6. The Charming Colonel
CHAPTER SIX
THE CHARMING COLONEL
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam arrived without fanfare a few days later while the thatcher worked on the roof and the plasterers filled gaps in the wall.
The mice had surrendered to the introduction of Cleo, a cat Darcy had befriended with a bowl of cream set out for breakfast after a hard night’s mousing work.
Even though his living quarters remained an affront to civilized habitation and his valet had taken to polishing candlesticks as a silent protest, Darcy found he minded this less than he had a week ago.
He had installed five masters for the household’s improvement, and possessed, as a particular triumph, Elizabeth’s indignant confession that she had been eavesdropping, rose pink bonnet and all.
That glorious outburst—her fury as she rattled off every indignity she would not endure: drawing, dance lessons, walking about with a ruler jammed up her spine.
Her eyes had sparked, her chin had lifted, and she had stared him down without so much as a blink.
Then, for good measure, she had declared she would never marry him.
He should clap himself on the back—caught her flat-footed by a proposal that had never been made.
A crowning moment when he had managed to rattle the unperturbable Elizabeth Bennet, shaking her jaw to the ground as she spluttered, failing so miserably to recover her composure.
And then, as if rubbing salt, he had offered the pink ribbon, which she abandoned on the table in a fit of dignified sulking.
She could despise him with all the force her considerable spirit could muster, but she would not hold out for long.
He had time, proximity, and position. The improvement campaign marched on; her sisters were enchanted; the mere invocation of Almack’s had converted her mother; and her father—sly, bookish, and thoroughly diverting—had given him leave to woo her at his leisure.
He was in the midst of this agreeable self-congratulation when the sound of hooves reached him through the thin walls—not the plodding of a farm horse, but the brisk, purposeful approach of a rider who knew what he was about.
“Good God, Darcy.” Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, stood in the doorway, surveying the sagging beams and water-stained walls with the expression of a man who had seen worse on the Peninsula but had not expected to encounter it in Hertfordshire.
“When you wrote that you had taken lodgings near Longbourn, I imagined something rather more… vertical.”
“The roof maintains a general aspiration toward horizontality,” Darcy said, rising to greet his cousin. “I have learned not to demand perfection.”
“You? Not demand perfection?” Richard stepped inside, ducking to avoid the sagging lintel. “Have you been replaced by a changeling? Should I check for pointed ears?”
“I have been occupied with more pressing matters than architectural standards.”
“So your letters suggested.” Richard settled into the cottage’s least objectionable chair and stretched his boots toward the inadequate fire.
“A previously unknown inheritance. A family of five unmarried daughters. And one particular daughter who has, I gather, occupied rather more of your attention than the others.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Darcy resumed his own seat. “She is… singular.”
“Is that the only word you would admit?” Richard’s eyebrows tilted toward one side.
“Come now, Cousin, your letters were more descriptive. I believe the words, ‘vexing,’ ‘inconvenient,’ ‘intelligent,’ and ‘infuriating,’ were mixed in there along with a ‘light and pleasing’ figure to which I take it to mean she is rather of a shorter stature than your own most exacting standards, and I confess my curiosity to meet this paragon of contradictions.”
“You shall meet her tonight. We are invited to dine at Longbourn, and you are expected.”
“Expected by whom? The formidable Miss Elizabeth, or her mother, whom you described as possessing ‘all the subtlety of a siege engine?’”
“Mrs. Bennet has been thoroughly converted to the cause of my continued presence,” Darcy said, and was gratified to note that he did not sound smug.
Much. “I have engaged masters for her daughters. Music, art, dance, deportment, and French. She now speaks of Almack’s with the fervor of a pilgrim approaching Jerusalem. ”
Richard stared at him. “You engaged five masters for a family you have known for less than a fortnight.”
“Four masters and one governess. Mrs. Beaumont, formerly in service to Aunt Catherine.”
“You imported Anne’s former governess to teach deportment to a family of country gentry?”
“The Bennets are my cousins, Richard. Their future is, in a very real sense, my responsibility.”
“Their future.” Richard’s voice had taken on the careful neutrality of a man who suspected he was being told only part of the story.
