Chapter Two The Soldiers Campaign
THE WALK BACK TO THE Hunsford parsonage that evening was undertaken in a state of reverent silence, largely because Mr Collins was breathless from having consumed an ungodly amount of Lady Catherine's mutton, and Maria Lucas was still too scared to speak lest she accidentally offend a passing hedge.
Elizabeth, however, felt an effervescent sense of entertainment forming within her chest.
When they finally retreated to the safety of the parsonage, Mr Collins immediately retired to his study to record the evening's triumphs in his diary.
Elizabeth followed Charlotte into her friend's modest bedchamber, shutting the door behind them before collapsing onto the edge of the mattress in a fit of smothered giggles.
"Charlotte," Elizabeth gasped, pulling off her gloves and tossing them onto the dressing table. "Please tell me I did not dream the events of the last three hours. Tell me that Colonel Fitzwilliam truly marched into that drawing-room and overturned Mr Darcy's gloomy sovereignty."
Charlotte sat before her mirror, calmly removing the pins from her hair.
She possessed a tranquil demeanour because she had successfully managed her husband's social anxieties for a solid evening.
"He is certainly a jovial gentleman, Lizzy.
I cannot recall the last time I heard anyone speak louder than Lady Catherine in her own home without immediate retribution. "
"He was magnificent!" Elizabeth declared. "I have never seen such a contrast in a single family line. On the one hand, you have the Colonel: open, amiable, quick to laugh, and devoid of consequence. And on the other, you have his cousin."
Elizabeth's expression darkened as she recalled the tall, imposing figure by the fireplace.
"Did you see the way Mr Darcy looked at me when we first arrived, Charlotte?
I swear, for a moment, I thought he was suffering from some sort of distress.
His jaw was clenched, his teeth were bared—it was the weirdest expression.
It was as though the very sight of me in Kent was a personal insult to his ancestors. "
Charlotte paused, her hairbrush suspended mid-stroke.
She turned to look at her friend, her plain face thoughtful.
"Do you truly think so, Lizzy? I grant you, Mr Darcy is not a man of easy manners, but I did not perceive hostility.
If anything, when you were speaking with the Colonel, Mr Darcy seemed...
well, rather intensely focused. Almost anxious. "
"Anxious?" Elizabeth laughed aloud, dismissively. "My dear Charlotte, Mr Darcy does not experience anxiety. He experiences varying degrees of disdain. He was glaring because he was forced to share the same air with the Lucases and a Bennet. He was appalled by our presence."
"He sought you out," Charlotte pointed out reasonably. "He deliberately crossed the room to take a chair near you before his aunt demanded his attention."
"He was cornered," Elizabeth countered, waving a hand.
"But let us not waste breath on the gloomy cousin when the cheerful one is so readily available for analysis!
Did you hear what the Colonel said about the local magistrate?
I thought I should expire on the spot. He is exactly the sort of lively companion this county requires. "
Charlotte smiled, returning to her brushing. "He was certainly very attentive to you, Lizzy. Scarcely left your side until his aunt threatened to lecture him on paving stones. You must admit, it is flattering."
"It is amusing," Elizabeth corrected, leaning back on her elbows. "He is a man who knows how to make himself agreeable to anyone he meets. Unlike Mr Darcy, who seems to view the act of speaking to an acquaintance as a punishment."
Elizabeth closed her eyes, the image of Darcy's solemn face floating in her mind.
Her amusement faded, and she started wondering, how could such a man, so proud and forbidding, have a cousin of such apparent warmth?
And more pressingly, how could he stand in that gilded drawing room, wrapped in his wealth and consequence, when she knew exactly what he had done to Mr Wickham?
He ruined a good man's prospects out of jealous spite, she reminded herself. And yet he dares to look on me with judgement.
"Well," Elizabeth said firmly, sitting up and preparing to head to her own bedchamber. "I shall certainly enjoy the Colonel's company while he is here. If nothing else, his presence guarantees that I will not have to endure the silent treatment of his cousin."
THE FOLLOWING MORNING dawned crisp and bright, offering the perfect conditions for Elizabeth's favourite pastime.
Escaping the parsonage before Mr Collins could corner her for a detailed inventory of his newly polished candlesticks, she set off into Rosings Park at a brisk, purposeful pace.
