Page 37

Elizabeth had risen that morning with hope fluttering in her chest. The walks of the past few days had drawn her nearer to Fitzwilliam Darcy than she had dared to imagine.

Their conversations—sometimes light, sometimes taut with unspoken thought—had rekindled in her a feeling both familiar and dearly missed.

Foolish though it may be, she had begun to hope that he, too, felt the same.

If yesterday’s walk had not ended as warmly as she had wished, she told herself it must be due to some passing concern—some momentary shadow across his otherwise attentive manner.

She had replayed their final exchange in her mind again and again, searching for the misstep that might explain the subtle but unmistakable shift in his demeanor.

Something had changed. And though she could not name it, she feared it might be her fault.

Still, she longed to see him again. Perhaps today, she thought, would offer another chance to mend the invisible thread between them.

With that silent hope nestled beneath her heart, she took once more to the path that had become her own—the winding trail through Rosings Park, shaded and still glistening with spring’s early dew.

But it was not Fitzwilliam Darcy who appeared at the bend beneath the tall elms.

Colonel Fitzwilliam approached with his usual easy stride and ready smile, and Elizabeth was quick to conceal her disappointment.

“I did not know before that you ever walked this way,” she said, recovering her composure with practiced ease.

“I have been making my usual tour of the park,” he replied, “as I do every spring, and thought to end it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

“No, I had meant to turn back just here,” she said, offering a polite smile though her thoughts were elsewhere. A thousand half-formed reflections swirled in her mind—on Darcy, on yesterday, and on what unguarded word or glance might have led him to retreat from her.

They walked on a few paces in companionable silence, until the Colonel glanced at her, his tone still light but laced with something more deliberate.

You know, Miss Bennet,” he said, “I’ve always thought you a woman of uncommon insight.”

She tilted her head with a faint laugh. “Is that so? I daresay my sisters would disagree.”

“Ah, but I mean it seriously,” he said, his gaze sharpening with interest. “You seem to read people exceedingly well. Even my cousin—who is not, I must say, the easiest man to understand.”

Her heart gave a small lurch. She tucked it away behind another smile. “Mr. Darcy does not hide his thoughts quite so well as he believes. With a little patience, one might come to understand him.”

He made a small, thoughtful noise, and for a moment, they walked in silence again—though Elizabeth sensed the pause was purposeful, not idle .

Then: “You know, Miss Bennet,” he said again, almost as if continuing a thread only he could see, “I hope you’ll forgive a cousin’s partiality when I speak well of Darcy. But I’ve always admired how deeply he cares for those he considers his own.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, her composure intact—but something in her chest tensed. The turn in his tone was too subtle to accuse, but not so faint as to ignore.

“Yes,” he continued, “he is a most steadfast guardian to Georgiana, and as dear to me as any brother. I should not hesitate to defend either of them against any threat—real or imagined.” His voice held a genial note, but his eyes searched hers.

Elizabeth met his gaze evenly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a composed smile. “You need not fear on their account, Colonel. I assure you, I mean no harm to Mr. Darcy or Miss Darcy.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam did not smile. His brow furrowed with a soldier’s intent—not brusque, but deliberate, as though she had drawn his focus to a particular ridge he now meant to inspect for weakness.

“Indeed?” he said lightly, though the tone beneath was unmistakably strategic.

“Then perhaps you’ll forgive the liberty of a question or two.

Merely for my own clarity. I find it helps, when something baffles me, to march around it.

Inspect from all sides. Familiar terrain is rarely what it first appears. ”

Elizabeth inclined her head, uncertain whether to be amused or alarmed.

“Georgiana, for instance,” the Colonel began, still conversational. “She is a dear girl, though painfully reserved in company. And yet you, Miss Bennet, seem remarkably acquainted with her musical preferences. Clementi , I believe you said?”

Elizabeth’s composure held. “It was but a guess—he is a favourite of many young ladies of her age. His sonatas are elegant, clear.”

“Yes,” the Colonel agreed mildly. “Though Georgiana’s taste is rather more distinct than most. For years she preferred Beethoven—Lady Catherine calls it wild, of course, but Georgiana has always admired strength in harmony.”

