Chapter Fourteen #2
“A wise decision to make his acquaintance,” Langford put in. “Such connections are not to be neglected.”
Hargrave smiled faintly. “Indeed. You must allow me to join you on another call, once the introduction is secured.”
Bramley inclined his head. “We shall see what may be arranged.”
There was a brief exchange of further pleasantries, after which the two gentlemen took their leave.
Bramley exhaled. “I cannot like them,” he said under his breath.
Jane glanced at him in mild surprise. “You are always polite to them.”
“I am required to be,” he returned. “Hargrave wields influence I cannot easily ignore, and Langford—” he hesitated, “—has distant ties that make outright incivility unwise.”
Elizabeth studied him. “Yet you would prefer not to associate with them.”
“Exceedingly,” Bramley said.
Before she could reply, another voice joined them.
“Bramley. My dear sister. Miss Bennet.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam approached, his expression warm, though his bearing retained its habitual composure. Beside him walked his wife, Anne, her manner subdued but observant.
“Colonel,” Jane said with a smile. “Anne, how pleasant to see you both!”
They exchanged greetings, and for the nonce, the conversation turned to more general matters.
“I hear,” the colonel said with a hint of amusement, “that your new neighbor has already set the ton in a state of agitation.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “It seems so. I have rarely witnessed such enthusiasm for a gentleman who has not even been seen.”
“Ah, but that is part of the appeal,” he replied. “Mystery is a powerful inducement.”
“And wealth,” Elizabeth added lightly.
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “They say he is richer than Croesus.”
“Then London will not rest until he is properly examined,” she said.
The colonel laughed. “Nor until every ambitious mama has calculated his suitability.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked briefly toward the surrounding crowd, where more than one eager expression seemed to confirm the truth of that observation.
“Two gentlemen,” she said, her tone touched with humor, “are quite enough to set the ton on its head, it seems.”
The colonel’s eyes glinted. “Let us hope they are equal to the attention.”
Elizabeth smiled.
Beneath the lightness of her words, however, a small, persistent thought remained.
Ashcombe House. The count. The oddness of it.
A curious, unaccountable sense lingered with her.
Something long buried and long denied had shifted, though she could not have said how.
Elizabeth had not intended to linger in the park.
The morning had begun much as any other, with the orderly rhythm of the household guiding her from one small duty to the next.
Jane’s children had required attention, their lessons supervised and their boundless energy gently redirected; letters had been answered; Mrs. Bennet’s most recent lament read with affectionate patience.
It was only after luncheon, when Jane was engaged elsewhere and the house fell briefly silent, that Elizabeth found herself drawn outdoors.
The air was cool, touched with the faint sharpness of early spring, and though the trees had not fully leafed, there was a delicate quality to the light that promised warmer days to come.
Hyde Park, though not yet crowded, held enough life to make it pleasant—carriages rolling at an easy pace, riders passing in frivolous elegance, and a scattering of ladies walking beneath the bare branches.
Elizabeth walked without haste, her thoughts only lightly engaged.
It is a fine thing, she reflected, to be neither expected nor required anywhere for an hour or two.
Even as she allowed herself that small indulgence, her mind returned, with curious persistence, to the subject that had occupied so much conversation of late.
The Count of Vendicarsi.
She could not have said why the matter held her attention as it did.
London received new figures each season—gentlemen of fortune, ladies of distinction, the occasional foreign curiosity—and few inspired such immediate and widespread speculation.
The very absence of knowledge seemed to render him more interesting than any established acquaintance.
And I have not even seen him, she thought, faintly amused at herself. How foolish to be so engaged by a name alone.
She had nearly convinced herself of the truth of that sentiment when a sudden disturbance broke the easy flow of the path ahead.
A carriage, moving somewhat faster than was prudent, turned sharply into the drive, its horses checked at the last possible moment.
A lady just before Elizabeth gave a small cry and stepped back, her companion catching her arm.
The coachman called out an apology, though his tone suggested more irritation than contrition.
Elizabeth paused, her attention drawn at once to the scene. The carriage had come to a halt not ten yards from where she stood. Before she could think further on it, the door opened. A gentleman descended.
