Chapter 5 #7
Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed with measured courtesy. “I think Miss Fletcher and I may agree that a further acquaintance would be both agreeable and prudent.”
Mary inclined her head slightly. “I should welcome the opportunity to continue our conversation, and to do so without haste.”
Her father regarded her for a moment, then nodded, evidently satisfied. “Then so be it. Let it begin as it ought—freely, and with mutual regard.”
Miss Fletcher glanced at her father, who gave the smallest of nods.
And thus, the first step was taken—not a match, not a promise, but a beginning. One that neither of them had expected, but neither could easily dismiss. And in the world Lady Catherine hoped to orchestrate, that was more than enough.
***
Lady Catherine asked the Marquess of Ashford to stay a few moments more for further discussion, and permitted Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Fletcher to return to the assembly.
“We will have to discuss this further, Miss Fletcher,” the officer said, still somewhat bemused, his tone carrying a note of genuine surprise mingled with quiet pleasure as he regarded her with renewed interest.
“I agree—since it is rather a lot to absorb in one conversation,” she said as they moved out of earshot, her voice soft yet laced with gentle amusement that drew a corresponding warmth in his expression.
He chuckled, the sound low and appreciative as he glanced at her sidelong. “Indeed. I arrived prepared to discuss military logistics or the state of the roads—not courtship.”
“An hour ago, I was hoping to sketch tulips in the garden tomorrow,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with shared humour as she met his gaze with quiet confidence. “So we are both unprepared.”
“Do you mind that we are here under such expectation?” he asked, his tone softening with sincere curiosity as he studied her face.
Miss Fletcher considered a moment, her expression thoughtful yet composed as she inclined her head slightly.
“I mind only that others presume to speak for my inclinations,” she said gently, her voice carrying a note of firm independence that elicited a nod of quiet approval from him.
“But not that I am offered the chance to express them myself.”
Lady Catherine and her father exchanged glances, their expressions reflecting mild surprise that the young pair conversed as though they were not present, the Marquess's eyes twinkling with quiet amusement while Lady Catherine's brows arched in reluctant intrigue.
“You strike me as someone who does so with clarity,” Colonel Fitzwilliam observed, his voice warmed by admiration as he smiled at her with genuine regard.
She glanced at him with gentle curiosity, a faint blush touching her cheeks at the compliment. “And you, Colonel—do you enjoy your current liberty too much to consider surrendering it?”
“‘Surrender’ is not the word I would choose,” he replied, his tone light yet thoughtful as he met her gaze with playful earnestness. “But the military has taught me that some campaigns are best entered with strategy and care.”
“And reconnaissance?” she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief that drew a soft laugh from him.
“Precisely,” he confirmed, his smile deepening in shared delight.
They shared a quiet laugh, the sound intimate and harmonious, drawing a subtle softening in Lady Catherine's stern features and a hearty nod of approval from the Marquess.
“Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am so glad this evening discussion took place,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of sincere pleasure that warmed his expression further.
He feigned a look of deep suspicion, though his eyes sparkled with humour. “Was that a compliment, Miss Fletcher?”
“Possibly,” she replied, her tone teasing yet warm as she met his gaze with quiet confidence. “Though I reserve the right to withdraw it should you prove tedious.”
“Fair,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, smiling with genuine charm as he inclined his head in playful concession. “I am on probation, then.”
“As am I,” she answered, her smile gentle and inviting, the words sealing the moment with mutual understanding and promise.
They paused at a wide arched window, its curtains drawn back to reveal the moonlit sweep of lawn below.
“Do you dance, Colonel?” Miss Fletcher asked, her voice light with curiosity as she regarded him with a gentle tilt of her head, her eyes reflecting a quiet spark of interest.
“In a manner, yes,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, his tone carrying a note of self-deprecating humour that drew a soft smile from her. “Not always in the style preferred by purists. I rely heavily on partners who can count.”
She smiled, her expression warming with genuine amusement as a faint blush touched her cheeks. “Then we should suit admirably,” she said softly. “I am very good at counting. I taught my younger cousins, too.”
