Page 17

Friday, December 6, 1811

Netherfield

Richard

Richard found little in the day to anticipate with pleasure, and so remained ensconced in the library.

The party from Longbourn was expected before long. Georgiana had been in a flutter since breakfast; Darcy bore the anticipation with commendable composure. Bingley, however, was all animation, pacing the corridors like a young hound denied the chase.

Richard knew he ought to present himself in the drawing room to receive their guests. It was the proper thing, and no one ever questioned his regard for propriety. Yet he lingered still, persuading himself that there remained ample time to appear when required.

In truth, his thoughts were engaged elsewhere—on matters of far greater consequence than the anticipated arrival of the Bennet ladies.

That morning’s post had brought a letter marked with the familiar seal and hand of the War Office. Its contents, though anticipated, were unwelcome.

His leave—though never formally acknowledged as such—had come to its end. Instructions had arrived, requiring his return to duty before the month’s close—not to a quiet posting, but to the campaign in Portugal.

The request had been couched in terms gracious enough, as if it were a privilege to be desired. Yet the meaning was plain. This was no reward, but persuasion. The leave afforded these past weeks was no act of generosity, but a subtle inducement, intended to tempt him into one more command.

In former years, he needed no such inducement. Duty called, and he had answered without question or delay. Yet in recent times—within the last year or two—he had found himself, in quiet hours, imagining a different life. One less spent upon wind-swept plains or foreign hills, and more defined by familiar rooms, genteel company, and the calm order of days free from dispatches or commands.

His superiors had perceived the change, perhaps before he himself had.

He had spoken of the letter to no one—not to his mother, who would fret, nor to Darcy, who would understand too well. Darcy followed the course of the war as closely as any civilian might and knew how grave the situation had become. Too many had fallen. The campaign had only grown darker.

The last thing Richard wished was to endure that singular look his cousin assumed—a terrible blend of admiration and apprehension.

Especially not now.

Especially not when he himself had not yet decided whether to go.

The library door opened to admit Lady Matlock, her countenance marked by evident agitation.

“Richard,”

said she.

“I require your assistance.”

Richard rose at once.

“You have but to name it, Mother.”

“It is Miss Mary,”

she said, with all the gravity of one naming an exile.

“She has joined the party quite unexpectedly—and I know not what is to be done with her.”

Richard arranged his features into what he hoped passed for polite surprise, and not eager curiosity.

“How remarkable. Did you, after all, extend the invitation?”

“I am at a loss.”

said the Countess.

“I believed myself quite clear on who was and was not included. I suspect some contrivance on Mrs. Bennet’s part. As you know, she is unaware of the understanding between William and Miss Elizabeth, and after the little performance you and he enacted the other day, she may now imagine that William harbours a tendre for Miss Mary.”

“Well,”

said Richard lightly.

“if nothing else, it speaks to her imagination.”

“I am not amused,”

Lady Matlock said sharply.

“Miss Mary now sits in the parlour like an unsolvable riddle, and I cannot very well send her home.”

“She will no doubt join her younger sisters and Georgiana,”

Richard ventured.

“I cannot imagine her seeking the company of Miss Bennet or Miss Elizabeth—certainly not while their attachments are so evident.”

“If she does join the girls, I shall be well content. But I am not hopeful. She does not appear to be the sort who enjoys the society of younger ladies.”

“I fail to see how I might be of service,”

Richard said cautiously.

Lady Matlock gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Go and speak with her, my dear. Just for a few moments. Perhaps, after enduring a brief conversation with you, she may come to appreciate the superior charms of the girls’ company.”

He had no intention of complying after such an affront, at least not immediately—particularly when he took no small pride in the elegance of his manners.

“So I am now to serve as a cautionary tale?”

He returned.

“A living example of conversational hardship?”

“If it works,”

his mother replied sweetly.

“you may consider it a noble sacrifice.”

“Might I suggest Miss Bingley instead? I can think of no two ladies more likely to benefit from observing how others speak civilly to servants.”

“Richard,”

Lady Matlock said sharply.

“are you not coming to the parlour? Or must I send Miss Mary in here to keep you company?”

That, Richard knew well, was a hollow threat. His mother knew more about society than most, and understood that sending an unchaperoned young lady into a library where a gentleman lingered was not to be thought of.

He sighed with an air of exaggerated resignation. Believing he had exhibited the requisite amount of reluctance, he rose with great affectation.

“Very well. I yield. Lead the way, dear lady.”

“Very good,”

she said, already turning toward the door.

“Do try not to frighten her as you did on the last occasion. You might speak of something more agreeable—poetry, perhaps, or the weather, or the dog. You may always depend upon Dot to charm.”

“I shall endeavour to do no such thing,” said he.

Mary

“Miss Mary,”

began the Colonel.

“I hope you will pardon the impertinence, but may I ask who first spoke to you of this invitation?”

Mary looked up, perplexed, striving to comprehend the purpose of such a question.

“Why, my mother, of course,”

she said.

“She told us the Countess had been so kind as to invite the whole party.”

