Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Richard Fitzwilliam returned inside, shaking his head.
“That was the indomitable Lady Catherine, I suspect,” said Bennet, with a sardonic air.
“It was,” Fitzwilliam affirmed.
“And you have sent her on to Pemberley?” Bennet asked again.
“I did.” He laughed, thinking of what she would find when she arrived there.
“I understood from my daughter and new son that they were to remain in London for some time after the wedding,” Bennet said, catching Fitzwilliam’s eye before adding, “or so they would have everyone believe. My wife and youngest daughter were particularly disappointed not to be invited to accompany them to the Capital.”
“What man wishes to have his mother-in-law or a sister with him on his wedding trip?” Fitzwilliam returned, refusing to be drawn into revealing more than he ought.
Bennet harrumphed and, after a moment’s pause—during which Fitzwilliam suspected he waited for a different sort of response—gave the matter up and retreated to his study.
With a small smile at having frustrated his host’s curiosity, Fitzwilliam stepped outside to speak with the coachman who had arrived that day from London in Darcy’s carriage.
It was the same carriage intended to convey Mr Bennet and Miss Lydia to Staffordshire, though it would not depart until Monday morning.
He himself had arrived on horseback two nights earlier and was now lodged at the inn in Meryton, his cousin being newly married.
Having undertaken to escort Georgiana, her companion, and Miss Mary to Pemberley, he had been obliged to wait for a suitable carriage to be secured; yet the ladies would not delay their departure and were to set out the following morning.
Still, he wished to assure himself that Darcy’s carriage was in proper order.
To his great surprise, he found something amiss with the carriage.
A trunk had already been fastened to the boot.
Upon closer inspection, he observed that it was not properly latched, and that the seams in the leather bore signs of having been tampered with—almost as though someone had sought to force air through them.
Worse still, it had been so carelessly secured that it would have been jolted loose at the first rut in the road.
Not knowing why any trunk should have been attached to a carriage not scheduled to depart for several days, he set himself to investigate the matter.
Examining it more closely, he noticed the initials L.B.
stamped upon the lid, and was immediately put in mind of the youngest Miss Bennet, whom he had met only briefly at the wedding breakfast. It occurred to him that she might be attempting some ill-conceived scheme of escape.
Slowly and with care, he loosened the straps and lifted the lid, taking pains to avoid any sudden movement.
He was not entirely surprised to find a young lady within, and could not help but wonder how she had contrived not only to drag the trunk into the yard, but to have it fastened to the carriage besides.
There was, he allowed, a certain ingenuity in the attempt—though it was wholly outweighed by its imprudence.
“Miss Lydia,” he said, and watched as she started violently at the sound of his voice so near at hand.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, raising herself only a little within the trunk, her bonnet askew and her hair already in some disarray.
“You have no business peeping at me so! I shall go to Pemberley if I choose, and no one can prevent me from doing so. I will not go to that odious school—I hate the very thought of it. Miss Darcy would much rather have me with her than Mary, I am certain, for I am vastly more diverting and far more fun.”
“Your certainty does you little credit,” Fitzwilliam returned coolly.
“And I suspect Miss Darcy’s preferences differ rather widely from your own imagination.
She has quite enjoyed Miss Mary’s company, and the two of them get along quite well.
Which is why she has been invited to Pemberley, and you have not. ”
“They do not!” Lydia insisted, attempting to push past him. “Miss Darcy would be only too glad to have lively company, and I am determined to go instead. You cannot mean to stop me from doing as I wish.”
“On the contrary,” he said, reaching in and taking hold of her arm with steady firmness, “I mean to do exactly that. You may depend upon it, Miss Lydia, that concealing yourself in a trunk is not a strategy likely to recommend you to any party concerned. Of greater import, you have attached yourself to the wrong carriage, for this one is not likely to go where you wish.”
