Chapter Three Strategy and Watercolours
THE LIbrARY AT ROSINGS Park contained one of the finest, most comprehensively ignored collections of literature in all of Kent.
Lady Catherine believed that owning thousands of leather-bound volumes conveyed intellectual superiority, regardless of whether anyone ever opened them.
On this Wednesday morning, however, the sanctity of the unread books was disturbed by the pacing of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.
Richard was a man accustomed to decisive action.
He had marshalled troops, conquered battlefields, and successfully outmanoeuvred enemy artillery.
Yet, when faced with the laughing eyes of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, his tactical genius had deserted him, leaving behind nothing but a desire to perform parlour tricks and point at foliage.
He stopped his pacing and braced his hands on a reading table, staring unseeingly at a map of the continent.
She was, without question, the most magnificent creature he had ever encountered.
It was not only her beauty—though she was lovely, with a vitality that made the other women of his acquaintance resemble faded tapestries—it was her mind.
She was quick and unafraid. She had looked at Lady Catherine, a woman who routinely made grown men weep, and smiled with arch amusement.
She had survived the hothouse without fainting.
She was a goddess of Hertfordshire, and Richard was irredeemably besotted.
But he was failing.
He resumed his pacing, his boots clicking on the polished floorboards.
His usual methods—grand gestures, loud jokes, excessive charm—were bouncing off her like musket fire on a stone wall.
She found him amusing, certainly. She laughed at his jests and accepted his arm.
But Richard knew the difference between a woman who was entertained and a woman who was captivated.
Elizabeth Bennet was treating him like a favourite boisterous brother.
To compound his misery, there was the matter of his cousin.
What in God's name was wrong with Darcy?
The man had spent all his time trailing behind them like a territorial gargoyle.
Every time Richard attempted a compliment, Darcy cleared his throat with the subtle force of a dying bear.
Every time Richard leaned in close, Darcy appeared, wielding a sickly cousin or a critique of a fern.
Richard paused by the window, rubbing his chin.
Was Darcy being a snob? It was the most likely explanation.
Darcy probably recognised Richard's infatuation and, horrified by the prospect of the second son of an earl marrying a woman whose uncle was in trade, had decided to physically block the match through intimidation.
I will not be deterred by a man whose cravat is slowly strangling him, Richard resolved, his military instincts kicking in. A frontal assault has failed. The enemy—the lady—is too well-fortified with wit. I require a flanking manoeuvre. I need a new strategy.
He needed intelligence. He needed to understand the mechanics of a female mind and how to conquer it without resorting to juggling teacups. He needed advice and there was no one to provide it in this godforsaken place.
Seeking solitude to formulate his new battle plan, Richard abandoned the library and marched to the hothouse, hoping a change of scenery would clear his head. He pushed open the glass doors and halted.
The hothouse was not empty. Seated before a sturdy wooden easel, bathed in the morning sunlight, was his cousin Anne.
Mrs Jenkinson was nowhere to be seen. Anne was not reclining on a chaise, nor was she clutching a vinaigrette or coughing delicately into a handkerchief. Instead, she was hunched over a canvas, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows, jabbing a paintbrush into a palette with the vigour of a fencer.
Richard blinked, stepping closer. "Anne?"
Anne did not startle. She calmly completed a stroke of yellow ochre, then turned to look at him. Her posture was straight, the vague, watery look in her eyes gone, replaced by a startling clarity.
"Close the door, Richard," she said, her voice devoid of its usual nasal whine. It was brisk, dry, and in command. "You are letting out the humidity, and the ferns will sulk. Mother will blame the gardener, and I shall have to listen to her shout about it for hours."
Richard closed the door, staring at her in shock.
He walked around to the front of the easel.
On the canvas was a watercolour of a caterpillar.
It was not a delicate, pretty, ladylike insect.
It was furred and rendered in such an intense way that it seemed as though it were about to crawl off the paper and bite him in the finger.
"You... you are not coughing," Richard managed to say.
"I only cough when Mother attempts to feed me that vile calf's-foot jelly or suggests I play the pianoforte," Anne replied, dipping her brush into a pot of water. "It is an effective method of avoidance, trust me. A single hacking fit excuses me from three days of social obligations."
"You are not sickly?" Richard felt as though the floor had tilted. "You are not dying?"
Anne snorted—an actual, unrefined snort.
"I am dying of boredom, Cousin, nothing more.
If I acted with any degree of vitality, Mother would drag me to London and force me to parade in front of eligible bachelors until one of them succumbed to the pressure.
I prefer my own company. And my bugs." She applied a fierce dab of black paint to the insect's abdomen.
"Now, why are you pacing about my hothouse like a dog that has lost its favourite stick? "
Richard, recovering from the shock of discovering his cousin was secretly a tactical genius of domestic evasion, collapsed onto a nearby wrought-iron bench. The relief of having someone to talk to was staggering.
"It is Miss Elizabeth," he confessed, burying his face in his hands. "I am bungling the affair, Anne. I want to impress her, but every time I am near her, I behave like an overgrown schoolboy. I try to be charming, and I end up turning two pages of music at once or knocking over her sheet music."
Anne paused her painting, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. "Yes, I observed the pianoforte incident. It was tragic. You were a windmill in a hurricane."
"I do not know what to do," he admitted, dropping his hands. "She is so clever. I feel that if I do not say something witty, she will lose interest. But the harder I try to be entertaining, the more she treats me like a performing bear."