And then it came to her—her mother’s parting words, her urging to charm Mr. Darcy. She had never truly been meant to come.

“Dear heaven,”

she whispered, all colour draining from her fac.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, I must beg you—pray, I must return to Longbourn at once. Might a maid be found to accompany me?”

“To Longbourn?”

he repeated, his tone touched with astonishment.

“But Miss Mary, you have just arrived—surely you would not consider departing so soon?”

“No, Colonel,”

she said in haste, giving a swift shake of the head.

“You cannot understand—”

But she broke off, and in the hush that followed, she perceived the truth. He did understand. He would not have asked the question otherwise.

“I understand perfectly, Miss Mary,”

he said gently, his tone touched with sympathy.

“You suspect—if I may guess—that your mother contrived your inclusion in this visit. May I ask what she said to you before you departed?”

Mary cast down her eyes, which glistened with a feeling she scarcely dared acknowledge.

“I... I cannot say,”

she said in a low voice.

“Truly, I cannot.”

The Colonel offered a gentle smile.

“Very well, then,”

said he, with the faintest glimmer of amusement.

“Allow me to hazard a guess: she may have urged you to charm Darcy, to temper your sermons, and to speak on something innocuous—such as the weather?”

Mary coloured, and despite her effort to maintain composure, a single tear escaped and slid, unbidden, down her cheek.

“You are unkind,”

she whispered.

The Colonel, however, received her gentle reproof with no visible sign of remorse.

“No, Miss Mary,”

he replied.

“I am not unkind—only honest. I hope I may call myself your friend; and a true friend must sometimes speak truths that are not welcome.”

As he spoke, he took her hands in his—lightly, yet with such sincere regard that she could not withdraw. His touch, though delicate, conveyed both steadiness and quiet reassurance.

“You have nothing for which to reproach yourself,”

he said softly.

“Your mother’s intentions, if I may speak plainly, are scarcely concealed—and her methods, rather too evident. Yet you may rest assured: neither Darcy, nor Bingley, nor even my mother think the worse of you or your sisters. On the contrary, our regard has only increased, particularly in light of the forbearance with which you endure her efforts.”

Mary, her spirits somewhat calmed by the Colonel’s assurances, gave a quiet nod. Without another word, he offered his arm, and they passed into a slow and tranquil walk. With each moment, the unease between them began to lift.

Just as the silence had grown companionable, he allowed himself a quiet laugh.

“Forgive me,”

he said, shaking his head with a smile touched by self-reproach.

“My mother’s parting instruction, before dispatching me to find you, was that I should take care not to alarm you—as I am told I most certainly did on the last occasion. And yet, my very first remark today has drawn tears. I daresay I ought to have confined myself to talk of Dot, as she most earnestly counselled me to do.”

Mary looked up in surprise.

“I had not imagined Lady Matlock to be acquainted with your commanding officer’s dog.”

The Colonel paused, his expression briefly sheepish.

“Ah—Miss Mary, Dot is my mother’s dog, not my commanding officer’s,”

he admitted.

“I must confess, when one’s mother is Lady Matilda Fitzwilliam, the distinction between her and a military superior is rather slight. Indeed, my commanding officer is, by comparison, quite mild.”

Mary’s eyes widened—and then, before she could suppress it, a genuine laugh escaped her lips.

The Colonel smiled, plainly gratified by the improvement in her spirits.

“It is a pleasure to see you more yourself, Miss Mary,”

he said warmly.

“And now, may I venture to ask—what other advice did your mother give to capture my cousin’s regard?”

Mary regarded him for a moment, her expression shaded with amusement.

“I cannot tell you,”

she said, her tone almost mischievous.

The Colonel, however, appeared wholly untroubled by her refusal.

“Very well—keep your secrets, Miss Mary,”

he said.

“Still, I should dearly like to witness your mother’s reaction when she learns of Darcy’s interest in Miss Elizabeth. I daresay she will be rather discomposed to discover she has been training the wrong sentinel.”

Mary’s smile faltered. She cast down her eyes, and the playfulness of a moment before gave way to a quiet, pensive stillness.

“Even if Mr. Darcy is not pursuing my sister,”

she said quietly.

“I am not in the least favorably disposed toward your cousin, Colonel. And in any case, I believe this is not a proper subject for conversation.”

But the Colonel shook his head with exaggerated dismay, his countenance full of mock horror.

“Good heavens, no, Miss Mary! You cannot make so bold a declaration and then abandon the topic altogether. I must know—what is it about Darcy that displeases you? I will allow that he was, at first, something of a curmudgeon—but I assure you, he is among the most eligible gentlemen in the kingdom and, if I may say so, one of the most honourable and kind-hearted men I know.”

Mary’s gaze sharpened, the fire of her frustration briefly rekindled. She parted her lips as though to speak, then closed them again, as if wrestling with her thoughts.

“We should turn the subject, Colonel,”

she said firmly.

“Or I shall be forced to go in.”

The Colonel, however, remained undeterred.

“No, Miss Mary,”

he said gently.

