“Ah,” Fitzwilliam said with a knowing nod. “Modesty becomes you, Miss Elizabeth. But I suspect there is more to the story than you let on.”
Elizabeth gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, you are determined to credit me with far more than I deserve. I assure you, my contributions have been quite ordinary.”
“Ordinary?” Fitzwilliam said, a glint of mischief in his eye. “I doubt Darcy would see it that way.”
Something like butterflies tickled her stomach. “And what makes you think Mr. Darcy has taken notice of anything I have done?”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “Because I know my cousin. He has a way of noticing what others overlook. And if he speaks of something—orsomeone—you can be certain he has considered it carefully.”
“High praise,” Elizabeth said demurely, though her heart was pattering in her ears. Was the colonel talking abouther, or his other endeavors? “It is fortunate, then, that he appears to approve of this particular undertaking.”
“Oh, he approves, Miss Elizabeth. In fact, I would venture to say he sees it as more than just a party.” Fitzwilliam leaned back slightly. “My cousin does not take on causes lightly. When he involves himself, it is often with an eye toward a greater purpose.”
Elizabeth’s brows knit faintly. “What purpose could he have here, beyond aiding Sir Thomas and his household?”
Fitzwilliam’s expression grew thoughtful, the humor in his voice giving way to something more measured. “Darcy has ambitions, Miss Elizabeth—though he does not often speak of them openly. For years, he has considered the possibility of public service. I think Bingley first put the idea in his head, but my father also took up the cause. He has been urging him to consider a seat in the House.”
Elizabeth’s fork paused midway to her plate. “Yes, he has spoken of it.”
“He has? Why, that is very interesting, indeed. He must be thinking on it even more seriously than I had realized.”
“Well, I would hardly know, sir. He did speak of it, but with little relish, I thought.”
“Aye, that would be Darcy. More natural gifts and endowments than any one man ought rightly to have, and he hardly likes any of them. But he would be a natural fit in politics, even if he did not care for it. His business acumen, his devotion to his tenants and his family duties, and his ability to manage complex affairs… all of these are qualities that would serve him well in such a role.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly, her fork resting forgotten on her plate. “And what does he hope to accomplish in Parliament?”
Fitzwilliam smiled faintly, leaning back with a comfortable ease. “Ah, Darcy is always on about inequities—how to address them, how to create opportunities for those who have none. It is why this endeavor at Netherfield matters so much to him. If handled well, it could serve as a model for what might be achieved on a broader scale.”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted, though she kept her expression composed. “A model,” she said softly. “And does he believe the neighborhood will welcome such… innovation?”
“Public opinion is a curious thing, Miss Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam replied, his tone easy but sharp with meaning. “It can be fickle, certainly, but Darcy has a knack for earning respect where it matters. A man like him does not need universal approval—just enough to tip the scales.”
“And those who do not approve?” she asked, her voice quieter now, her thoughts racing.
Fitzwilliam shrugged lightly, the gesture entirely too casual. “They will be won over. Darcy knows how to seize an opportunity, and his name carries weight. His actions speak for themselves.”
“Or,” Elizabeth pressed, her throat tight, “are they framed to speak for themselves?”
“Ah, framing,” Fitzwilliam said, his smile turning wry. “An astute observation, Miss Elizabeth. Humanitarian causes are quite fashionable, you know. They make an excellent platform for a political campaign—provided, to use your own words, they are ‘framed’ correctly.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “And what exactly does that entail?”
“The public must feel inspired,” he said matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather. “A sense of pity. Perhaps moral superiority. Perception is everything, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked toward Darcy. He was nodding politely at her mother, his expression open and attentive, entirely unbothered by Mrs. Bennet’s effusions. He glanced up at Elizabeth, catching her eye for just a moment, and smiled—genuine, unguarded. To Elizabeth, it felt like the twist of a knife.
She turned back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And do you believe Mr. Darcy would…framethings correctly?”
Fitzwilliam chuckled lightly. “My cousin is many things, Miss Elizabeth, but he is no fool. He knows how to make an impact.”
Elizabeth’s stomach churned. Was this what Darcy intended? To turn Sir Thomas and the residents of Netherfield into objects of pity, all to serve his own ambitions? The thought filled her with a cold dread.
Her fork clinked softly against her plate as she set it down. Darcy caught her eye once more, his expression warm and unwittingly disarming. She could not bear to meet it and turned her attention instead to her untouched meal. Fitzwilliam continued speaking, but his words faded into the background, leaving her thoughts to spiral in dismay.
Could she have been so completely wrong about him?
Nineteen
