Page 24 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

A soldier conducted them into a chamber that appeared plain, a striking discord with the refined exterior of the house.

It was now employed as an office, for a vast desk occupied the centre, yet all the other furnishings of a parlour had been left in place—pieces of an elder fashion, faded, ill-kept, even shabby, which for a moment diverted Elizabeth from her apprehensions.

Then the colonel rose from the desk where he had been writing, and her heart began to beat in a wild rhythm.

However, no one could have discerned it, for her countenance was impenetrable as marble.

He was unchanged—perhaps somewhat leaner, and his hair cut shorter than of old—but in all else he was the same gentleman she had known at Rosings.

No, cried a voice within her, he can be guilty of nothing, save of yielding too readily to a lady’s caprice and to his own manly inclination.

“My dear Miss Elizabeth, what a surprise to see you here!” he spoke with his accustomed smile.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, allow me to present my uncle, Mr Gardiner.”

The gentlemen exchanged the courtesies proper, while Mr Gardiner had leisure to observe the chief actor in that adventure which had occupied them for a fortnight.

“Have you come to behold the wonders of the sea commended by Doctor Richard Russell?”

It was clear that the colonel suspected nothing intricate, and even less a circumstance that concerned him. He thought it a mere visit of civility, and he was indeed glad to see her and to meet her uncle.

“In truth,” Elizabeth said, her determination stronger than ever, “I came to speak with you.”

At that instant, a change passed across his countenance, as though he began to perceive the purpose of her visit. He knew of her journey to Pemberley, where she had certainly encountered his parents.

“May my uncle be permitted some refreshment whilst we converse?” she asked, faithfully following their plan.

When they were alone, the kind and smiling air she remembered vanished, replaced by an expression of anxiety and faint mistrust.

“You met my mother at Pemberley,” the colonel proffered in a dry tone, with almost a shade of reproof.

“Yes—” she faltered, awaiting his intent.

“And did she complain about my betrothed?” he asked without the preface which courtesy might have required.

Elizabeth’s astonishment was so plain that some of the colonel’s suspicion softened into a kinder look.

“No, most assuredly not. Lady Matlock spoke with approval of your betrothed for persuading you to take a station in London.”

Elizabeth perceived that the colonel understood, or at least suspected, that beneath her outward graciousness, his mother did not esteem his intended wife. She wondered what Lady Matlock might be when her dislike was declared openly, and she shivered.

That short exchange restored some measure of confidence between them.

“If you came neither for the sea air nor on account of my betrothed, Miss Elizabeth, then for what urgent purpose are you here?”

Elizabeth did not hesitate when she spoke, looking into his eyes. “I came indeed concerning Miss Henry, but it has nothing to do with your mother…or family.”

“I should have thought you the last person in the world to offer counsel in affairs of the heart. I recall that you rejected my cousin’s proposal because he presumed to direct Mr Bingley’s life.”

“Colonel, I have not travelled two days to offer counsel.”

“Then—?”

“My family encountered certain intelligence respecting Miss Henry, and we resolved to lay it before you.”

“Intelligence?” repeated the colonel, with such scorn that Elizabeth coloured, but in anger rather than in shame.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said with vehemence, and in the stillness of the room, her voice made quite an effect, “I thought you knew me better than to imagine I should trouble you with idle gossip. When I say intelligence, I precisely mean that. Nor am I here to advise you. I ask only that you hear me. Then you may act as you think fit—even to the extent of never speaking to me again.”

The colonel at last motioned her to proceed. They sat opposite one another, and the place suddenly bore the semblance of a field of battle rather than a friendly discourse.

“By a strange coincidence, Miss Henry is the daughter of a lady of Meryton. In their youth, my mother and aunt knew her. Her name then was Sophia Barrington, and she was their friend. Some two and twenty years ago, for a short time, her family received into their house a French gentleman of the name of Henry.”

“Stop!” cried the colonel, with all courtesy forgotten. “It cannot be she. Her father is a Scot, long since deceased. She is not the daughter of that Sophia Barrington your mother knew.”

“Then Miss Henry’s mother is not named Barrington, is she?”

It was plain that the colonel searched his memory to recall that name, so that he might once and for all settle the troublesome tale.

