Page 33

Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, and his departure, though marked with expressions of fondness and satisfaction, brought little change to the daily rhythm of the Parsonage.

Elizabeth, accustomed to Charlotte’s quiet management, found herself again grateful for the way her friend so deftly orchestrated her household.

Mr. Collins’s time was now largely confined to gardening, window gazing, and performing his duties in his book room at the front of the house—Charlotte, with great prudence, had designated the smaller, rear drawing-room for the ladies’ use, ensuring her husband remained comfortably ensconced in his own domain.

Elizabeth soon gave Charlotte credit for this small yet significant victory of domestic tranquility.

The lane to Rosings was visible from Mr. Collins’s window, and every phaeton or passing cart became a matter of report.

Miss de Bourgh’s drives were noted with near religious reverence, and should she pause even a moment to exchange civilities, Mr. Collins relayed every word with proud gravity.

Lady Catherine herself continued her customary intrusions, with examinations into their embroidery, unsolicited advice on the hanging of draperies, and severe scrutiny of the meat joints.

Yet Elizabeth, older in heart and wiser from her former life, now looked upon Lady Catherine with greater charity.

It was evident to her now that the great lady was lonely—her need to be heard and obeyed perhaps sprang as much from solitude as from pride.

Elizabeth made quiet efforts to engage Miss de Bourgh when they called at Rosings or during the rare instances Anne returned a visit.

With great care not to rouse Lady Catherine’s attention, she began drawing the pale girl into conversations on Gothic novels.

To Elizabeth’s pleasure, Anne warmed slightly when they spoke of Radcliffe’s heroines and the gloom of ruined abbeys.

In this unlikely subject they found common ground, though never while Lady Catherine’s ear was near.

Elizabeth passed the days walking frequently along her favourite sheltered path near the edge of the Rosings estate—a grove few seemed to appreciate, yet it became for her a sanctuary.

There, amid the filtered sunlight and early spring breezes, she allowed herself moments of reflection.

Charlotte, though busy with her domestic concerns and the demands of her husband’s parish, always spared Elizabeth a few stolen half hours of candid conversation.

Those interludes reminded Elizabeth why she had cherished Charlotte as a friend, despite the quiet distance that now lay between them.

It was in this quiet rhythm of visits, embroidery, Rosings dinners, and solitary walks that the fortnight passed.

Yet with each passing day, Elizabeth’s anticipation grew.

For she knew who was to arrive soon—Mr. Darcy.

Her heart lifted at the thought, but it was not unaccompanied by unease.

Would he see her presence here as calculated?

Would his suspicions, already kindled by her inexplicable familiarity with his affairs, now be further inflamed?

Or might his intrigue, his deep and conflicted affection, overcome such wariness?

More than that, Colonel Fitzwilliam would be with him.

A man of kindness, yes, but also one whose eyes had long been trained by military intelligence.

He would notice much. She would need to be careful, to mask the weight of knowledge in her gaze.

Her heart longed for the comfort of Fitzwilliam’s embrace, yet she knew the path forward would not be easy.

Still, these two weeks had given her hope—fragile, yes, but blooming anew with every passing day.

On the following morning of his arrival, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam called at the parsonage.

Charlotte, ever the careful hostess, received them with the composure and civility for which she was so justly known.

Mr. Collins, delighted to welcome the nephews of his esteemed patroness, made an elaborate display of his gratitude, though his addresses were mercifully short-lived as he excused himself soon after to tend his garden.

Mr. Darcy greeted each lady with a formal bow, his eyes lingering upon Elizabeth with a perplexed air, as if her presence there continued to confound his expectations.

There was nothing improper in his look, only a restrained intensity that suggested his mind was turning over some internal disquiet.

Elizabeth, who had braced herself for this moment with composure rehearsed in many a sleepless hour, met his gaze steadily, though her heart beat uncomfortably in her chest.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, more at ease and amiable, soon engaged her in conversation with the polished affability that only good breeding and military confidence could bestow.

His manners were warm, his tone light, and Elizabeth soon found herself smiling at his jest—yet there was something unfamiliar in the course their exchange took.

"Miss Bennet," he said with a pleasant inclination of his head, "I had heard you were fond of music, and I confess, I am curious to know—do you favour any composer in particular? I find it always tells one so much about a person."

The question was harmless enough to any bystander, but Elizabeth’s spine straightened instinctively.

It was not a question he had asked on their first acquaintance—not here, not then.

That, coupled with the tone of casual inquiry so deftly masking what felt like a deliberate prod, unsettled her.

She glanced briefly at Mr. Darcy, whose expression, though carefully composed, was far from disinterested.

"I have always enjoyed Haydn," she replied after a beat too long. "Though perhaps I should credit my father, who finds his works well suited for study, and my younger sister Mary, who prefers their moral structure to the frivolity of the Italian school. "

Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled, but there was a flicker of calculation in his eye. "Indeed? And are you fond of the ode he composed—what was it called—ah, yes, 'Ode to the Happy Heart'?"

Elizabeth’s breath caught, though she concealed it beneath a polite smile. "It is a charming piece," she said carefully, though her thoughts were racing. What had Fitzwilliam told his cousin? Had her slip at Netherfield regarding Georgiana's taste made its way into conversation?

“Ah, but surely your persuasion lies in delighting the ears of others. Tell me then, do you favour Clementi over Beethoven?”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. The questions, on their own could seem innocent on the surface, felt carefully chosen. No stranger could guess such things.

She met the Colonel’s gaze. “That is a curious question, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said, her tone easy but her words deliberate. “I would not have thought my musical tastes known beyond Hertfordshire.”

“Oh, well,” he said lightly, “perhaps they are not. But it is often amusing to guess.”

Her eyes slid briefly to Mr. Darcy, who sat still, his expression unreadable, though she noted a tightness about his mouth.

“I enjoy both, but my mood determines which I prefer,” Elizabeth said carefully.

Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled, but something in his gaze sharpened. “Indeed. A woman of taste must always be guided by her feelings.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “We are all slaves to something, Colonel.”

Mr. Darcy finally inquired after her family, and she replied with the usual pleasantries.

Then, with a casual tone that belied her deeper interest, she asked, “Were you much in town this winter?”“My eldest sister has been in town these three months,” she said, her voice light.

“Have you never happened to see her there?”

Mr. Darcy answered, his voice lower than before. “I was not in London long. I spent much of the season in the North.”

“And Mr. Bingley?” she asked, tone measured. “Has he returned to town?”

“I have not seen Bingley since we left Hertfordshire,” he replied, and his gaze, though steady, betrayed a flicker of discomfort.

Elizabeth inclined her head gently. “I daresay the city is large enough to lose even the most determined of friends. ”

Colonel Fitzwilliam raised a brow but made no further comment.

The conversation meandered from there, touching on neutral topics—weather, roads, the grandness of Rosings.

But the earlier tension lingered like perfume in the air.

Elizabeth answered pleasantly, her wit never quite absent, but there was a guardedness now, a shift in the footing of her performance.

When the gentlemen took their leave, Mr. Darcy only nodded to her as he departed, his eyes still thoughtful, still unreadable.

As the door shut behind them, Elizabeth exhaled slowly.