“True. Since my wife died the summer before last, life at Dartmoor has been dull indeed.”
“Does not running the estate keep you occupied?” Mary asked, her eyes burning in challenge.
“Perhaps I allow my steward to do more than I ought,” Lord Ramsgate smiled, “for I fear an hour’s correspondence and a weekly chat with the staff are all I manage. A rather insipid mode of life, yet, what else is a peer meant to do?”
Oh no. Mary’s ire would be raised. Jane’s too. Not that they were wrong,Elizabeth frowned as she studied the man.The Baron appeared as obtuse as he was handsome; the latter the only point in his favour, unless one considered his title and estate of course… and with the haphazard running of his property, he might well lose that before he reached forty.
“Politics. Improving the lot of those whose livelihoods are tied to their estate. Bettering oneself. To name a few,” the Colonel answered before any of the Bennet ladies were tempted beyond restraint. “Though, what each chooses varies widely. I have seen Lords find ways to increase the yield of their crops, or who seek tenants who will make the most of their tenancy. Others who choose to champion the cause of the House of Lords, or do their part to help end Napoleon’s reign. Each finds their purpose and follows after it. A peer, unlike the bulk of the landed gentry, can choose a path which might otherwise be closed. Responsibility bringing reward in its wake.”
Lord Ramsgate’s shoulders pulled straight as he answered, “Politics are not for me, and I am no soldier. As to the rest, a steward ought to handle those tasks. It would not do to put a man out of work when it is in my power not to,” he paused, a dark smirk forming as he cooed, “that would be…irresponsible.”
Taking a sip of his tea, the Colonel set it down with a sly grin. “If that is your view, then I hope for your sake there is nothing vulpine in his character. The man left with the keys to the castle is able, after all, to see that the gate is lowered while his master is away… and enjoy the bounties without raising it again.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression rose as he sat back in his chair, the majority of the room mixed between pique and wonder; Lord Ramsgate bordering on fury as he gripped his cup, his knuckles turning white as the delicate porcelain in his grasp sought life.
Reaching to set her cup on the small table beside Mary, Elizabeth paused mid reach before completing the task and sitting back, eyes flitting between Mary and the Colonel.
Impressed? Smitten? Mary appeared thus… but then, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attention kept cutting Mary’s way. He sought her response. Whatever Mary’s feelings, however new, they were shared.
Ire at Lord Ramsgate had turned to awe as Mary had viewed the Colonel. The folly of the first muted by the resolute character of the second–though, had her own eyes not seen it, believing that her sister was attracted to a soldier might prove untenable.
Mary’s fascination with clergymen had been short lived, as had her quoting of sermons, but the heart of those early interests remained. She wished to better herself, to help others, and to accept her responsibilities. An attractive, passionate man such as the Colonel could easily beguile Mary. And for all she might desire her sisters to remain at home, if first impressions proved true, Mary might do far worse.
“Reverend,” Miss Wordsworth began, the attention of all on her after the lengthy silence, “how near is your parish? Will we have the honour of listening to your sermons over the coming weeks?”
“It stands less than two miles from here and, as Lady Charmane serves as patroness, there will be every opportunity to hear my sermons if you desire… Sundays of course, and Christmas morning. Given the age of the building and the cold winds which blow, it is not too drafty; a blessing in December.”
“I look forward to it greatly,” Miss Wordsworth said, her cheeks pinked as she dipped her head, the cup held within interesting.
“I must endeavor to craft sermons riveting enough to please you and all the guests here it would seem,” he answered.
Thus, conversation continued for some hours in that same fashion, the servants supplying ample food to stifle talk amongst those not as inclined to endless chatter; the more eager conversationalists never deterred. Yet, as the hours passed and the food left, the remarking of Lady Charmane on the time proved a welcome relief, her guests content at the interruption and eager to seek sanctuary in their rooms until the evening meal would be announced.
Slumping against her bedroom door, Elizabeth lifted her head toward the ceiling.
Surely the weeks remaining would not be so horrid? The walk with Mr. Darcy had been a delight, but that… that farce in the drawing room was a terror. Well, aside from Colonel Fitzwilliam’s witty remarks and the few moments of conversation managed with Mr. Darcy when he rose to obtain a tart and lingered by her side. Those were agreeable, the rest were not.
There was hope, what with Mr. Darcy, his cousin, Mr. Bingley, and to a lesser extent, Lord Brayburn and one or two others. Still, it had proved an odd choice of guests; peers, gentry, clergy, and a tradesman all invited, and not all agreeing with such a pairing. And she and her sisters knew no more than when they had received the invitation.
No. She would have to find a way to interrogate Lady Charmane.
And soon.
∞∞∞
“I heard that Mr. Bingley took a fall earlier, you would not have known it when we met the last of Lady Charmane’s guests; he is alright, I trust?” Elizabeth questioned her sisters as they sat in her room, the few moments apart from the rest of the guests welcome.
“He is well,” Jane sighed, “though the sight of his fall frightened me; the stream dips you see, so falling from his horse to the water below must have been equal to the height of two men.”
“I am glad he is alright–Colonel Fitzwilliam believed him to be, but I wanted to be sure. I hope your next ride is not as eventful.” Feet extended toward the warmth of the fire, Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she studied her sisters. “Whatever is it? Jane glowering in that severe manner, and you, Mary, wreathed in happiness… I said nothing which might warrant either.”
“Jane does not approve of Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mary remarked, the mention of Mr. Darcy’s cousin enough to inflame Jane’s ire.
“No?”
“Not his behavior, in any case,” Jane answered pertly.
“He leapt down into the freezing water if you will recall to see to Mr. Bingley, and sought to ensure no injuries were had,” Mary countered, her brows lifting as her previous good humour began to vanish.
