Page 17 of The Work of a Moment

“Is it true that Mr Darcy will wed Miss de Bourgh?”

It was a direct, even rude, enquiry and prompted a deep chuckle from the colonel. “My dear cousin Anne is as disinterested in marriage as she is in civil conversation. Darcy has no intentions towards her, no matter the wishes of my aunt. She is no rival to you,” he said in a confiding tone, “or to any of these dozens of enchanting Bennet sisters I must avoid.”

The humour he intended went unheard. Rival to me? Before she could form a reply and ask his meaning, the colonel chuckled, which only deepened her discomfort.

“I beg your pardon. You must see that Darcy and I are rather bored here, and that your convivial conversation is a refreshing change from the usual doings of our annual visit. While I am not required to attend my aunt, Darcy is always dutiful.”

“You are kind to keep him company.”

“I suppose I am, but he will be in his shirtsleeves at a desk piled with papers while I enjoy my walk with a pleasant new acquaintance.”

A brief image of Mr Darcy, his jacket off and bent over a desk, flitted through Elizabeth’s mind. She dismissed it, but her quiet reverie seemed to alarm her companion, who was quick to assure her of his own duties—or lack of them, beyond the army.

“Unlike Darcy, who has much responsibility for his sister and his estates, as well as Rosings until he hires a new steward able to endure my aunt’s temper, I am free to come and go within my family. I am a younger son, with little to offer to anyone but my fellow soldiers. True love,” said the colonel with a somewhat theatrical sigh, “requires deep coffers.”

She wondered when the man had abandoned charm for such cool-eyed sentiments. Was she to pity the son of an earl? She looked away from him and fixed her gaze on a squirrel scampering at the roots of an oak tree. “Mutual affection, in my mind, would seem the underpinning of true love.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam barked out a loud laugh. “Well, yes, but one must see evidence of such affection and trust that it is true. And one must take care to marry well.” He paused and in a low, confiding tone added, “If anyone is more sentient on this point, it is Darcy. He has lately done a friend a good favour, advising him on an estate and separating him from yet another unsuitable lady.”

“Unsuitable?” Elizabeth slowed as she recognised the friend to whom he referred. Jane is not unsuitable, and Mr Darcy did not separate her from Mr Bingley! Had I not done so, my poor sister could be unhappily betrothed to a libertine.

She took a breath to calm herself. The colonel was the messenger. It was not he who deserved her anger, although she wondered at his astuteness. Did he not follow the conversation in the parsonage, when he commented on Bingley’s abandonment of his lease? How many friends was Mr Darcy advising on estates and ladies?

“In what way would Mr Darcy find a lady unsuitable? Is his friend a duke?”

“A man does not need a title to require a wife who is both acceptable to his family and suitable for the ton.”

The breadth of such an insult to her sister—sweet, beautiful, graceful Jane! She, the daughter of a landed gentleman, whose name and manner could only elevate that of the debauched son of a tradesman!

“So your cousin, famed for his discernment in such matters, took care of his friend? Was the man lovelorn and in despair or accepting of Mr Darcy’s judgment?”

“I cannot say,” came the reply in a voice far calmer than her own. “I do not know the particulars but cannot doubt the propriety of it all. His friend has a soft heart and a soft head”—How generous a summary of Mr Bingley!—“and Darcy is a good and loyal man who would offer consolation to any friend or relation in need.”

“Would he?” Elizabeth muttered to herself. She looked up and saw the colonel’s lips twitch, seemingly in amusement.

Forcing herself to calm, she said, “I thank you for the escort, sir, but as you see, the parsonage is just over there.” She gestured at the house down the path. “I bid you good day.”

She offered him no chance to respond as she hurried towards the house, desperately wishing to be alone, punch a pillow, and contemplate whether a decent man could be found in England.

CHAPTER 15

Excessive Disappointments

The remainder of that day passed slowly. The storm that blew in late in the afternoon came as a relief, winds roaring and rain pounding the roof, even as it confined the residents of Hunsford parsonage to one another’s company. Maria shrank from Mr Collins as he forcefully opined that Elizabeth’s behaviour had upset Mr Darcy and caused his loss of temper. Charlotte’s ease in managing her husband appeared to falter, as she too was likely contemplating her own failure to keep her oldest friend’s confidence.

Elizabeth escaped their company after dinner by voicing her eagerness to finish her book. Cecilia sat unread, however, as she paced in her small room and examined the meaning of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s assertions. ‘He has lately done a friend a good favour, advising him on an estate and separating him from an unsuitable lady.’

Elizabeth recalled how dispirited Jane had been when the Netherfield party left and how pleased she had been to ensure that her dearest sister would not be further hurt by Mr Bingley or his sisters. How dare anyone refer to her as ‘unsuitable’! There is no kinder, more deserving lady in the world than Jane. It is Mr Bingley, chasing the skirts of housemaids and making them victims to his purse, who is unsuitable.

Elizabeth bit back a gasp. Perhaps Jane was not the ‘unsuitable lady’—perhaps Mr Darcy had had to separate Mr Bingley from his attachment to the red-haired maid. Had Mr Bingley grown intent on marrying the maid or making her his mistress as he courted and married Jane, or another woman—even Miss Darcy?

She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of the silhouetted couple she had seen framed in Netherfield’s window as the sound of Mr Bingley’s soft voice returned to her.

‘It would be dreadful if anyone other than Darcy were to know of our arrangement.’

Could Mr Bingley be so ridiculously abhorrent? Had he made fanciful but futile promises to the maid, leading to Mr Darcy’s actions to separate them? For that, she would congratulate Mr Darcy, though his character was made more puzzling by it.

Fearing that creaking floorboards would bring an unwanted knock at her door, Elizabeth slid onto the bed, drawing her knees to her chest and tapping her stocking feet on the green-and-yellow counterpane as she considered Mr Darcy.