Page 44

Elizabeth sat in the drawing room with her aunt late in the afternoon, contentedly reading her novel. Though no visitors had come that day, she did not repine, for it gave her valuable time to lose herself in the fascinating world of the author’s imagination.

Suddenly, Mrs Gardiner looked up from the stack of correspondence she had been going through, holding a hand over her heart. “My dear, listen to this.” Elizabeth looked up and joined her aunt near the hearth. Her heart started thumping in her chest, wondering what would elicit such a reaction.

“It is from the Countess of Matlock, Beatrix Fitzwilliam,” her aunt said when she had settled into the chair on her right.

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. “Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mother?

” she asked. Kind as the invitation to her watercolour exhibit had been, Elizabeth had not thought that she might merit so personal an invitation from the countess.

Not unless things grew far more serious with Colonel Fitzwilliam than she had any idea of their being.

“She has invited us to tea on the morrow!” Her aunt beamed at her. “That is a mark of favour indeed, my dear niece.”

Elizabeth sat back, wondering what this could mean. “An invitation from the Matlocks is highly sought after, is it not?”

“Yes, the earl and his countess are the height of London society. We are very fortunate indeed,” she said.

“I shall write and accept immediately, of course.” Her aunt folded the note and set it aside, taking a steadying breath as she pinned Elizabeth with a serious stare.

“Lizzy, it seems I was mistaken. He is not merely flirting, after all. I believe this means that Colonel Fitzwilliam is seriously interested in coming to an understanding with you, Lizzy. Are you prepared for that?”

Elizabeth hardly knew. She thought for a moment, then gave a deft shake of her head. “I do not know. I suppose I shall have to get prepared, won’t I?”

Her aunt pressed her hand, then stood and retrieved the letter. “I shall write our hearty thanks to the countess and send it off immediately.” She scurried from the room, leaving Elizabeth alone to think over what it could all mean.

She peered out the window, wishing she might see the familiar hills and fields around Longbourn, instead of the busy streets and endless buildings of Town.

Enjoyable as her time in London had been, Elizabeth could not help longing for home more and more with each day that passed.

What was Jane doing at this moment? How were her younger sisters faring?

She missed her father and the quiet talks they often had cloistered in his library.

She even missed her mother, though perhaps not her shrill voice and frequent talk of her poor nerves.

Elizabeth sighed, wishing there was a clear direction in front of her. She liked Colonel Fitzwilliam, yet something held her back. Pleasant company as he was, she could not really see herself married to the man.

Of course, it was not for the same reasons that made her hesitate to accept Mr Wickham.

No such doubts and concerns swirled about the colonel.

Even so, should she not have more romantic feelings for the man with whom she might spend the rest of her life?

Colonel Fitzwilliam was a very good friend, and Elizabeth hoped he always would be.

Yet Elizabeth could not imagine speaking words of love to him, and certainly could not imagine kissing him.

What about what her aunt had said, that she found she could not live without her uncle?

Not all marriages began that way. She had often been told by her mother that love often bloomed after the marriage vows were spoken.

But Elizabeth wanted more than that. She wanted to marry someone to whom she could give her whole heart.

She was greedy, perhaps. Friendship was more than many people had when they married, and yet she would arrogantly say it was not enough for her.

Only the deepest love and affection would do.

Her thoughts turned to Mr Darcy and his strange proposal.

Indeed, she had barely been able to get him out of her mind since his visit a few days prior.

He had spoken of love, but could he possibly have meant it?

He did not seem even to respect her, and love without respect would be worse than nothing at all.

Yet Elizabeth could not help remembering how he had looked when she refused him.

His face was stricken, but his pride unbowed, and his behaviour as gentlemanly as ever.

Her refusal had been harsh, too harsh, and yet he had not answered her in kind.

She could not seem to get his handsome face out of her mind, his piercing eyes, and the way he had looked at her with such longing…

Elizabeth shook her head. Surely, she was not now pining over a man she had told herself she never wanted, a man she had vowed to loathe for all eternity? It was more than she could bear to think about.

