Page 7

Richard

Richard turned toward the lane which struck him as the most agreeable—the ground being more evidently worn by frequent passage. An elderly lady in Meryton had informed him that Netherfield Park was the principal house in the neighbourhood, and it was natural to suppose that a residence of such consequence would be approached by the more travelled path. Even Shadow, his white stallion, appeared disposed to take that path.

After proceeding about a mile farther, he reined in his horse and dismounted, prompted by a necessity which could not be deferred. A little beyond the road, a dense thicket promised privacy, and he made his way in that direction. Yet scarcely had he turned aside when his eyes fell upon a sight wholly unexpected.

Beyond the tangled foliage, the ground dipped sharply, revealing a small and tranquil pond, its surface glimmering where the sunlight broke through the canopy above. At its edge stood a noble oak, its ancient branches stretching in every direction. Close beside it moved a young woman, whose step was so light and unstudied she seemed scarcely to touch the earth—as though some woodland nymph had taken form beneath the boughs.

She was alone, attired in a simple white muslin gown that hung about her with unstudied grace. No bonnet adorned her head, and her dark hair fell unbound over her shoulders—an appearance scarcely suited to propriety. She moved with the ease of one untouched by restraint, her step light as the breeze that stirred the branches above. There was no music, no partner to offer a gentleman’s lead, yet she danced as one lost to a melody only she could hear. Her face was radiant with delight, as though she were some spirit caught between worlds.

Richard remained motionless, held fast not by the sight alone, but by the affecting nature of it. The purpose that had led him to the thicket was forgotten entirely. He could think of nothing but the vision before him. She seemed wholly unaware of his presence, lost in her dance until at length she stilled, her breath soft with the quiet ease of contentment.

Only then did Richard stir, his senses slowly recalled to the world about him. His gaze lingered as she bent to retrieve something nestled at the base of the tree—hairpins, delicate and catching the light with a faint shimmer. With practiced ease, she gathered her hair and secured it in a manner that struck him as both severe and wholly unbecoming. Yet greater dismay awaited him; for she bent once more and drew forth a pair of spectacles, which she then placed upon her nose with studied care.

In a fleeting moment, the delicate young woman who had occupied his whole attention vanished, replaced by a countenance that recalled the darkest corners of his memory. There stood the very image of his first governess, whom Richard had named Miss Gloomfell—stern, unforgiving, and as grim as the day she compelled him to recite Latin until his eyes burned with unshed tears.

To his dismay, she turned. Their eyes met—and she uttered a cry so sudden, it might almost have been rehearsed for the stage. Richard promptly raised both hands in surrender, as though assuring a startled woodland creature rather than a lady of evident sensibility.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss,”

said he, with all the humility he could summon.

“if I have caused you any alarm. I am Mr. Fitzwilliam, bound for Netherfield.”

At this, the lady behaved in a manner not found in any manual of genteel conduct: she raised both hands to her ears, as though the very sound of his voice were too improper to be borne.

“Do not address me!”

she cried.

“We have not been introduced! It is quite improper.”

Richard blinked once, then again, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Indeed. Quite right,”

he said gravely.

“How remiss of me. Forgive me, madam.”

He turned with great ceremony toward the vast oak that loomed beside them like a patient chaperone.

“Mr. Oak,”

he said with exaggerated reverence.

“you have surely stood here for many years and require no ceremony. Might you do me the honour of introducing me to this charming wood nymph? She appears to hold you in the highest esteem, having entrusted you with her belongings—and, by all appearances, a fair portion of her temper.”

A blush rose swiftly to the lady’s cheeks, bright and unmistakable, though it was almost immediately banished by a scowl of such icy command that Miss Gloomfell herself might have applauded.

“Are you mocking me, sir?”

she asked, her tone sharp.

“What manner of gentleman are you?”

Richard’s grin could not be helped—it escaped of its own accord.

“Oh, I never pretend to be a gentleman, madam,”

he said with a mock bow.

“At present, I am merely a man thoroughly misplaced—driven to such desperation as to seek guidance from a tree.”

The young lady fixed him with a look that might well have suited a magistrate examining an unruly petitioner. Then, to his considerable surprise, she turned on her heel without a word and proceeded past him toward the road.

“As you have so eloquently observed,”

she called over her shoulder.

“Mr. Oak is venerable, ancient, and no doubt familiar with every inch of this wood. I am sure he will direct you to Netherfield with far greater accuracy than I.”

With that, she vanished into the trees, her bonnet trailing ribbons like a banner of victory.

Richard stood quite still, somewhat befuddled, and altogether charmed.