“And would this future involve, by any chance, the singular Miss Elizabeth? One whose family, and judging by the condition of this cottage, does not recommend herself or any of her sisters to the acquaintance of a single country dance, much less the elevation to mistress of Pemberley? Darcy, have you gone daft? I know this surprising inheritance has intrigued you and you left London in quite a haste, but my mother expected you to take one look at this Longbourn and sign the entire estate over to the next available heir.”
“There are no other males in the Bennet line.”
“Then how, pray tell, did you get involved in this…” Richard waved his hand at the plasterer patching the holes and the sound of the thatcher above, “this debacle, for lack of a better word. You do not need Longbourn.”
Darcy folded his arms, well aware that any confidence shared with Richard would soon find its way to Lady Matlock, and thence to Aunt Catherine, who persisted in imagining him destined for his cousin, Anne de Bourgh.
“Apparently, my great-grandfather Darcy was written into the Bennet line as a male heir. There was a close friendship between his father and the Bennet patriarch. Mind you, there was an elder son, so it was more of a lark to acquire a second son, a little more elevated than a godson, as I believe my great-grandfather spent time here at Longbourn.”
“So… you are doing all of this for sentimental reasons to a great-grandfather you never met?”
“He writes of Longbourn with such fondness, such pastoral charm.” Darcy leaned back with his hands behind his head.
“And I do believe he fell in love with one of the Bennet daughters, but when his elder brother, the heir of Pemberley, passed away, he was recalled to Pemberley and never saw Longbourn again.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam pretended to dab his eyes. “I weep for your ancestor, but do you have to recreate his pathos?”
“You are mocking me, Richard.” He stood to his full height, which dwarfed the considerably tall and stalwart colonel. “I never embark on a project without seeing to its satisfactory conclusion.”
“And what would that be, pray tell?” Richard also stood, his good nature irrepressible. “Taking Longbourn over Pemberley and marrying one of its delightful daughters?”
“Pemberley will always be mine,” he declared, knowing that Richard’s father had floated the idea of Darcy’s father making Richard an effective second son in case Darcy never married.
“But as the five daughters of Longbourn will become my wards after their father passes, I behoove myself to their improvement so that they, too, might secure respectable positions.”
“Ah, I see, so the charity is entirely unselfish.” Richard’s eyes twinkled. “And the one infuriating daughter—the runt of the bunch—holds no special interest—none beyond the repairing of this rundown steward’s cottage. Capital! Then I look forward to dinner with these delightful wretches.”
Darcy set his face and had barely refrained from adjusting his cravat when Hill presented him and Colonel Fitzwilliam to the Bennet drawing room.
It was, as he expected, in a disorderly state.
Two easels stood neglected near the window, a smear of color dripping down the side of one, and a clipped page flapping in the draught.
Candlelight danced near the sofas where Mrs. Bennet arranged the younger sisters in their most flattering positions.
Jane looked up from the window and stood, clearly ready for curtsying, but Elizabeth was nowhere in sight.
What greeted him immediately were the six bound volumes arranged on the side table like trophies.
Mrs. Bennet’s pale green journal lay open to a page covered in painstakingly copied French phrases, several of which appeared to involve the location of the lady’s retiring room.
Mary’s blue journal was already nearly full, its pages dense with scripture references, sermon excerpts, and what appeared to be a comprehensive index of Fordyce’s most improving passages.
Kitty’s yellow journal contained sketches and notes on posture that suggested Mrs. Beaumont had made a lasting impression.
Lydia decorated her red journal with drawings of ribbons and officers’ uniforms, which was not precisely what Darcy had intended but was, he supposed, a form of artistic expression.
And Elizabeth’s pink journal sat at the end of the row, its ribbon marker still tucked into the first page, its spine uncracked, its pages untouched. The lone holdout of a woman who refused to be improved.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” Mrs. Bennet descended upon Richard and his resplendent red coat. “And Mr. Darcy, we are so honored, are we not, Mr. Bennet? A real colonel under our humble roof, not one of those militia boys but a proper soldier who has been to the Continent and commands actual men.”
“I do occasionally command men, madam,” Richard agreed, with the easy charm that had made him the favorite of hostesses from London to Lisbon. “Though I find they are considerably easier to manage than drawing rooms.”