Elizabeth squeezed back once, hard, an equally silent answer:Not entirely. But I will be.The pleasure of her arrangement with Mr. Darcy did much to settle her frustrations with her father. She smiled as he approached, having left his cousin to entertain Mr. Bennet. Resolving to pay her suitor every attention and ponder other trials later, she turned her full focus to Mr. Darcy.
Later—when tea had been refreshed and Mrs. Bennet had finally paused to breathe, when Bingley and Fitzwilliam had resumed their careful jostling for Jane’s attention with an addedlayer of caution—Jane leaned close to Elizabeth and murmured, “Are you happy?”
Elizabeth looked at her sister—sweet, steady Jane, who had always tried to make peace between the world and those she loved.
She had not named it—had scarcely allowed herself to examine it—but something in her had already settled in his favor. Her regard had taken root before she had thought to guard against it. Her esteem moved rapidly from admiration toward love, and she relished the feelings stirring within her. “I am,” Elizabeth whispered back. And then, because she could not lie to Jane, not wholly: “And I am annoyed.”
Jane’s fingers tightened around hers. “With Mr. Darcy?”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted, and her gaze drifted, helplessly, to where Darcy stood speaking with her father, his posture respectful, his expression intent. “Not with him.”
Jane studied her for a moment longer, then nodded as if she understood without being told. Jane often did, though she could not know the extent of Elizabeth’s frustration with their father.
Elizabeth drew in a slow breath and lifted her chin.
Her father had made his announcement. Her mother rejoiced. The neighborhood would learn soon enough, and tongues would wag with pleasure. Darcy had stepped forward, publicly, properly, with intentions that seemed honorable in every respect.
Beneath it all—beneath the bright surface of courtship and competition and social triumph—the weight of hidden gold still pressed against Elizabeth’s conscience like a stone.
She smiled anyway because she must.
Mr. Bingley, buoyed by the general excitement and Mrs. Bennet’s unrestrained delight, appeared determined to press every advantage the moment afforded him.
“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together as though the matter were settled, “since we are all in such agreeable spirits—and since the weather persists in behaving more like April than November—I propose an outing.” He grinned around the room, his enthusiasm unchecked. “A picnic luncheon, perhaps. We might make a morning of it. There is no reason enjoyment should be confined to drawing rooms.”
Mrs. Bennet brightened immediately. “A picnic! How charming. One so rarely enjoys fresh air at this time of year. And with such excellent company—”
“And,” Bingley added, eyes alight, “we might as well combine pleasure with curiosity. A bit of treasure hunting, perhaps. The whole county is already half-mad with it. Why should we not see for ourselves whether the Romans were kind enough to leave us anything more than gossip?”
Elizabeth felt a faint tightening in her chest. Of course, he would suggest it. The idea had been circulating like a spark seeking dry tinder, and Mr. Bingley—impulsive, eager, and increasingly reckless—was precisely the sort to fan it into flame.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, however, did not immediately agree or object. He leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed over the other, his expression thoughtful rather than animated. “Treasure hunting,” he repeated. “That brings to mind a story my brother once told me.”
Mr. Bingley’s interest sharpened. “Your brother?”
“Yes,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said easily. “We were boys at the time—still at school. He had been sent to stay with a friend whose family owned land near the remains of a Roman road. One afternoon, while the men were mending a fence, my brother and the steward’s son began digging in the embankment,convinced that soldiers must have passed that way centuries earlier.”
Elizabeth watched Colonel Fitzwilliam closely. His tone was conversational, almost casual, but there was a deliberate calm to it that suggested the story was not told merely for amusement.
“They unearthed a small pot,” he continued. “Cracked, rather unremarkable at first glance. Inside were coins—mostly bronze, some silver, and, tucked at the bottom, three gold aurei. There was also a little hair comb, worked bone or ivory, very delicate. My brother was convinced it belonged to a Roman lady who had paused to adjust her hair and dropped her treasure in the grass.”
Jane smiled faintly at that, though her hands twisted together in her lap.
“And what became of it?” Mr. Bingley asked impatiently.
“His father was informed at once,” Fitzwilliam said. “He examined the find himself and sent word to the appropriate authorities. The gold and silver were surrendered, as the law requires. The bronze coins and the comb were returned to my brother as curiosities—of little monetary value but great sentimental interest.”
Mr. Bingley scoffed openly. “An absurd waste. If the land belonged to a family, then the treasure ought to have remained theirs entirely. The Crown has more gold than it knows what to do with. What right has it to anything found on private land?”
Jane shifted uneasily. “It is…established law,” she said gently.
“And an unjust one,” Mr. Bingley replied at once. “What incentive does it give a man to be honest? None at all. He is punished for his integrity and rewarded only if he conceals the truth.”
Elizabeth felt Darcy stir beside her, though he did not yet speak. She kept her eyes fixed on her hands, willing herself to remain composed.
Colonel Fitzwilliam tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps,” he said. “But my father always maintained that the law existed to preserve history, not to impoverish landowners. Gold melted down is lost forever. Preserved, it tells a story.”
“A story that does not put bread on a family’s table,” Mr. Bingley retorted. “I cannot imagine surrendering a fortune because a statute demands it.”