"That is because you are acting like a performing bear," Anne said bluntly. She pointed her paintbrush at him. "You are treating her as a target to be conquered with brass buttons and volume. Miss Elizabeth does not require a court jester, Richard. She requires an equal."
"An equal?"
"Stop trying to dazzle her," Anne instructed, turning back to her fuzzy caterpillar.
"She already knows you are charming; she is not blind.
But a woman with a mind like hers wants a man who will engage it.
Ask her a serious question. Discuss a book, philosophy, or a genuine opinion.
Show her the man underneath the regimentals.
Be quiet for more than two consecutive minutes and listen to what she has to say. "
Richard sat back, stunned by the simplicity of the advice. It was brilliant. It was exactly what he had been missing. "Anne... you are a marvel. Why are you hiding in here painting insects when you could be running the War Office?"
"Because the War Office does not allow watercolours," Anne replied dryly. "Now, go away. I need to perfect these mandibles, and your sudden enlightenment is disturbing my light."
Armed with Anne's advice, Richard wasted no time.
He marched back inside the house and cornered Darcy in the hallway.
He informed him they were paying a morning social call to the parsonage.
Darcy had looked as though Richard had suggested they swim the English Channel in their boots, but Richard had hauled his cousin along, ignoring his glowering.
THE PARLOUR OF THE Hunsford parsonage was small, crowded with Mr Collins's hideous ornaments, and occupied by the entire party. Mrs Collins was sewing by the window, Miss Lucas was attempting to shrink into the upholstery, and Sir William was admiring a polished fire iron.
Elizabeth was seated on a small sofa. Richard executed a flanking manoeuvre, bypassing Mr Collins, and sat beside her. Darcy was forced to take a stiff-backed chair near the fireplace, situated between Maria Lucas and Sir William.
Remember the strategy, Richard told himself, drawing a breath and forcing his natural exuberance down. No loud jokes. Engage the intellect. Be profound.
"Miss Elizabeth," he began, his voice pitched to a serious, thoughtful timbre.
"I was contemplating in the library at Rosings this morning, and it led me to wonder about your own preferences.
In your reading, do you find yourself more drawn to the stoic philosophies of the ancients, or the more...
emotionally resonant works of the modern poets? "
Elizabeth paused, her needle hovering over her embroidery hoop. She glanced at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. The performing bear had vanished, replaced by a contemplative scholar.
"That is a very weighty question for such a fine morning, Colonel," she said with a smile. "I must confess, my tastes are rather varied. But I suppose I find more truth in—"
"If I may be so bold as to interrupt this fascinating discourse!" a loud, reedy voice proclaimed.
Richard squeezed his eyes shut.
Mr Collins stepped squarely into the centre of the room, clasping his hands together in an attitude of supreme reverence.
"Speaking of the library at Rosings, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I must express my unending awe at the amount of knowledge contained within those walls.
Why, Lady Catherine was telling me yesterday about the exquisite binding of the encyclopaedia volumes!
Have you observed the gold leaf, sir? It is a testament to her Ladyship's exquisite taste. "
Richard forced his eyes open and attempted a polite, dismissive smile. "Indeed, Mr Collins. Very impressive. Miss Elizabeth, you were saying about the modern poets—?"
"I dare say," Mr Collins ploughed on, oblivious, "that the glazing on the windows in that very library cost upwards of fifty pounds! I have often remarked to my dear Mrs Collins that one feels humbled just standing on the carpets."
"Fascinating," Richard said through gritted teeth, desperately trying to catch Elizabeth's eye. "Miss Elizabeth—"
"I agree with you, Mr Collins."
The voice cut through the room like a scythe, and everyone stopped what they were doing to turn towards its source.
Richard's head snapped to the fireplace. Darcy was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on the clergyman with utter sincerity.
"The glazing in the library is a marvel of modern craftsmanship," Darcy continued, his voice smooth and carrying. "I find your observations about the Rosings estate to be very astute, Mr Collins. Pray, what are your thoughts on the chimney pieces in the dining parlour?"
Mr Collins looked as though the heavens had parted and angels had descended to hand him a harp. He gasped, his face flushing a mottled purple with ecstasy. Darcy, the proudest man in Derbyshire, was asking his opinion on masonry.
"Oh, Mr Darcy! Sir! The chimney pieces! They are without equal in all the kingdom!" Collins bounced off the floor, spinning to face Darcy, with his back to Richard and Elizabeth. "Allow me to detail the marblework, which I have studied at great length..."
Richard stared in disbelief. Darcy was not just engaging Mr Collins; he was encouraging him.
"Darcy," Richard attempted to intervene. "I am sure Mr Collins does not wish to bore us with—"
"Nonsense, Richard," Darcy said, his gaze flicking to his cousin for a fraction of a second, triumphant, ruthless, and unapologetic. "I am fascinated. Please, Mr Collins, do not omit the details of the hearthstones."
"I would not dream of it, sir!" Collins cried, launching into a monologue of mind-numbing detail about fireplace mortar.
Richard slumped back on the sofa. His flanking manoeuvre was ruined. His intellectual ambush had been destroyed by an unruly clergyman deployed by his own cousin.
Beside him, Elizabeth had forgotten the modern poets. By the window, Mrs Collins lowered her sewing, her clever eyes darting between the devastated Colonel, her ecstatic husband, and the attentive Mr Darcy, trying to deduce exactly what brand of madness had infected the gentlemen of Rosings Park.