15. Elizabeth’s Astute Observation
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELIZABETH’S ASTUTE OBSERVATION
Elizabeth had endured the efficacy of rest for three days, but by the fourth, the morning’s clarity and mildness conspired to lure her from her bed. Not even Mrs. Reynolds’s fussing, nor Darcy’s, could keep her imprisoned a moment longer.
She had been eyeing the sunshine for a full hour before Clarice appeared with the breakfast tray. By the time she had consumed her toast and tea, she had already composed three separate arguments for why she was entirely recovered and perfectly capable of a morning walk.
None of these arguments proved necessary. Georgiana arrived at half-past ten with Prue Duntze in tow, both of them pink-cheeked from the spring air and brimming with plans that apparently required Elizabeth’s immediate participation.
“We are walking to the Maitland farm,” Georgiana announced, settling herself on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed with the comfortable presumption of a sister. “Mrs. Maitland’s hound has had puppies, and Prue says they are the most ridiculous creatures she has ever seen.”
“Basset hounds,” Prue clarified, perching on the window seat with rather more decorum than Georgiana had managed. “All ears and melancholy. They look as though they are contemplating the futility of existence, which I find enormously appealing in a dog.”
“I should think you would prefer something more spirited,” Elizabeth said. “A terrier, perhaps. Something that shares your… energetic temperament.”
Prue’s eyes glinted. “Terriers are all enthusiasm and no philosophy. I require a dog capable of brooding.”
“Then we are in the right county,” Elizabeth quipped, glancing in the direction of Darcy’s study. “Derbyshire specializes in brooding. Give me ten minutes to dress, and I shall join you.”
“Fitzwilliam will object,” Georgiana warned, though her tone suggested this was a feature rather than a concern. “He has been hovering outside your door like a particularly anxious ghost. I had to practically shove past him to reach you.”
“Your brother has perfected the art of hoveringly brooding, or is it broodingly hovering with excellent intentions?”
Georgiana giggled while Prue’s eyes widened at the spectacle of a wife speaking so freely about a husband who, in all manner of women’s deportment books, advised the utmost respect.
“His brooding and hovering are directly related to how besotted he is.” Georgiana stood and began examining the items on Elizabeth’s dressing table with the idle curiosity of a girl who had not yet learned that other people’s belongings were private. “Prue, don’t you agree?”
“I think no such thing.” Prue’s air reminded Elizabeth of her sister Mary. “Besotted is not a term from the Bible.”
“Ah, but you did,” Georgiana contradicted. “I quote, ‘Mrs. Darcy has achieved what no woman in Derbyshire believed possible—she has made Fitzwilliam Darcy smile before noon.’” Georgiana held up a hairbrush as though presenting evidence. “I consider this a significant accomplishment.”
“I have made no such untoward observation,” Prue resorted to her parson’s daughter demeanor.
“Come now, far be it from me to note a gentleman’s countenance—although,” a smile peeked from behind Prue’s oversized bonnet, “I must admit the master of Pemberley seems less troubled since Mrs. Darcy arrived.”
“Yes, and he refuses to tell me the particulars of your great romance. Tell me, sister, did you pain him much during his stay in Hertfordshire? He spent an entirely miserable Yuletide, grimacing as if in the throes of unrequited love. We are so pleased that he has finally won you over. You are good for him. I knew you would be, the moment I saw you. He needs someone who will not let him retreat into his study and brood over ledgers until he forgets that joy exists.”
Elizabeth had never fancied herself a bringer of joy—certainly not to this household, nor to a marriage that began as a matter of convenience and only lately tripped over something resembling warmth.
Yet Georgiana’s certainty was difficult to resist, and Prue nodded with the quiet triumph of a woman whose suspicions had at last been vindicated.
“I shall do my best not to let him brood,” Elizabeth said, aiming for lightness. “Though I cannot promise to eliminate brooding entirely. Some men require a baseline level of melancholy to function.”
“Fitzwilliam requires considerably more than baseline,” Georgiana agreed. “His spirits are lifted, even at breakfast, where he usually attends to his correspondence, and now that you are past the danger…”
“I was never in danger,” Elizabeth reminded. “A mere cold.”
