That still left the problem of Miss Elizabeth. A noble spitfire, that one! Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and doing nothing more than watching out for that empty-headed sister of hers. She had not even gone alone, so he could not find her guilty of failing to take precautions. She was simply at the bulls-eye of the cannon called Bad Luck.
She would be branded a harlot by some. Despite what he had assured them all, he could see it in her eyes—she knew the truth. Unfair as it was, there would be plenty in town who would believe her a seductress who changed her mind at the last moment. They would call her a whore… and a murderess.
There must be something more he could do to help her!
Richard checked his heart. No, he was not in love with Elizabeth Bennet, but a powerful protective instinct flourished there. He fancied her, certainly. Respect was probably a better description. She was intelligent, practical, and courageous, as well as sweet in all the ways a woman ought to be. If he were the sort of man to think of marriage and peaceful domesticity, such a woman would make a delightful partner, American or no.
He watched her now, shaking her head at some words from her father and casting hollow eyes about the room. Mrs Gardiner had supported Jane Bennet for as long as the latter could bear up, but at last, that good lady declared that if the sheriff wanted Jane’s statement, he would have to wait until her head had recovered. She was taking her niece to bed. It was now only Elizabeth left on the makeshift bench with three men waiting on her.
What the devil was he doing there? It was not as if he could help her. He was no relation who could ease her fears or offer protection. Her father was making a valiant effort at the former, while her uncle was the best man for the latter task. So, what were his intentions?
He could speak with the sheriff, he reasoned. He was an officer under an oath of service himself, and could provide sound advice, if it were asked… which it would probably not be. He could be a neutral character witness, as his associations had brought him regularly into company with both the accused and the victim.
He frowned. Which, he wondered, would be labelled as which?
Mr Gardiner had been leaning against a counter, but he straightened and approached. “Lizzy, I think your aunt had the right of it. If the sheriff wanted you right away, he would have spoken with you already. You should go back to the house with your father. The store… well, no doubt we will have customers soon, and when word gets out… it is better that you go home.”
“I would not object to that, Uncle.” She dug her fingers into her eyes, scrubbed her face and seemed to shake herself. When she opened her eyes again, they were on him. “Colonel, I thank you for staying. Your confidence and assurances are more helpful than you can know.”
He bowed slightly. “I wish I could do more at present, Miss Elizabeth.”
Her lips tightened in an empty smile. Richard winced as he recognised that look—the look of one who had drawn first blood, and would forever after be haunted by it. He had seen that expression often enough, but it was particularly wrenching in a woman’s face.
“Come, Lizzy.” Mr Bennet wrapped an arm around his daughter and pulled her to her feet. As they passed by, both father and daughter stopped to offer one parting gratitude. Bennet nodded gravely, swallowing and trembling as he held his daughter’s shoulders. Elizabeth still looked numb, but there was a conscious fragility in the way she blinked and offered a false smile that told him more than words ever could. She might be dazed and exhausted, needing rest more than his paltry vocabulary could ever describe, but there would be none for her.
He watched them walk away, then exchanged looks with Mr Gardiner.
“Our Lizzy is strong, Colonel.” Mr Gardiner nodded emphatically, more to himself than any other, and repeated, “Yes, she is strong. She has a good heart, so she is naturally grieved by it all, but she is a reasonable girl, and a brave one. She will come out of this as well as any can.”
Richard narrowed his eyes, focusing on some distant thing beyond his vision. “Not by herself, she will not.”
Matlock
November 1900
“Itisthegriefof the thing,” the dowager confided to him afterwards when Darcy escorted her to her sitting room. “I thought it might be so, and it is only to be expected, after all. The poor girl is still mourning her husband, and here we are talking of weddings.”
“Has she been like this often?” he asked.
“Oh, it comes and goes. What I like about her is she carries on her grieving in private and puts on a sanguine face in company. I am a generous-minded woman, Darcy, so do not think I expect her to bottle up all her feelings like a born and bred English girl. Goodness knows, I have shed a tear or two for my own sorrows, but one never knows what to say when someone else is weeping all the time, and it is so much more comfortable when she will be cheerful now and again.”
“All the same, perhaps we oughtn’t to ask her to participate in matters that make her uncomfortable.”
“What, and leave her to sulk alone in her rooms?” his aunt scoffed. “This is why a man should never try to order things. She will survive well enough, and I daresay a bit of discomfort does her good if it gets her among people.”
He pressed his lips together. “I submit to your wisdom, Aunt, but I reserve the right to my own observations.”
The dowager nodded gravely. “You do that, Darcy, and then tell me when you have decided I am correct. Here,” she said to the countess, who had just entered the room, “Darcy seems to think we ask too much of your new sister. I think he is being foolish, and I have told him as much.”
“Darcy is thinking of his own feelings and considering that others may be as gloomy as himself,” the countess dismissed him. “Better than most men, who like to pretend emotions do not exist at all, but really, Darcy, you must not smother the girl. She can stand perfectly well on her own.”
“I have confessed that I may not understand as you do, but Mrs Fitzwilliam… she bears more than she will say.”
“Naturally, what woman will tell all the things on her heart? Especially to a man! You really are a dear, Darcy, but you must see that we are far better suited to discovering what is best for her.”
Darcy clenched his teeth at her condescension but forced himself to make a gentle answer. She meant well, after all, and it would certainly not do for anyone to suspect that he was privy to some secret of Elizabeth’s. “All I am trying to say is that Mrs Fitzwilliam’s manner earlier was quite altered from the lady I have known.”
“Of course, it is, because nearly all the time she was at Pemberley, she held out hope for her husband’s return. We have had our share of tears, have we not, my lady? But enough of that now, for Elizabeth herself would be embarrassed if she knew we were speaking of her so. Now, Darcy, there is something else, something rather pressing we must discuss, so let us have no more of this.”
