“No, I imagine he would not,” Lady Rebecca said with a snort of laughter. “I believe he would prefer it if you returned his affection and regard. But can you not? He must be a finer man than – well, never mindthat. Truly, Miss Dashwood, Richard is the very best of men. Tell me at least that you will think upon it; I shall keep this little conversation between us, if only you will try to think well of him.”
“I do think well of him,” Elinor breathed. “But it is all too much.”
Lady Rebecca shook her head and patted Elinor’s cheek. “I think it is not, Miss Dashwood; rather, you have ever been given too little.”
These words echoed in Elinor’s mind as she sat beside Colonel Fitzwilliam at dinner. Despite his efforts to be charming, she was nearly insensible to the lively conversation that accompanied the meal, for her own private thoughts were enough to occupy her. She considered his tender praise of her the day before, and how well he understood the sort of compliments that would best please her – he understood her character perfectly. And there were many instances that she could recall of him expressing an appreciation of her person; this very evening he stared at her with unmasked admiration when she came downstairs for dinner.
Her first instinct had been to surmise that Lady Rebecca merely spoke of what she desired as if it were a certainty, that Elinor and the colonel might admire one another becauseshewished it to be so. It had seemed the mere fancy of a well-meaning, idle, and privileged friend, nothing more.
But tonight Elinor was keenly aware of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes on her, every look and smile seeming to mean more, and the chatter around them faded to nothing as she considered her own reaction to him. It was exhilarating to know that she had inspired the affection of such a fine man, and she began to enjoy the notion that she could return his admiration, for his pleasing form and open countenance were rendered handsome indeed by his amiable disposition. Even the sound of his laughter and the deep tone of his voice sent a thrill through her body.
What a treacherous heart she discovered, racing in her chest at the nearness of Colonel Fitzwilliam, when the day before she had wept over Edward Ferrars. And what a terrifying prospect, that she might once again have all her hopes dashed if she dared to indulge such fanciful feelings.
Amidst Elinor’s distraction, Marianne consented to remain at Netherfield overnight. Thus they adjourned to the parlor after dinner, cozy by the fire as they all continued their revelry. Lady Rebecca entreated Marianne to play a song and teased her brother-in-law into standing up with her, but ere long Lady Rebecca demanded an exchange, and she finished the song Marianne had begun, while, after a little cajoling, Marianne agreed to dance a reel with Mr. Bingley.
Meanwhile, Elinor and the colonel played a game of chess. She had done better than she expected when last they played together, but on this occasion she was too distracted to do herself any credit. After a few moves, the colonel leaned back in his chair and studied her, his expression grave. “My sister told you….”
Elinor inclined her head.
“Well, she did threaten that she would, if I did not.”
“Why did you not?”
His face twisted with anguish. “I feared you would think me a villain.”
Elinor was silent, her mind desperately trying to make sense of everything she was feeling, though it all felt too great to express with mere words. He waited patiently for her to speak, and his usual brash confidence began to dissipate, revealing a trace of the same anxiety that Elinor felt. She gave a slight shake of her head, and her hand slid across to the table before resting on the chess piece he idly spun between his fingers. “John had a house in town already, he had no need of Norland, but hetook it from us nonetheless. Twenty years of memories, our lives uprooted and our circumstances reduced – for what? For nothing, for him to gamble it away to a stranger. No indeed, you are not the villain of that story, sir.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. He released his grasp on the chess piece and slowly moved his fingers, until they covered hers. “I confess I cherished some small hope that you may think better of me thannot a villain.I am certainly not a stranger.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him tighten his hand fully around hers, his fingertips gently brushing her palm. “You are a friend,” she said softly.
“A friend.” His gaze dropped and his brows furrowed. “I will not pretend my sister is not the most accomplished and meddlesome gossip of the ton. I know that your affections have been wasted on a man who misled you, who has even paid court to your own cousin while promised to another.”
Elinor sucked in a sharp breath and sat up a little straighter, and he allowed her hand to slip from his grasp. “My heart is not as changeable as his has proven. Would my affection be worth having, if it could be so easily cast aside?”
His voice was but a whisper, yet every word he spoke pierced Elinor’s heart. “No, it would not; but this hardly discourages me from hoping to earn it. I would always endeavor to deserve such an enduring regard.”
“Would you never wonder if… if your having Norland influenced my feelings?”
He met her eyes again, and the torment in his gaze was more than Elinor could bear. She looked away, hoping their friends would perceive her distress, but they were determined not to notice what was passing between Elinor and the colonel. “No, I would not. I know you to be a better woman thanthat. Perhaps I have merely been mistaken in supposing you to comprehend me in equal measure.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam rose abruptly from his seat and captured her hand once more, bringing it to his lips as he bowed. “I have duties to my regiment in the morning, and then I am for London. I shall take my leave, Miss Dashwood.”
Elinor watched him depart with rising panic in her chest, his every step a blow to her equanimity. Never had she so immediately felt that she had made a terrible mistake. She looked to Lady Rebecca, expecting her to be displeased, but she only wore a look of pity that was far more troubling.
Chapter Eighteen
London
Elizabeth and her aunt visited Matlock House bearing a basket of sweetmeats, French pastries, and hothouse flowers to thank the countess for inviting them to the Fitzwilliam box at the opera the night before. Jane remained at home, claiming a headache; it took nearly a quarter hour of assurance from Jane that she only wanted rest this morning before Elizabeth would consent to leave her sister.
Upon arriving at Matlock House, Elizabeth was happy indeed that she had come. The butler showed them into the drawing room with a barely-contained look of high humor; Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner soon discovered the cause of it. Viscount Bellamy lay sprawled out atop the large pianoforte, the colorful banyan he wore over his clothes falling open, a red rose clenched between his teeth.
Georgiana sat before an easel, painting a portrait of her cousin, while Lady Matilda appeared to be doing the same with a set of watercolors. To Elizabeth’s supreme amazement, the stoic Mr. Darcy was sketching with charcoal, a puckish grin on his face.
As the two women burst into unfettered laughter, the viscount looked over and waggled his brows at them, the rose tipping to one side as he grinned rakishly. Mr. Darcy sprang to his feet, looking a little chagrined, and as he ran his hands through his hair, he smeared charcoal across his cheek. Elizabeth found the sight strangely and intensely beguiling.
“Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Elizabeth, what a fortuitous moment for your arrival. I have been learning something of your mischief, have I not?”