There was nothing immediately extraordinary in the act itself, and yet—something in the manner of it, in the assurance with which he moved, in the economy of his motion—arrested her attention at once.
He was tall. That was her first clear impression.
Taller, perhaps, than most men present, though not in a way that called undue notice to itself.
His figure was well proportioned, his bearing upright without stiffness.
He wore dark clothing, finely cut but without ostentation, and there was an air of command about him that required no embellishment.
He turned, speaking a brief word to the coachman, his voice low and controlled.
Elizabeth could not hear the words. But she felt—unexpectedly—that she wished to. How very odd, she thought.
The gentleman then stepped forward, his attention directed toward the lady who had been startled. He bowed, not deeply, but with sufficient respect, and spoke in a tone that, though still quiet, carried more clearly.
“Madam, you have my apologies. The fault is entirely mine.”
The lady, still recovering, assured him she was unhurt, though her agitation lingered. Her companion accepted the apology with more composure, and within moments, the matter seemed settled.
There was nothing more to observe. Elizabeth ought, at that point, to have turned away. She did not.
The gentleman had straightened, his gaze shifting briefly—casually—across the path. It passed over her. For the briefest instant, their gazes met. Elizabeth felt something in her chest tighten. It was not fear, nor even surprise. It was recognition. Or something perilously like it.
No, she thought at once, the instinctive denial rising before the impression had fully formed. That is impossible.
She did not look away.
His eyes were a striking blue—clear, cool, and steady. There was nothing overtly familiar in his gaze, and the effect of it was curiously unsettling; it appeared that he saw more than he ought, and lingered where it should not.
He inclined his head, just barely. A gesture of acknowledgment, nothing more.
Elizabeth returned it, her composure intact, though her pulse had quickened in a manner she did not entirely understand.
The moment passed. He turned away. Within seconds, he had reentered the carriage, and it moved on, its earlier misjudgment forgotten in the smoothness of its departure.
Elizabeth stood very still. What was that? She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to resume her walk. It was nothing. A gentleman. A passing glance. An impression heightened, no doubt, by the novelty of the morning and the lingering influence of recent conversations.
She found herself replaying the moment. The way he had moved. The sound of his voice. The steadiness of his gaze.
There is something…
She stopped herself. “No,” she said. It was foolish. More than foolish. It was dangerous to allow memory to intrude where it did not belong.
You imagine what you wish to see. She had done so before. She would not do so again.
With deliberate effort, she turned her thoughts to more practical matters and continued her walk, though the ease she had enjoyed earlier did not fully return.
When she reached home, she found Jane in the drawing room, her expression bright with anticipation.
“You have been out longer than I expected,” Jane said, setting aside her work.
“The air was agreeable,” Elizabeth replied, removing her gloves. “And I allowed myself to wander.”
Jane smiled. “I am glad of it. You look the better for it.”
Elizabeth returned the smile, though her thoughts remained elsewhere.
“I have news.” Jane set aside her embroidery entirely. “Bramley has returned.”
Elizabeth’s attention sharpened at once. “Has he indeed?”
“He has—and he has made the acquaintance of our new neighbor.”
Elizabeth took her seat with care. “Then I am to be enlightened at last.”
Jane laughed. “You must ask him yourself. He is most eager to relate the particulars.”
As if summoned by the remark, the door opened, and Bramley entered, his manner animated in a way Elizabeth had come to recognize as a sign of genuine interest.
“Ah—Lizzy,” he said, with easy familiarity. “You are returned at just the right moment.”
“I am told you have something of importance to share,” she replied.
“Importance, perhaps not,” he said, taking a seat, “but interest—certainly.”
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap. “Then pray, do not keep us in suspense.”
Bramley smiled. “I have called upon the Count of Vendicarsi.”
Jane leaned forward. “And?”
“He received me at once,” Bramley said. “No unnecessary delay, no affectation of difficulty. His household is well ordered—newly established, but already functioning with admirable efficiency.”
Elizabeth listened closely.
“And the count himself?” she asked.
Bramley considered. “He is…not easily described.”
“That is not encouraging,” Elizabeth said lightly.
“On the contrary,” he replied. “It is entirely so. He is a man of presence—sober, but unmistakable. There is nothing in him of the eager self-display one sometimes encounters in those newly come to town.”