And Colonel Fitzwilliam had seemed pleased. He’d smiled, the lines about his eyes crinkling and some of the strain leaving that strong jaw.
What would it be like to trace the line of that jaw? Elizabeth’s fingertips tingled at the idea.
She shook her head to dispel the notion and deliberately returned her thoughts to Miss Darcy. Paramount was Miss Darcy’s improvement. After all, any inkling of a future Elizabeth might dream up with the tall colonel was only that, a dream. Which was to say, nothing, truly, compared to the reality of that poor young woman’s shattered heart.
She rounded a low hillock to the sight of the very gentleman who occupied her thoughts. Tall and broad of shoulder, he stood where they’d spoken before, his horse tethered to a low shrub nearby. His hand came up in greeting.
Did he wait for her? Had he returned to this spot, as she had, in hope of another meeting? Giddy with the notion, she waved back, calling, “Good morning, Colonel.”
Even at a distance, she took in the way his shoulders snapped back, tension filling his frame. She pursed her lips, dismayed to have offended him yet again with his rank, but calling out, ‘Fitzwilliam,’ to him would have felt far too bold.
Still, when she reached him, she offered, “I beg your pardon. I meant, good morning, Fitzwilliam.” Her cheeks warmed. Why did the use of ‘Fitzwilliam’ without any honorific feel so daring?
He bowed. “Good morning, MissElizabeth.”
Did he emphasize her name to show that he, at least, would abide by their agreement of the morning before? Stung by what was tantamount to a reprimand, she replied, “If I am to call you Fitzwilliam, you must at least give me some inkling of why you do not wish to be addressed otherwise. Of what great offense is your rank?” And did he harbor some dark secret of which a woman ought to be aware?
He looked away, up the hill behind her. One she routinely skirted as that way lay old Mr. Grason’s farm.
About them, yellow stalks waved in a light breeze. A host of sparrows swept down to alight on the turned earth of the field, picking about for lost grain. Elizabeth waited, hoping she had not, again, been too bold.
“It is because of my cousin that you see fit to address me as such,” he finally said, meeting her gaze.
What odd phrasing. “He purchased your rank?”
The man before her shrugged. “It is decidedly due to him.”
He was beholden to Mr. Darcy, then. That could not be an easy thing. No, obviously not, now that she thought on the notion. Mr. Darcy, who had given Colonel Fitzwilliam the use of his carriage and stewardship of his sister. A request between cousins, or an order from a gentleman who obviously felt himself above all others and who held Colonel Fitzwilliam in his debt?
So, his vague answer to her mother’s question about commissions yesterday at tea, that had indeed been designed to hide a lack of fortune. Elizabeth had suspected as much. Still, looking him up and down, she could not imagine it to be a great lack. Not with how finely the colonel dressed.
Yet, such awkward stiffness filled him at this moment. Did he presume himself not wealthy enough to impress the ladies of Longbourn? To impress her? Or did he dress well but wallow in debt? He would not be the first gentleman to do so, but debt because of circumstances beyond his ability to control, or due to poor choices? And did he require a wife to alleviate that burden, for Elizabeth could not.
Taking in the intensity with which he studied her, awaiting her response, Elizabeth finally said, “I understand.”
“Do you?” Fitzwilliam asked with a slight, bitter smile.
“I believe so. It cannot be easy to be beholden to such a…” She sought about, not wanting to insult Mr. Darcy too strenuously to his cousin’s face. Not when she had already learned that Fitzwilliam cared so deeply for family.
“Such a what?”
“Well, let us simply say that Mr. Darcy’s behavior since arriving at Netherfield Park has fully expressed how much better he believes he is than anyone else, let alone the populace hereabouts.” Or a poor cousin.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”
She had led them to dangerous ground. Still, anyone in Meryton would be happy to tell him. Talk of Mr.Darcy’s behavior permeated the neighborhood, and the Bennet household, as gossip was gathered and repeated. “If you must know, at his first appearance in our society, he refused to dance with any except Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst and spent the remainder of the evening strolling the room, issuing insults.”
Fitzwilliam stared at her, brow creasing. “Issuing insults?”
“Looking directly at me as he said it, his precise words were, ‘There is no woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with. Certainly, none are handsome enough to tempt me.’”
His eyes squeezing in a grimace, Fitzwilliam muttered, “Mr. Darcy said that? To you? For all to hear?”
His obvious discomfort alleviating any worry that he would defend his cousin, Elizabeth nodded, much of her amusement at the insult returning. “He did. He was also heard to say that dancing with the ladies present would be insupportable, and that he was in no humor to give consequence to young ladies who were slighted by other men. Even though, as you must suspect in an area such as this, there are far more available ladies than gentlemen.”
Fitzwilliam scrubbed a hand over his face. “Please tell me there is not more.”
“Oh, there is a great deal more. He managed to insult almost everyone who attended.” Elizabeth could not help but grin. “He maligned Lady Lucas’s new hat, suggesting that she had shot the pheasant herself and sat it upon her head in a presumption of fashion. He commented that Mrs. Goulding’s gown could scarcely contain her frame, but confessed that made sense because it was twenty years out of date. He observed that Mr. Jones could not possibly be the local apothecary because a gentleman with such small, beady eyes was fit for nothing more than life as a dung collector. He—”
