Page 10

Monday, December 2, 1811

Richard

“At last,”

Richard exclaimed.

For three successive days, he had accompanied Darcy to Longbourn. And each day, he had made his way to the grove where he had first encountered Miss Mary Bennet. Yet not once did he see her. She appeared in neither the parlour nor the grove.

She was avoiding him—of that, he was certain. Yet he was not one to yield so readily.

He paused at the entrance to the grove. Miss Mary sat upon the roots of the great oak, her face turned away. She held a book and appeared deeply engrossed in it. Her spectacles lay beside her on the grass, indicating she required them not to read. Unlike their former meeting, she wore her bonnet this time.

She seemed so absorbed in her reading that she gave no sign of having heard his approach.

“Miss Mary,”

Richard called softly, endeavouring not to alarm her. Yet, despite his careful tone, the result was as he feared—she started, pressing a hand to her breast as she turned sharply toward him.

“Good Heavens!”

she cried.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Mary,”

he said, his face one of sincere contrition.

“I sought to keep my voice low, so as not to startle you; but alas, it seems I have failed.”

“Why have you come?”

she demanded, her countenance clouded with indignation.

“This is Longbourn land, and you are trespassing. I know you are Mr. Darcy’s cousin, and thus welcome at Longbourn; but I cannot imagine what possible business brings you here.”

Richard’s heart sank beneath the coldness of her reception. It was clear she had no desire for company—least of all his. Yet he had come with a purpose, and he could not retreat without making an attempt.

“I came to see you—to speak with you,”

he said, his voice betraying a degree of earnestness he had not meant to reveal.

“For three days I have returned to this spot, in hopes of meeting you. Yet each time, I have been disappointed.”

Her eyes went wide, betraying a glimmer of something—perhaps surprise, perhaps something deeper.

“Why?”

she asked, her voice low, almost uncertain.

“I cannot say, Miss Mary,”

he replied, shaking his head.

“There is something in your manner that both confounds and draws me toward you. You puzzle me in ways I have yet to comprehend. I find myself wishing to know you better, to speak with you, and, if I may, to befriend you.”

She regarded him in silence. At length, her countenance altered; her brow set, and her voice, when it came, was steady and unyielding.

“No,”

she said, resolutely.

“This is most improper. We ought not to be alone here. I must insist that you leave at once. Should you decline, I shall return to Longbourn without delay.”

“Ah, Miss Mary,”

he replied, his tone touched with quiet humour.

“the last time we met, you rebuked me for presuming to address you without a formal introduction. Now that we are properly acquainted, you reproach me for seeking your company without a chaperone. And yet I have thrice called at Longbourn, hoping to speak with you, and with every consideration for propriety. Still, you have granted me no opportunity.”

Her expression hardened, and in a voice so cold that Richard could not but feel its sting, she replied.

“Is it not expected of a gentleman to withdraw when a lady plainly shows no desire for conversation?”

“Indeed, so it is,”

said he.

“I thank you for your honesty. I shall relieve you of my company at once. Pray, accept my apologies for the intrusion.”

He bowed low, and with a final respectful glance, turned away. But just as he reached the edge of the clearing, her voice arrested him.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,”

she called, her voice touched with quiet remorse.

“forgive me. I shall be ready to converse with you when next you visit Longbourn—but not here, I beg of you.”

Richard turned at once, and their eyes met. There was uncertainty in her expression—a hint of something vulnerable—that stirred him.

“Miss Mary,”

he said, his voice low.

“I wish you to know this. Though I am a Colonel in the army, I am also a second son, accustomed to certain ways of life. I cannot marry as I might wish. But I have known men and women of every station and circumstance, and I am persuaded that a gentleman and lady may form an acquaintance—perhaps even a quiet companionship—that is neither romantic nor improper. Such connections are rare, to be sure, but I do not believe them beyond what is honourable.”

He paused, his steady gaze upon hers.

“I hope you will consider that, Miss Mary.”

She regarded him, her expression unreadable, and for a long moment they remained thus. At length, she gave a small, reluctant nod. It was no firm assent, but it sufficed—a sign that she had heard him.

Richard bowed once more and departed the grove, his heart somewhat lighter than before.