“I cannot permit you to retreat so easily. I daresay my cousin would be grievously disappointed to learn you think so little of him—especially when, if all proceeds as expected, he may soon be your brother.”

Mary gave him a sharp, incredulous look.

“When did I ever say I think less of Mr. Darcy?”

she retorted.

The Colonel paused, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well, I must admit,”

he said.

“you did not. But still—I am intrigued. Might I ask, Miss Mary, why you seem so determined to avoid even the prospect of marrying my cousin?”

Mary stood still, her gaze falling to the floor. She had never spoken of such matters—not even to her sisters. Yet here, with the Colonel, there was something in their acquaintance—a certain bluntness, sometimes untoward yet always unexpected—that urged her to speak, though the words came with difficulty.

At length, she began, her voice low.

“I have long resolved that I wish to marry a clergyman. It is a choice I made years ago.”

The Colonel, momentarily taken aback, halted and turned toward her.

“May I ask why, Miss Mary?”

“I do not wish to waste my days amidst idle engagements—drawing rooms, balls, and the like,”

she said, her words deliberate and sincere.

“I wish to devote myself to the service of the poor and the afflicted. I hope to become someone they may turn to without fear of disdain or dismissal. I do not seek the empty comforts of society, Colonel; I long instead for the opportunity to be of real use.”

The Colonel stood silent, his gaze fixed upon her. The pause stretched long enough for Mary to become deeply conscious of the vulnerability her confession had left exposed. At last, with a long, resigned sigh, he looked upward, as if seeking heavenly counsel to soften the truth he must now impart.

“Miss Mary,”

he said.

“my mother will not thank me for saying so, but I cannot allow this to go unremarked.”

He smiled—just barely.

“What you have just declared… is utter folly.”

Mary’s eyes widened; the words struck her like a sudden chill. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Then, with a swift turn upon her heel and her cheeks aflame, she made straight for the house.

The Colonel did not hasten to follow. He lingered, as though weighing the cost of his boldness. Then, with quiet resolve, he called after her.

“Miss Mary, if you will allow me, I shall tell you of Mrs. Reynolds.”

Mary halted, her back still turned.

“Mrs. Reynolds?”

she asked, still holding her distance, unwilling to make this conversation any easier for him.

“Indeed, Mrs. Reynolds,”

the Colonel replied, stepping forward, he took her elbow gently but firmly, guiding her away from the house.

“Mrs. Reynolds is the housekeeper at Pemberley—a fixture as enduring as the house itself, as constant as the very stones upon which it stands. When I was a child, she was there, and she has changed little since. To Darcy and Georgiana, she is almost a mother; among the tenants and staff, she is held in near reverence.”

He turned to her once more.

“She knows every soul in the neighbourhood and visits each household with unfailing regularity. She is their adviser, their confidante, their benefactress. Whenever the need arises, they turn to her counsel rather than the vicar’s. Though burdened with many duties at Pemberley, she is always at hand, and unfailingly ready to offer her assistance. She commands the respect of every soul in Pemberley and the neighbouring villages.”

A moment’s pause ensued, and the Colonel regarded her with gentle understanding, as if he had just imparted some weighty truth.

“Miss Mary,”

he added softly.

“what I would have you understand is this: it is not necessary to be a vicar—or a vicar’s wife—to be of service. One need only possess a heart—a heart willing to serve, to be at hand when others are in need. The opportunity to do good will present itself, whatever your station in life.”

Mary gave a slight nod, though her doubts remained.

“Colonel, Mrs. Reynolds enjoys such opportunity. Few housekeepers of great estates enjoy such privilege. Few masters would suffer their housekeeper to neglect her duties in order to wander beyond the bounds of the estate,”

she replied.

“I quite concur, Miss Mary,”

the Colonel replied.

“Just as not all vicar’s wives have the opportunity or inclination to do so. Nor do all vicars exert themselves beyond what is immediately required within their own vicarage.”

“But surely that is a vicar’s duty?”

she exclaimed.

“Miss Mary, duty is a notion not readily defined,”

he answered.

“Permit me to offer an example of a gentleman. Darcy has been master of his estate for nearly seven years. Pemberley is home to many tenants, with numerous souls under his protection. Do you know how much time he devotes to his duties during the farming seasons? He could easily appoint additional stewards and delegate his responsibilities—he certainly has the means. Yet, he understands it to be his duty. I have lost count of the occasions on which he has travelled from London to Pemberley in the midst of the Season, simply because something required his personal attention. You must consider—it is, at the very least, a journey of three days each way.”

The Colonel paused, gently taking her hand in his.

“One serves in many ways, Miss Mary. Darcy fulfills his duty by tending those under his care, providing Mrs. Reynolds with both the time and the means to assist others, and contributing to charities—not merely with money, but with his time and effort. Both my father and brother do the same. They are among the last of a noble few who regard stewardship as a solemn responsibility, not a privilege.”

Mary remained silent, endeavouring to grasp the full weight of his words. Once more, the Colonel had unsettled one of her long-held beliefs.