Yet a thought crept inescapably into the forefront of her mind.

Had she been wrong about Mr Darcy all along?

He had tried to warn her about Mr Wickham, and his warnings had quickly come true.

He had been insulting, yes — very wrong about what he had said about Jane, and about her family.

She might rightly revile him for that, if she could only forget that Mr Darcy, the proudest man of her acquaintance, had come to confess a wrong she had not even known existed, and to apologise.

To apologise, and to tell her he was madly in love with her.

She forced herself to push the thoughts out of her mind. It was ridiculous, only foolish remorse that she felt for the harsh words they had exchanged.

Though she still could not get Mr Darcy out of her head.

When Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner made ready to depart in the carriage for the Matlock townhouse the following afternoon, she could not help wondering if Mr Darcy would also be in attendance.

Surely, the emotion that the question evoked was fear, not hope.

It would be entirely nonsensical of her to wish to see him.

Any rational woman who rejected a man in such a way would more naturally wish never to see him again.

They were immediately admitted to the Matlock townhouse and were greeted warmly by the countess herself.

“Welcome, Mrs Gardiner and Miss Bennet. We have heard so much about you from my son, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” the countess said.

“I believe you have already been introduced to my niece, Miss Georgiana Darcy?”

Miss Darcy curtsied and gave a shy smile. “We have had the pleasure, yes,” she murmured, almost too quietly to be heard. “How good it is to see you again, Miss Bennet. I am glad my cousin was kind enough to invite me to this tea.”

“We would not have wanted it any other way, my dear,” the countess said.

Elizabeth sat down near Georgiana, noticing with satisfaction that her aunt and the countess were speaking comfortably together.

She had never expected Mrs Gardiner to be less than genteel and polished, even in the face of the nobility, but Elizabeth had not expected so great a degree of civility from the countess.

They spoke of the play Mrs Gardiner had last attended, which the countess thought of seeing as well, and even exchanged a little mild gossip.

Elizabeth could not be quite as easy as her aunt, for the thought that the tea was a kind of audition was inescapable.

No doubt the countess, very naturally, wanted to judge her suitability for Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Thankfully, she did so with a far greater degree of subtlety than Elizabeth would have feared.

Her questions were those any new acquaintance might have asked, and her answers were friendly and open.

Tea was very pleasant. If the countess was indeed assessing her suitability as a wife for her son, she seemed to approve.

“Have you been in London very long, Miss Bennet? I assume this is not your first time, but it is mine, and I find it very diverting,” Miss Darcy said. She took a sip of her tea, sitting perfectly straight-backed and proper. Her effortless grace and elegance spoke eloquently of her private tutors.

“Though I have been fortunate to visit my aunt and uncle before, I must say I feel as though I have never really seen London before this trip. I was rather young on previous visits, and we largely stayed at home.”

“And how do you find it? Town, I mean?”

“It is, as you say, very diverting.” Elizabeth looked down at the fine teacup and saucer with their painted design of spring violets. “But I must confess, I have been pining for home. I miss the country and the fresh air.”

Miss Darcy giggled and leaned closer as if she were about to share a great secret.

“I believe that is the thing I have found most difficult to get used to. How can people stand to live here all year round? The stench!” She leaned back, and they shared a laugh.

“Give me the fresh country air any day.”

“I quite agree,” Elizabeth replied. For such a shy girl, Miss Darcy was very easy to talk to.

No doubt the conversation was helped along by the many interests they shared.

They both enjoyed reading, and music — although she had heard Miss Darcy was much more accomplished than Elizabeth had ever dreamed of being — and they were both proponents of long walks in the country, no matter the weather.

As the afternoon progressed and the older ladies seemed to gravitate toward one another in conversation, Miss Darcy lowered her voice, almost whispering in Elizabeth’s ear. “Would you do me a great favour, Miss Bennet?”

“Of course, if your request is at all in my power,” Elizabeth replied.

“Would you come to the conservatory with me and speak in private for a moment?”

Elizabeth thought this a little odd, but had no objection. “Of course.”