Chapter Ten Epistles and Epiphanies #2
“I speak the truth. Fitzwilliam is a brilliant, honourable, deeply feeling man. He is also a socially inept idiot who has all the diplomatic grace of a rhinoceros.” He took a step closer, the dusty light of the library catching the serious set of his jaw.
“But his heart, Miss Elizabeth... his heart is steadfast. Once he attaches himself, he does not let go. He would tear down the world for the people he loves.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. She looked away, tracing the edge of a wooden shelf with her finger. “He has a strange way of showing it.”
“He has a disastrous way of showing it,” the viscount agreed readily.
“He believes that duty and control are the only shields against the world. When he is faced with something he cannot control—like an inconvenient passion—he panics. He lashes out. He retreats behind his wealth and his consequence because he is afraid of being vulnerable. I am not excusing his behaviour, Miss Elizabeth. He has made grave errors in judgment. But I am telling you, as the man who has known him his entire life... the exterior is granite, but the interior is made of cotton.”
Elizabeth listened to the viscount’s earnest, beautiful defence of his cousin. It echoed everything Anne de Bourgh had told her in the grove.
She looked up at him. The rakish viscount was acting as an ambassador for a man who had failed to speak for himself.
“You are a very loyal friend, Lord Keathley,” she observed.
“He is my brother, in all the ways that matter,” Robert replied, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. “I play the fool so he can be the serious one. But right now, the serious one is drowning, and the fool is trying to throw him a rope.”
Elizabeth absorbed this. She thought of her own pride, her own swift judgments, and the certainty with which she had condemned Darcy only a few months ago, based on the fiction a scoundrel had whispered in her ear.
She took a breath. She needed to send a message. A message the viscount could carry back to the man in question without compromising her own dignity.
“Lord Keathley,” she began, measuring her words. “I have always been a great admirer of fine architecture.”
He blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in topic. “Architecture, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Indeed.” She stepped closer to the bookshelf, feigning interest in a volume about the migration habits of swallows. “In my youth, I was captivated by statues made of smooth, polished marble. The sort of fa?ades that are flawlessly constructed, and easy to look upon.”
She thought of Charles Bingley’s smiles and weak will.
“But recently,” she continued, turning back to look into the viscount’s eyes, “I have begun to rethink my preferences. I find that smooth marble can be slippery. It offers no purchase and it can crack under pressure.”
Lord Keathley’s posture straightened. He was listening intently now, the cogs in his mind turning rapidly as he decoded her metaphor.
“I have come to realise,” Elizabeth said, offering a meaningful smile, “that I am not so opposed to rough-hewn stone.”
The viscount’s breath hitched.
“Rough-hewn characters can be difficult, certainly,” Elizabeth elaborated, her voice dropping to a warm, sympathetic register.
“They are jagged. They can cause injury if one brushes against them carelessly. But they are solid, because they hide their true composition under a hard exterior, and they have a strength that polished marble lacks.”
She paused, holding his gaze. “However, such characters often require a great deal of revision. They need to file away their sharper edges. They need to learn that a foundation built on pride is not nearly as secure as one built on mutual respect.”
Viscount Keathley stared at Elizabeth. He saw the intelligence, the forgiveness, and the challenge she was issuing. She was not rejecting his cousin. She was laying out the terms of his surrender.
Elizabeth watched in fascination the exact moment he comprehended her metaphor. A triumphant smile spread across the viscount’s face. He stepped back, restoring the lazy, elegant slouch of his rank, but his eyes were blazing with victory.
He transferred Plutarch and The Mysteries of Udolpho to his left hand. With his right hand, he reached up and tapped the brim of his fashionable beaver hat.
“Say no more, madam,” he drawled, his voice thick with respect and barely contained glee. “Say no more.”
“I am glad we understand one another, my lord,” Elizabeth said.
“Perfectly. I shall return to my... botanical studies. And I shall convey to my cousin that a sudden interest in architecture might be highly beneficial to his health.”
“See that you do.”
The bell above the door chimed, shattering the quiet of the library.
“Lizzy?” Charlotte called out, stepping into the shop. “Are you in here? The apothecary took forever; Mr Collins has apparently requested a bespoke tincture involving too much peppermint.”
“I am here, Charlotte,” Elizabeth called back, leaving the fiction aisle.
The viscount followed her, seamlessly slipping the romance novel behind Plutarch’s Lives so that only the respectable history tome was visible to the vicar’s wife.
“Mrs Collins.” He bowed with a smile. “A delight, as always. I was just discussing the fall of the Roman Republic with Miss Elizabeth. She has a staggering grasp of ancient politics.”
Charlotte looked at Elizabeth, then at the viscount, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the undeniable, crackling energy emanating from both of them.
“Indeed, my lord,” Charlotte said dryly. “Lizzy has always had a knack for ancient ruins. Shall we go, Lizzy? Mr Collins awaits the tincture.”
“We shall,” Elizabeth smiled. She turned to the viscount one last time. “Good day, Lord Keathley. I hope your studies prove fruitful.”
“They have already borne fruit beyond my wildest expectations, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, offering a low bow aimed at both ladies. “I bid you a good day.”
Elizabeth and Charlotte left the library, stepping out into the pale Kentish sunlight.
“What were you truly discussing with the viscount?” Charlotte asked as they linked arms and started walking back to the parsonage. “And do not say the Roman Republic. I saw him hiding a blue spine behind that massive brick of a book.”
“We were discussing the maintenance of marbles,” Elizabeth said. “And the possibility of renovations.”
Charlotte stopped walking and stared at Elizabeth.
“Renovations,” she repeated. “Does this mean... the ten thousand a year is still under consideration?”
“It means,” Elizabeth laughed, linking her arm tighter with her friend’s and pulling her forward, “that I am willing to inspect the property before I condemn it.”
Back in the library, Robert Fitzwilliam threw a handful of coins onto the counter, startling the clerk for a second time, and strode out the door without caring about the change.
He darted to the carriage waiting at the end of the lane.
“Hamond!” Robert shouted to his driver as he approached. “Rosings Park! Maximum speed!”
“My lord?” Boodles emerged from within, opening the door. “Is there an emergency?”
“No, Boodles! There is a miracle!” Robert launched himself inside, tossing Plutarch and Udolpho onto the opposite seat. “We have breached the castle! The damsel is willing to negotiate!”
As the carriage tore away from the village, throwing up clods of dirt from the wheels, Viscount Keathley leaned back and laughed out loud.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was going to owe him a debt of gratitude so massive it would likely bankrupt the Pemberley estate, and Robert fully intended to collect.