Page 25 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

“I am sorry. I pronounce no judgement. I have told you only that she has misled you respecting her parents—and that is certain. Do you agree?”

The poor colonel merely inclined his head, and that was of weight, for he had begun to believe Elizabeth and to doubt his betrothed.

Perhaps not in any decisive manner, yet her falsehoods were disquieting between two persons who were to shape their future together.

Yet, they might still be explained and forgiven.

“You have made this entire journey in order to show me that she deceived me concerning her family? It is unpleasant, I do not deny it, and she must offer me an explanation, yet it is not of grave importance, and she may well have reasons which I could wholly accept.”

“It is more than that,” Elizabeth said, and a deep disquiet seized her, which did not escape notice.

The colonel looked at her with astonishment, for Elizabeth Bennet was not a woman to perform a part; she was indeed distressed, sorrowful, and for the first time that afternoon, his heart seemed to cease within him.

“You must read this letter,” murmured the lady.

The colonel took the letter and, after one glance, regarded Elizabeth with astonishment. “It is in French.”

“Yes. Mr Henry is in truth Monsieur Anri, a French gentleman; and both mother and daughter speak the tongue with ease.”

Am I mistaken, or does the colonel blush? thought Elizabeth. Yet it was difficult to discern, for the sunset deepened into night. She had judged aright, however: it was more a change of bearing than of hue. It was evident that doubts assailed him.

“Does she speak French?” asked Elizabeth.

“Yes,” he muttered, recalling moments when Emmeline had whispered words in that language. He had thought it enchanting, refined, even daring. When he enquired how she had learned, she told him of a governess, a lady of rank who had fled the Revolution…not a family member.

“Pray translate the letter,” he said, and Elizabeth gave him the second paper.

They returned within, where a footman had already lighted the candles. He read with a grave countenance, then appeared relieved.

“There is nothing shocking here. Her mother disliked Meryton, and your mother—I regret to add.”

“True, but she was in Brighton to seek an officer.”

“Yes, she told me she desired marriage, and that her mother was eager for her to find a husband.”

“But why was her mother absent? Why was she left with only that relation?”

“They had an estate in Scotland, which her mother was obliged to manage.”

They listened to the sea’s unceasing sound, flowing through the open windows. It was strange to hear such noble music of nature while distress and disquiet reigned between them.

“Miss Elizabeth, I am in love, and you strive in vain to persuade me that Miss Henry conceals some secret touching our connection.”

“I understand.”

Her grief was plain upon her face, and the colonel was perplexed.

He could not comprehend what so greatly concerned this young lady, whom he had always valued and respected.

Perhaps she desired to attract Darcy’s notice, and this letter was the instrument she had chosen.

He regretted thinking so, yet she had come only to accuse the woman he loved.

“Have you married?” Elizabeth asked, though she knew the answer.

“No. We determined to wait for her mother’s return, and then to announce our engagement.

But I suspect you have not told me everything you have discovered.

What you have urged against her may be refuted with ease.

I do not believe you came so far to present so meagre a case as her mother being from Meryton. ”

“No, you are right.”

For the first time in days, Elizabeth questioned whether she was justified in laying before him all their suspicions. Suddenly, the whole affair seemed, as the colonel saw it, no more than trifles—a lover’s indulgence, forgiven without delay.

“Pray continue, Miss Elizabeth.”

“We are persuaded that Miss Henry shows an unnatural interest in your work.”

“What?” cried the colonel, springing up again.

He looked with disgust upon the young lady before him.

Once, he had held her in the highest regard, but this was beyond endurance.

He longed to dismiss her at once, yet sought to master himself, unwilling to let her go without defending the honour of his betrothed.

“An unnatural interest? Why should you suppose so monstrous a thing?”

In that moment, it ceased to signify. She had come to declare what many already suspected of Miss Henry, and whether their friendship ended mattered little.

“Because, Colonel Fitzwilliam, she sought a man of high rank—”

“There are generals, madam,” he retorted with evident derision.

“Yes, but few are unmarried. She encouraged you, with subtlety, to accept a post at the War Office, and thus you are now directly engaged in preparing for the war with France.”

“Stop. Pray stop. Are you saying that she steals intelligence from me? You have gone too far!”

