pace.
She was being completely irrational; she knew she was.
Why should she be uneasy at the thought of Mr Darcy marrying his cousin?
She had certainly never harboured any romantic expectations of the gentleman.
Quite the contrary! Moreover, the news that Mr Darcy and Miss de Bourgh were all but promised to one another did not come as a surprise.
Had not Mr Wickham himself told her so upon their very first meeting?
Still, the thought of Mr Darcy’s solemn gaze fixed not on her but on someone else left her curiously bereft.
Seeking to banish her melancholy mood, she turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam once more. “Will you remain much longer at Rosings, sir?” she asked lightly.
The colonel responded with a shake of his head. “I should not think so. We are to depart by the end of the week, if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”
Elizabeth stared back at him, the phrase striking her like the toll of a distant bell.
He had said that before, or something very similar to it, had he not?
She could almost hear the precise inflection in his voice as they walked together on this very path.
Except, that conversation had never occurred.
Turning her mind back to their previous encounter, Elizabeth said, “I am not sure I have ever met another gentleman who appears to enjoy the power of doing what he likes more than Mr Darcy.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to her with a mischievous expression.
“Darcy likes to have his own way, that is true. But then, so do we all. The difference is that he has the means to secure it, being rich, while others do not. Forgive me. I speak too freely. But you see, a younger son must grow accustomed to self-denial and dependence.”
There it was again—almost word for word what he had said to her before. Elizabeth’s smile fell, though she quickly masked it with a polite nod. The eerie echo of their past conversation unsettled her more than she cared to acknowledge.
As such, she made only a brief reply before deliberately turning to a new subject. Navigating between two versions of her life was taxing enough without the added absurdity of repeating conversations she had already had.