She kicked and struck at him in protest, but he was accustomed to rougher encounters, and it required little effort to lift her from her hiding place. “Pray be still,” he added, with a hint of impatience. “You will accomplish nothing but your own discomfort if you keep thrashing about.”
Although she struggled and protested, he secured her with little difficulty, and felt no particular concern if she acquired a bruise or two in the process; had she exercised the smallest degree of judgement, she might have been spared both the attempt and its consequences.
A moment later, the shrill voice of Mrs Bennet cut sharply across the yard.
“What are you doing with Lydia?” she cried as she moved quickly towards the pair.
Fitzwilliam turned, the girl still firmly restrained in his arms, and watched as Mrs Bennet’s expression shifted—first to indignation, and then, with astonishing rapidity, to something very like triumph.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “You and Lydia will make such a delightful match! You must mean to marry her, if you are holding her in your arms. Have you already proposed?”
The absurdity of the declaration drew others from the house and yard alike, until a small audience had gathered.
Fitzwilliam stared at her for the space of a heartbeat—then, unable to prevent himself, laughed outright. The sound broke whatever composure remained in the scene, and in that moment of distraction he released his hold. Lydia darted free at once and fled to her mother’s side.
“Mama, you must make him marry me,” she said, stamping her foot. “I will be a colonel’s wife, and he is the son of a peer. He can take me to London—to balls and assemblies—and I shall have everything I like. Can you imagine the gowns and all the parties I will attend as a peeress?”
Fitzwilliam laughed still harder at this, until the sharp voice of Mr Bennet cut through the commotion.
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” he demanded, striding into the yard. “And what nonsense is this about Lydia being forced upon the colonel?”
Composing himself with some effort, Fitzwilliam stepped forward.
“Sir, I discovered your daughter concealed in that trunk”—he gestured towards the half-fastened lid, now hanging askew from the carriage—“with the apparent intention of conveying herself to Pemberley with Miss Darcy and myself, rather than submit to her journey north. It seems she thought that carriage would be going to Pemberley, not Staffordshire.”
Mr Bennet raised an eyebrow, though whether in disbelief or resignation Fitzwilliam could not immediately determine.
Mrs Bennet gasped loudly—whether at the danger, the impropriety, or the lost opportunity, he could not have said—while Lydia, released from her mother’s grasp, began once more to protest that she had been perfectly justified in her actions and beginning again the refrain that she would not go to school.
“Silence!” Mr Bennet said sharply, raising his hand.
The command was obeyed at once, even though Miss Lydia’s expression made it plain she did not consider the matter settled. Around them, the gathered company—Miss Mary, Georgiana, and Mrs Annesley, along with several curious servants—remained fixed in place, anxious to hear the outcome.
Mr Bennet cast a glance about him. “Back to your business,” he said, and the servants scattered with gratifying speed.
He then turned to his wife and youngest daughter, Fitzwilliam following at a short distance.
“I shall not compel Colonel Fitzwilliam to marry a child who has already made one attempt to ruin herself,” he said in a low, even tone, “and has now very nearly succeeded in killing herself through sheer folly. No—if anything, you have confirmed my resolution. You will go to school, and you will remain there until you have learned some degree of sense. Indeed, I begin to think you may remain until you are safely past the age of marriage—or else be sent to a convent, where such schemes will be less easily attempted.”
Lydia’s outraged shrieks rang out at once, but Mr Bennet paid them no heed. Turning away, he walked back towards the house, pausing only to instruct Mrs Hill that Miss Lydia was to be confined to the nursery until Monday’s departure for Staffordshire.
As he went, Fitzwilliam heard him add, with quiet emphasis, that two additional footmen should be engaged for the journey—and, after the briefest pause, that a length of rope might be prudently included among the luggage.
Fitzwilliam glanced towards his cousin and her companions, who had borne witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of astonishment, and inclined his head slightly. “I trust,” he said dryly, “that this morning’s entertainment will not be expected to repeat itself upon our journey north.”
