Page 49 of Honor Requires

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence in Town, though intermittent, provided some measure of continuity in these matters. He had become, over time, both a friend and a confidant, their shared connection to Darcy forming a bond that neither sought to diminish.

His visits, however, had grown less frequent of late. When Napoleon escaped the island of Elba, all was thrown into uncertainty once more. The Colonel was recalled to duty with little delay, his departure swift and unceremonious. Prior to his departure, Elizabeth had seen him only once, his bearing tranquil and imbued with the distinct unease of a man headed back to war.

News followed in due course. There was a great battle at Waterloo, ending in victory for the British. The end, at last, of a conflict that had shaped a generation.

The Colonel returned with distinction, his efforts recognized and rewarded, and with that return came a decision long anticipated. He was in the process of selling his commission, intending to leave the army behind and settle into a different life. His intended bride was none other than his cousin, Anne de Bourgh.

The match, though surprising to some, held a practical sense that Elizabeth could not fault. Anne, long subject to her mother’s control, had sought in marriage a means of securing her independence, and the Colonel—steady, honorable, and already known to her—provided exactly that. There was, Elizabeth thought, kindness in it. Not all unions need be born of passion to be worthy. But the other sort—one of convenience and material comfort—was something she could never bear.

The crush of the evening pressed upon her almost at once.

Elizabeth found herself within the brightly illuminated ballroom, the atmosphere imbued with the warmth of candlelight and discourse and experienced a weariness she struggled to mask. The music, lively and well-executed, seemed distant to her ear, and the movement of the dancers, though graceful, held little appeal.

She would rather have been at home. The image came to her unbidden—the peace of the nursery, the murmur of children settling to rest, the gentle familiarity of surroundings that asked nothing of her but her presence. Here, by contrast, she was observed, evaluated, and—despite her best efforts—discussed.

Colonel Fitzwilliam found her near one of the pillars, her posture relaxed though her expression betrayed a hint of fatigue.

“You do not look particularly enchanted by the evening,” he remarked, his tone light though his gaze was more discerning.

“I fear I am not,” Elizabeth replied with a faint smile. “The fault lies not with the company, but with myself. I find I have grown accustomed to docile pursuits.”

He studied her closely, then inclined his head. “There are whispers, you know.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Are there indeed? I cannot imagine I have done anything of sufficient interest to provoke them.”

“On the contrary.” His expression lightened, though a trace of amusement lingered. “They concern your refusal of Sir Arthur.”

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together briefly. “I had hoped that matter would have passed without notice.”

“One might hope so,” he agreed, “but society seldom obliges in such matters. They say you suffer from a broken heart.” He paused, then added more gently, “I imagine Bramley told his friends, and they told their wives. Overall, the sympathy lies with you.”

Elizabeth gave a small exhale. “How very generous of them.”

“There is no malice in it,” he said. “If anything, it speaks to the regard in which you are held.”

She inclined her head, accepting the sentiment without fully embracing it. There was little to be gained in dwelling upon the opinions of others, however kindly meant.

“Miss Bennet.”

The voice, though polite, carried a persistence she could not ignore.

Sir Arthur approached with evident determination, his manner tinged with something more insistent than mere civility. Elizabeth felt, at once, the familiar tension settle within her.

“Sir Arthur,” she returned, her tone courteous though reserved.

“I wonder if I might claim a moment of your time.”

She hesitated only briefly before acquiescing. “Of course.”

They moved a short distance away, though not so far as to invite speculation. His expression, once they were out of immediate earshot, shifted—less formal, more earnest.

“I had hoped,” he began, “that you might reconsider.”

Elizabeth’s gaze remained unbroken. “I believe I have already given you my answer, sir.”

“And I believe,” he countered, “that it was given under circumstances that may no longer apply.”

He referred to the rumors of her broken heart, surely. Her composure did not falter, though a firmness entered her tone. “My circumstances have not altered.”