Elizabeth offered a light shrug. “Clementi or Beethoven, I dare say one can hardly go wrong. Both are fashionable.”

The Colonel nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. And yet the other evening, you chose not Clementi, nor even one of the older Italian masters, but Beethoven’s Sonata in E-flat, Opus 81a.

A curious choice, for such a recent composition.

I was given to understand it was published only this past winter—and not widely circulated beyond the Continent. ”

“I—I saw the score,” Elizabeth said quickly. “On the pianoforte at Rosings. I did not realise it was so new. I have played it before—once or twice. Perhaps it stayed in my fingers.”

“Indeed?” he said again, gently. “An uncommon piece to stumble upon—and to play so well. You performed it as though you knew it intimately.”

Elizabeth felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “I am fond of music, Colonel. One may develop a quick ear.”

“No doubt,” he said, offering a faint, knowing smile. “And then there was Mr. Darcy’s favourite— ‘Ode to the Happy Heart,’ was it? A remarkably obscure choice. I confess, I’ve rarely heard it outside a private circle.”

Elizabeth looked away. “It was... a fortunate guess.”

“Fortunate indeed,” he said quietly. “Three guesses in a row. One might think you had spent years with them.”

She did not reply.

“I am trained to observe inconsistencies, Miss Bennet,” he continued, his voice softening.

“In campaign, small discrepancies may presage great dangers. When something is off, a commander must know why. You speak with precision, you play as if rehearsed beside them, you flinch when I speak of danger... and you call my cousin—Fitzwilliam—by his given name, as though it were habit.”

Elizabeth froze. Her eyes lifted to his, and in them she saw it—that quiet, watchful sharpness of a man who had marked more than he had spoken. A chill ran through her, not for his words alone, but for the certainty that lay behind them.

Fitzwilliam.

The name rang in her ears now with dreadful clarity.

When had she said it? She searched her memory, sifting through their conversation like a woman retracing her steps in a fog.

Had it been yesterday? Yes—yes, that must be it.

A casual remark, spoken without thought, without awareness.

And afterward—his silence. That sudden, disquieting withdrawal.

How easily it had slipped from her. How carelessly. As though it belonged to her—as though she had spoken it a hundred times before. And now, in the Colonel’s measured gaze, she saw what her heart had not wished to acknowledge: it had not passed unnoticed.

Her familiarity, so unthinking, so intimate—it had marked her out. Her presumption had betrayed her .

A flush crept up her cheeks; her hands twisted together in sudden desperation.

Not in this time , she thought, dismayed.

Not here. “Oh—” she breathed, her voice scarcely more than a tremor.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, I... I can explain. But please—please—allow me to speak with him first. Let me explain it to Mr. Darcy. I beg you.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, during which the air between them seemed to grow thick with silent calculation, he said, “And why, Miss Bennet, should I permit that? Why not explain yourself to me, here and now?”

Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She had expected such a question—and yet, when it came, she found herself no more prepared to answer. How could she possibly begin? The truth, spoken aloud, would seem to him no more than the ravings of a madwoman.

“I do understand your suspicions, Colonel,” she said at last, her voice low but steady. “Truly, I do. But there are things I cannot—indeed, I must not—say to anyone but Mr. Darcy himself. Were you to know their nature, I believe you would agree my caution is not without cause.”

He studied her with the deliberation of a man assessing a battlefield—one who knew that a single misplaced footstep might conceal a snare.

“You ask a great deal, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, his voice thoughtful but firm.

“You request silence in the face of uncertainty, loyalty in place of proof. I am trained to weigh risks, to distinguish between a ruse and an ally. If I allow my cousin to walk blind into something—whatever this is—I must answer for it.”

“I do not seek to mislead him—or you,” she said, her voice rich with sincerity. “Only to speak with him. Once. In private. I swear to you, that is all.”

He inclined his head slightly, though his eyes never left hers. “And what,” he asked, “is it that you must say in secret that could not be said here and now, to one who has known him all his life—and would defend him with mine?”

She hesitated, but did not falter. “Because the truth, Colonel,” she said, “is like nothing you could imagine. And once it is spoken, it cannot be taken back. It must be told rightly, to the one man whose belief can change everything—or ruin it.”