“Yet that is the truth, cousin!”

Both turned to the door, where Darcy stood, his countenance as inflamed as the colonel’s own.

“Darcy! What are you doing here?” He halted, then laughed. “I perceive it now. You came together—of course, you came together. This is a contrivance to destroy Emmeline’s reputation!”

“I believe Miss Henry’s reputation is already lost. No innocent lady would pass months beneath the same roof with a gentleman—”

The colonel rose with so menacing an air that Elizabeth hastened to place herself between them. She pressed them gently apart. “Pray, gentlemen—let us be seated and converse with civility.”

“A civil manner would exclude such aspersions upon the conduct of my betrothed!” Yet the colonel yielded to Elizabeth’s request and sat down, as distant from them as he could.

“Miss Henry is properly attended, I assure you!”

“As she was in Kent?” enquired Darcy.

The colonel was so struck that he forgot his anger. “How could you possibly know—?”

“That she followed you into Kent, and that you passed almost every other night at Hunsford?”

The colonel, aghast, looked only then at the objects Darcy had placed upon the table beside him.

“Yes, the perfume, dear cousin. Each morning at breakfast, you were steeped in it. I smiled, trusting you with all my heart.”

Elizabeth coloured deeply, and they both remembered her presence.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. Then he looked towards his cousin, who took his meaning: this is how an innocent young lady responds when such words are spoken.

Darcy took a small bottle of perfume from the table and gave it to Elizabeth. “Pray read what is inscribed upon the bottom.”

“'Louis Fargeon—Parfumeur distillateur breveté fournisseur de l’Impératrice,’” Elizabeth read aloud. “'Patented perfumer, supplier to the Empress.’”

“And—?” asked the colonel, still with vehemence.

“And this is a bottle from France. Do you suppose Jean-Louis Fargeon distributes in England, in time of war, bottles which bear the boast that he supplies the wife of Napoleon?”

Only then did the colonel perceive that Darcy had brought objects from Miss Henry’s chamber. He started violently. “What have you done? Were you in her room? Where is Emmeline?”

He spoke like a man beside himself, and again Elizabeth feared that the interview might end in violence.

He seemed about to rush to his mistress’s apartments when Darcy thundered forth, reading from a paper: “Fourteen Martello towers were raised along the western shore of Pevensey Bay, extending as far as Tower seventy-three. They are forty feet in height, with two floors, and a garrison of one officer and fifteen to five-and-twenty men. Their round form and massive masonry render them proof against cannon; their height makes them fit platforms for a single heavy gun, turned upon the flat roof, and capable of sweeping a complete circle. Nine towers possess moats or additional works for greater defence.”

The colonel stood as if turned to stone. He snatched the paper from Darcy’s hand, read it, then seized another from the pile. There were maps with the positions of the towers and particulars of each.

“Where did you discover these?” His voice was hoarse, and Elizabeth, alarmed, drew nearer and seated herself beside him. His hands trembled; large drops of sweat stood upon his brow. She laid her pale hand upon his sunburnt ones to still their shaking.

“In Mrs Avery’s room.”

“Then her aunt is guilty,” he said, with effort, yet with a flicker of hope.

“Stop, Richard,” Darcy replied, his voice softened. He was once more the brother, the anxious, compassionate friend. He allowed Elizabeth to join in his entreaty.

“Yes—pray, Colonel, listen to Mr Darcy.”

“Even if she is not directly guilty, she must have known what passed among those closest to her. Perhaps this Mrs Avery collected and arranged the intelligence, but it was Miss Henry’s charge to entrap you.

The letter proves her knowledge. She undertook the duty laid upon her by her parents, or by this Mrs Avery. ”

The colonel breathed with great difficulty, his eyes often returning to the papers in his hands.

They bore particulars of his mission—facts known only to himself.

He remembered how frequently Mrs Avery—pretending indisposition—remained in her room while they ate dinner or breakfast. His room was heavily secured, yet in such circumstances it would have been easy to steal the keys both to his chamber and to the desk within.

“This is treason; she copied the documents that are kept in the cabinet of my study,” he said. He cast the papers upon the floor and sank into a posture of such despair that tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. She laid her hand upon his back, whispering words heard only by him.