But in vain! After almost a year of close acquaintance, he did not know the names of her grandparents, though she had spoken of them more than once.

Even to him, resolved as he was to defend her, this seemed strange.

He was not a man to forget either names or faces, and such names he would assuredly have remembered.

And yet he did not cease to defend the woman he loved. He merely shook his head with vigour, as proof that he remained unconvinced.

“I understand you do not know her mother’s maiden name.”

The colonel, without uttering a word, shook his head once more, but this time with some hesitation. “It may be that I have forgotten it.”

“Yes, it is possible,” agreed Elizabeth. “Sophia Barrington had hair of a most brilliant red—”

“A coincidence.”

The colonel looked discomposed. “I do not recollect my future mother-in-law’s name.

I am certain it has been spoken, but I forgot it.

That is not so very alarming. Let us admit, for argument, that it is the same family.

The falsehood concerning her father is no crime.

Perhaps her parents live apart, and she was ashamed to own it.

There might be many causes for silence.”

“The Henry family of whom we speak dwelt in Southampton, in the house of Sophia’s parents, whose name was Barrington. Sophia has a child somewhat older than my sister Jane, though by a little less than a year. Jane is three and twenty. How many years has Miss Henry?”

“Four and twenty,” murmured the colonel.

“And where do her parents dwell? Name me another town besides Southampton, and I shall depart from this room and your life without a word.”

At this, the colonel started from his chair.

Elizabeth feared he would leave the room, but instead, he threw open the glass doors and stepped onto the terrace, breathing hard.

She followed him. It was grievous to hold such discourse amidst so noble a scene.

The sea at sunset was so beautiful that they were silent for several minutes.

He did not know where her parents lived, save for that vague “North” which Lady Matlock had also offered…it was apparent.

“You do not know so many things about your betrothed,” Elizabeth at last murmured, and regret flowed through every word. She felt a deep sorrow for the man.

“It is possible I have forgotten some things she told me. Unimportant! She might have deceived me in some small aspects, but I cannot comprehend your serious alarm. She will descend within half an hour, and I am persuaded this intelligence will be explained.”

“I should never have undertaken such a journey for an innocent concealment.”

“Then why did you come?” he murmured, his words drowned by the breaking waves. “You told me several things that may be mere coincidence. Yet even if they are not, the fact that her father is alive, or that they are indeed that very family from Southampton, is not in itself so grave a matter…”

His voice, however, faltered, betraying that even if not grave, they were nonetheless perplexing, and the explanations must be persuasive in order to account for those…

falsehoods. The word falsehood seared him, for it stood so far from omission—Southampton is not in the North, and that gentleman Henry, if he was indeed her father, then the matter grew decidedly unpleasant.

“I do not come with words only, Colonel,” said Elizabeth.

“I have brought several papers which Mr Henry, the husband of Mrs Henry, once Barrington, signed when he sold, in his father-in-law’s name, the house in Meryton where the family dwelt four and twenty years ago.

My uncle, Mr Phillips, acted as mediator in that sale.

From them it is plain that the Barrington family reside in Southampton—”

“Perhaps her parents dwell in the North,” the colonel said, in a desperate effort to preserve the image of his betrothed.

“It may be so. Yet these papers clearly show that the son-in-law of Mr Barrington, and he who gave to your betrothed the name of Henry—her natural father or not—is alive.”

“He may be a stepfather,” murmured the colonel.

Elizabeth inclined her head, yet continued in the same firm tone.

“Some time ago, one of my sisters discovered a letter which we believe was written by Mrs Henry to her daughter.”

“You believe ?” the colonel asked with fury, and Elizabeth saw his hands clench upon the balustrade of the balcony.

Elizabeth did not reply to his challenge, but went on. “It had been left in a book that my sister borrowed from the library at Netherfield.”

She drew from her reticule the deeds of sale of the house, together with a letter and a second paper containing its translation, but the colonel refused them.

“Miss Elizabeth, I dislike this account exceedingly. It is precisely what I supposed it would be—idle gossip from the—”

“—countryside,” Elizabeth interposed.

“Exactly. You said it, not I.”

“Yet it is what you thought, and that is most offensive to me.”

“As offensive as to me is your attack upon the woman I love.”