At this, he found himself very near to laughing again.
Only a few miles away, the Darcys were enjoying their solitude, blissfully unaware of the various dramas unfolding elsewhere.
Not long after their carriage had set them down at their leased house, they had retired to their suite, with every intention of remaining there until circumstance obliged them to emerge.
The rooms they occupied were comfortably appointed, though by no means grand—something that might have struck Darcy more than it did his wife, for Elizabeth found herself perfectly content with all she saw. Indeed, she scarcely attended to the furnishings at all, her notice being otherwise engaged.
It felt as though they had withdrawn into a kind of retreat, created by the soft glow of candlelight, the steady warmth of the fire, and a quiet that seemed to wrap itself about the house, shutting out the world beyond its walls.
Curtains remained drawn, more from inclination than necessity, and the hours passed with a swiftness that continually surprised her.
Whether seated together upon the settee or lingering still longer where they had first retired, Elizabeth had little desire to be anywhere her husband was not.
“You do not tire of me?” she asked once, half in jest.
“No,” he returned, with a look that made her smile falter. “I only wonder how I endured so many years without you.”
She delighted in his undivided attention. There were moments when his tenderness made her blush, and others when his words—so earnest, so wholly hers—left her without any ready reply.
“You must not say such things,” she said once, turning her face away.
“I must, if they are true,” he answered quietly.
Still, the warmth of his regard, so steadily and openly expressed, banished every lingering doubt she had ever entertained.
To be so loved—and to know it without reservation—was a happiness she had not before imagined, particularly in light of all that had passed between them before they met again at Pemberley less than a month earlier.
A stillness, unlike anything she had known at Longbourn, seemed to settle over the house, and Elizabeth soon became aware of how few servants there were, and how carefully they must have been chosen from Darcy House.
Their discretion was evident in every quiet movement, and she quickly observed that it was only his valet who ever spoke directly to her or Fitzwilliam, and that but sparingly.
Whether by a word exchanged in passing, or a note left in the dressing room, whatever was required was supplied without question, and with an efficiency that quietly astonished her.
It was not long before she understood that comfort here was maintained less by attendance than by restraint.
Meals appeared at proper intervals; fires were kept in readiness without an order needing to be given.
At times, she might almost have believed themselves alone in the house, were it not for the regular appearance of all that was required for their ease.
Elizabeth could not help but notice, too, the change in her husband in the days following the wedding.
She had been accustomed to his reserve, and while it had lessened since their engagement, she saw now that it had not vanished.
His manners had softened into something rather more open, though no less deliberate.
Fitzwilliam required little, asked for less, and yet seemed entirely content to devote himself to her comfort—an observation that afforded her no small degree of satisfaction.
If she were not careful, she might soon grow accustomed to such attentions.
Still, they were but newly married; differences must arise in time, and she hoped they would meet them with the same warmth that now defined their quieter hours.
She had not known, before, how much comfort might be found in so simple a thing as his hand seeking hers without thought, as it so often did—even in sleep.
Each night, he seemed reluctant to be entirely parted from her; if he did not hold her close, his hand would find hers, or rest lightly upon her, as though even in sleep he would not willingly let her go.
“You cannot mean to hold me prisoner even now,” she said softly, without opening her eyes one morning when she felt his hand close around hers as she woke.
“If I do, it is only because I cannot be certain you will remain otherwise,” he returned, his voice husky with sleep. “For so long, you were only a dream; now that you are here, I find I must convince myself you are real.”
She smiled at that, turning slightly towards him. “You may find, sir, that I am less inclined to escape than you suppose.”
“Then I am the most fortunate of men,” he said, a smile touching his lips.
“You are,” she murmured, and, after a moment, added with quiet certainty, “as I am the most fortunate of ladies.”
She settled more closely against him, perfectly content to remain where she was—and to delay the day a little longer.
His arm tightened about her in response, as though the thought had never occurred to him to do otherwise.