“Oh, but Fitzwilliam blames himself for being caught in the rainstorm. Hannah says he was practically whistling after Clarice informed him of your recovery. Why, I do believe you’ve made him quite the cheerful man. I might miss the brooding, although the day is too sunny to ruin.”
A flush of pleasure threatened Elizabeth’s composure, which she attempted to suppress with limited success.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, whistling—an image both absurd and oddly endearing.
The man who had made reserve an art now expressing himself with such careless cheer.
“Perhaps he has simply developed a fondness for morning exercise.”
“Or he has developed a fondness for his wife,” Prue said, with the dry precision of a woman who called things by their proper names. “But we shall pretend otherwise if it makes you more comfortable.”
It did not make her more comfortable. If anything, it made her acutely aware of how much she wished it were true—how she longed to believe she had brought something to this household beyond practicality, that her presence mattered to the reserved man who had once proposed out of duty and was now, it seemed, whistling in corridors.
But such thoughts were dangerous, and puppies were waiting.
Her husband intercepted the party in the entrance hall, emerging from his study at the precise moment her footsteps crossed the corridor, as though he had been listening for their footfalls. His gaze swept over Elizabeth with such intensity that her cheeks warmed under its scrutiny.
“You are going out,” he observed, in a tone that hovered neatly between statement and gentle objection.
“We are going to see puppies,” Georgiana explained brightly. “Basset hounds at the Maitland farm. Elizabeth is entirely recovered and in desperate need of fresh air, and Prue says the puppies are magnificently absurd.”
“Mrs. Darcy was confined to her chamber for days,” he reminded.
“Yes, and Mrs. Darcy is standing before you in excellent health,” Elizabeth countered firmly, “and will not be confined to her chamber a moment longer. The walls have begun to close in, and I find myself developing an unhealthy attachment to the ceiling pattern.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “The ceiling?”
“There is a crack that bears a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Collins. I have spent far too many hours in his company,” Elizabeth explained, her tone light but meaningfully suggestive.
The furrow deepened for a moment—puzzlement, perhaps, at the notion that ceiling cracks could resemble pompous clergymen—before his expression softened. “I see. And you believe that puppies are the appropriate remedy for excessive clerical contemplation?”
“Puppies are the appropriate remedy for nearly everything.”
“A sound medical philosophy,” he conceded, glancing at Georgiana and Prue, who were watching this exchange with poorly concealed interest. “Very well. But you will take the path through the lower meadow rather than the ridge. The ground is more even, and you will not overtax yourself.”
“I am not an invalid, Mr. Darcy.”
“I caused you unnecessary distress with that journey. Humor me,” he urged, his request gentle and almost plaintive in its sincerity. Elizabeth’s objections melted in the face of such earnest concern.
“The lower meadow,” she agreed. “Though I reserve the right to protest if you attempt to wrap me in cotton wool and store me in a display case.”
“I would not dream of it. Cotton wool is far too expensive to waste on display cases,” he remarked, a corner of his lips quirking. “Enjoy your puppies, Mrs. Darcy.”
“I intend to,” she replied with a wink, sweeping past him and fully aware of the effect she had wrought.
There was no need to glance back to confirm he was watching; she felt his gaze as surely as the press of her reticule against her waist. She felt it even as they turned the corner and left him standing alone in the entrance hall.
The walk was all the more pleasurable for the brightened sights and sounds of April: meadows damp with dew, streams running high, the air scented with grass and wet earth, and a lark singing overhead.
Elizabeth walked between Prue and Georgiana, her muscles protesting the novelty of exertion, but her spirits rising with every note of their chatter.
“Lady Cathcart’s daughter eloped last autumn with a curate,” Prue reported, as they passed a particularly handsome stone wall.
“The scandal was magnificent. Lady Cathcart took to her bed for a fortnight and refused to receive anyone except the physician, who was sworn to secrecy about the precise nature of her ailment.”
“Which was?”
“Wounded pride, primarily. The curate was perfectly respectable, but he lacked the thirty thousand pounds Lady Cathcart had envisioned for her daughter. She had her eye on a baronet’s son from Cheshire.
” Prue navigated a particularly muddy patch with the practiced ease of a country girl.
“Miss Entwhistle says the daughter is perfectly happy, which Lady Cathcart considers the greatest insult of all.”
“Miss Entwhistle seems remarkably well-informed.”