“A practical education,” he said approvingly, his eyes twinkling with appreciation as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “And one that may come in useful, should we catch up before the final set this evening.”
“Is that an invitation, Colonel?” she inquired, her voice carrying a note of playful challenge that elicited a broader smile from him.
“Merely anticipating a natural consequence,” he replied, his tone light yet sincere. “After all, the matchmakers will not be content until we have made a proper public show of compatibility.”
“Then let us foil them by making it appear natural,” she suggested, her eyes dancing with shared mischief that drew a low, appreciative laugh from him.
He laughed again, the sound warm and genuine as he regarded her with increasing admiration. “You are more dangerous than I feared, Miss Fletcher.”
They turned back toward the parlour. The return walk was companionable, touched by a growing sense of ease that neither found reason to disguise, their steps falling into a harmonious rhythm that spoke of mutual comfort already forming.
At the door, she paused, her expression turning thoughtful as she met his gaze with quiet sincerity. “May I confess something, Colonel?”
He sobered at once, though his eyes remained warm with encouragement as he nodded. “Of course.”
“I had imagined you quite differently,” she admitted softly, a gentle smile curving her lips.
“Oh dear,” he replied, his tone light yet curious as he arched a brow in playful inquiry. “Was I older? Graver? More scarred from battle?”
She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with gentle humour as she considered him. “More self-important. Less kind.”
He blinked, then bowed slightly, his expression reflecting genuine pleasure mingled with modest surprise. “Then I am doubly honoured by your company. And may I offer the same confession?”
“You imagined me otherwise?” she asked, her voice softened with curiosity.
“I imagined a lady who would not meet my eyes, nor say a word unless prompted,” he confessed, his tone sincere as he held her gaze with respectful admiration. “I imagined a young woman already resigned to being bargained off like a rare vase.”
“And instead?” she prompted gently, her smile inviting his honesty.
“Instead, I find someone who observes, listens, and still dares to speak,” he said, his voice warmed by quiet regard that caused a subtle flush to rise in her cheeks.
She lowered her gaze for a moment, touched by the sincerity of his words, then looked up again with a soft, appreciative smile. “Well. Perhaps we shall continue to surprise each other.”
“It is my hope,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said sincerely, his expression reflecting earnest warmth as he inclined his head.
She curtsied with graceful composure. He bowed and smiled with genuine pleasure. And together they re-entered the parlour, preparing for the next set to dance together, their steps light with the promise of a companionship that had begun to feel both natural and delightfully unforeseen.
***
As the door closed gently behind the young couple, Lady Catherine settled more deeply into her chair, her hands clasped before her like a general surveying a well-laid plan.
A satisfied gleam lit her eye, but her tone, when she spoke, was modulated into that curious form of modest gravity reserved only for moments of perceived triumph.
“Well,” she said, with the dignity of one whose expectations had been handsomely confirmed, “I believe that went as well as could be wished.”
The Marquess inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Better, perhaps. I had feared an awkwardness—Mary is not always at ease when pressed. Yet I thought her manner remarkably composed.”
“Composed, yes,” Lady Catherine agreed, “and suitably deferential without descending into vulgar simpering. She curtsied well, which is always a sign of breeding in a girl raised outside London. The rustics never learn to sink properly. But Miss Fletcher is perfect.”
Lord Ashford permitted himself the faintest smile. “My daughter is not easily managed, Lady Catherine, but she is uncommonly sensible. She thinks with care, and feels no less sincerely. I should not wish for her to be hurried.”
“Naturally,” Lady Catherine replied, with a wave of her hand, “though I dare say the matter may be safely left to unfold at its own pace. Colonel Fitzwilliam is not a man given to idle trifling, and I have long known that he would require a wife of steadiness rather than mere sparkle. Your daughter has both.”
“I thank you, your ladyship,” the Marquess said quietly. “As a father, I cannot be indifferent to the character of the man who might one day have the care of her happiness.”
“I should hope not,” Lady Catherine replied. “But you may be easy on that score. My nephew is honourable to a fault—if anything, too scrupulous. He has seen more of war than is suitable for a man of such refinement, but he has come through it with his sense intact and his heart uncorrupted.”