She loved the winding paths, the ancient oaks, and the solitude they afforded, but she mostly anticipated the walk Colonel Fitzwilliam had promised.
She had barely cleared the first copse of trees, however, when exactly that was delivered.
"Miss Elizabeth! Huzzah! The landscape has yielded its finest treasure!"
Elizabeth halted, turning to see the Colonel striding across the damp grass towards her.
He was not in uniform today, but he moved with the same force, waving a walking stick in the air as a greeting.
Behind him, trailing at a distance of about twenty paces, was Darcy, exactly like a thundercloud that had been forced into a superbly tailored greatcoat.
"Good morning, Colonel," Elizabeth called out, allowing a genuine smile to light her face as the soldier reached her. "I see you have survived your first night in Kent."
"Barely, Miss Elizabeth, barely," he declared, falling into step beside her with the ease of an old friend.
"My aunt subjected us to a two-hour monologue on the proper method of pruning peach trees.
Rosings does not even have peach trees. I assure you, by midnight, I was ready to throw myself into the fireplace to escape the horticulture.
It was only the promise of discovering you on these paths that kept me sane. "
Elizabeth laughed, delighted by his easy exaggeration. "Then I am glad to have performed a public service, sir. Though I must warn you, I walk quite quickly."
"I am a soldier, Miss Elizabeth. I have marched across continents! I can easily keep pace with a lady of Hertfordshire."
They walked on, the Colonel keeping up a steady, animated stream of conversation.
He pointed out various trees and confidently gave them incorrect botanical names.
He made witty fun of the excessive ornamentation of the Rosings estate.
Elizabeth found herself responding with equal vivacity, her steps light, her spirits elevated.
But she could not ignore the presence behind them.
Darcy was a silent, looming weight. He did not join the conversation. When the Colonel occasionally threw a question over his shoulder—"Is that not right, Darcy? Did my aunt not threaten to prune the vicar last year?"—Darcy offered a monosyllabic, strained reply.
Elizabeth deliberately kept her gaze forward, refusing to look back. She could sense Darcy's eyes on her. The longer they walked, the more a strange tension was gathering in the air.
He is probably judging the dirt on my hem, she thought uncharitably.
To counteract Darcy's oppressive silence, Elizabeth leaned further into the Colonel's banter.
When he made a joke about Lady Catherine's phaeton, Elizabeth laughed perhaps a fraction louder than necessary.
When he asked her opinion on a novel, she answered with great animation, throwing all her charm into the exchange.
"You have a very lively mind, Miss Elizabeth," the Colonel said, his eyes crinkling with admiration. "It is a rare and delightful thing to find someone who can spar with words so effortlessly."
"You flatter me, Colonel," Elizabeth replied, casting a defiant, sidelong glance at the tall figure of Mr Darcy. "In Hertfordshire, we have little else to do but talk. I fear those used to grander society might find our country habits... irritating."
Darcy stepped over a large tree root, his jaw tightening. "I do not find your habits irritating, Miss Elizabeth."
The words were spoken in almost a rumble, but they carried clearly in the crisp air. Elizabeth faltered for half a second, surprised that he had spoken unprompted. She looked back at him. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch uncomfortably in her throat.
She quickly turned away, her heart giving an irritated thump. Wickham, she reminded herself. Remember Mr Wickham. Remember Jane. This man is a master of cold indifference and cruel interference.
"Well," Elizabeth said briskly, turning her full attention back to the Colonel. "I am relieved to hear it, sir. Now, Colonel, you must tell me—what is the military perspective on those large swans on the lake? Because I view them as a threat."
The Colonel let out a laugh, and Darcy fell silent once more, trailing behind them like a ghost condemned to walk the earth in a very fine pair of boots.
BY THE TIME AFTERNOON tea was served at Rosings, the social dynamics had coalesced into a bizarre, pressurised theatre.
The drawing-room was full. Charlotte and Maria sat quietly near the windows.
Anne de Bourgh was draped languidly on a chaise longue, and her tiny companion, Mrs Jenkinson, was hovering over her with a vinaigrette.
Elizabeth had been commanded to the pianoforte by Lady Catherine, and Colonel Fitzwilliam, naturally, had appointed himself as her page-turner.
It was a disaster.
"Wait, Colonel—not yet—!" Elizabeth gasped, her hands flying across the keys as the Colonel, staring at her profile instead of the sheet music, flipped two pages at once.