Page 14 of Secrets Across the Sea

Staffordshire, England – 1812 – Day 2

“It is a pleasure to enjoy the acquaintance of so many fine ladies,” Lord Ramsgate remarked as the guests of Lady Charmane sat down for tea; Mr. Bingley and Lord Brayburn still absent.

“I imagine life at Dartmoor is too quiet for an active man,” Lady Charmane said as she passed him his tea. “A young man such as yourself requires action I suspect.”

“True. Since my wife died the summer before last, life at Dartmoor has been dull indeed.”

“Does not running the estate keep you occupied?” Mary asked, her eyes burning in challenge.

“Perhaps I allow my steward to do more than I ought,” Lord Ramsgate smiled, “for I fear an hour’s correspondence and a weekly chat with the staff are all I manage. A rather insipid mode of life, yet, what else is a peer meant to do?”

Oh no. Mary’s ire would be raised. Jane’s too. Not that they were wrong, Elizabeth frowned as she studied the man. The Baron appeared as obtuse as he was handsome; the latter the only point in his favour, unless one considered his title and estate of course… and with the haphazard running of his property, he might well lose that before he reached forty.

“Politics. Improving the lot of those whose livelihoods are tied to their estate. Bettering oneself. To name a few,” the Colonel answered before any of the Bennet ladies were tempted beyond restraint. “Though, what each chooses varies widely. I have seen Lords find ways to increase the yield of their crops, or who seek tenants who will make the most of their tenancy. Others who choose to champion the cause of the House of Lords, or do their part to help end Napoleon’s reign. Each finds their purpose and follows after it. A peer, unlike the bulk of the landed gentry, can choose a path which might otherwise be closed. Responsibility bringing reward in its wake.”

Lord Ramsgate’s shoulders pulled straight as he answered, “Politics are not for me, and I am no soldier. As to the rest, a steward ought to handle those tasks. It would not do to put a man out of work when it is in my power not to,” he paused, a dark smirk forming as he cooed, “that would be… irresponsible .”

Taking a sip of his tea, the Colonel set it down with a sly grin. “If that is your view, then I hope for your sake there is nothing vulpine in his character. The man left with the keys to the castle is able, after all, to see that the gate is lowered while his master is away… and enjoy the bounties without raising it again.”

Mr. Darcy’s expression rose as he sat back in his chair, the majority of the room mixed between pique and wonder; Lord Ramsgate bordering on fury as he gripped his cup, his knuckles turning white as the delicate porcelain in his grasp sought life.

Reaching to set her cup on the small table beside Mary, Elizabeth paused mid reach before completing the task and sitting back, eyes flitting between Mary and the Colonel.

Impressed? Smitten? Mary appeared thus… but then, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attention kept cutting Mary’s way. He sought her response. Whatever Mary’s feelings, however new, they were shared.

Ire at Lord Ramsgate had turned to awe as Mary had viewed the Colonel. The folly of the first muted by the resolute character of the second–though, had her own eyes not seen it, believing that her sister was attracted to a soldier might prove untenable.

Mary’s fascination with clergymen had been short lived, as had her quoting of sermons, but the heart of those early interests remained. She wished to better herself, to help others, and to accept her responsibilities. An attractive, passionate man such as the Colonel could easily beguile Mary. And for all she might desire her sisters to remain at home, if first impressions proved true, Mary might do far worse.

“Reverend,” Miss Wordsworth began, the attention of all on her after the lengthy silence, “how near is your parish? Will we have the honour of listening to your sermons over the coming weeks?”

“It stands less than two miles from here and, as Lady Charmane serves as patroness, there will be every opportunity to hear my sermons if you desire… Sundays of course, and Christmas morning. Given the age of the building and the cold winds which blow, it is not too drafty; a blessing in December.”

“I look forward to it greatly,” Miss Wordsworth said, her cheeks pinked as she dipped her head, the cup held within interesting.

“I must endeavor to craft sermons riveting enough to please you and all the guests here it would seem,” he answered.

Thus, conversation continued for some hours in that same fashion, the servants supplying ample food to stifle talk amongst those not as inclined to endless chatter; the more eager conversationalists never deterred. Yet, as the hours passed and the food left, the remarking of Lady Charmane on the time proved a welcome relief, her guests content at the interruption and eager to seek sanctuary in their rooms until the evening meal would be announced.

Slumping against her bedroom door, Elizabeth lifted her head toward the ceiling.

Surely the weeks remaining would not be so horrid? The walk with Mr. Darcy had been a delight, but that… that farce in the drawing room was a terror. Well, aside from Colonel Fitzwilliam’s witty remarks and the few moments of conversation managed with Mr. Darcy when he rose to obtain a tart and lingered by her side. Those were agreeable, the rest were not.

There was hope, what with Mr. Darcy, his cousin, Mr. Bingley, and to a lesser extent, Lord Brayburn and one or two others. Still, it had proved an odd choice of guests; peers, gentry, clergy, and a tradesman all invited, and not all agreeing with such a pairing. And she and her sisters knew no more than when they had received the invitation.

No. She would have to find a way to interrogate Lady Charmane.

And soon.

∞∞∞

“I heard that Mr. Bingley took a fall earlier, you would not have known it when we met the last of Lady Charmane’s guests; he is alright, I trust?” Elizabeth questioned her sisters as they sat in her room, the few moments apart from the rest of the guests welcome.

“He is well,” Jane sighed, “though the sight of his fall frightened me; the stream dips you see, so falling from his horse to the water below must have been equal to the height of two men.”

“I am glad he is alright–Colonel Fitzwilliam believed him to be, but I wanted to be sure. I hope your next ride is not as eventful.” Feet extended toward the warmth of the fire, Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she studied her sisters. “Whatever is it? Jane glowering in that severe manner, and you, Mary, wreathed in happiness… I said nothing which might warrant either.”

“Jane does not approve of Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mary remarked, the mention of Mr. Darcy’s cousin enough to inflame Jane’s ire.

“No?”

“Not his behavior, in any case,” Jane answered pertly.

“He leapt down into the freezing water if you will recall to see to Mr. Bingley, and sought to ensure no injuries were had,” Mary countered, her brows lifting as her previous good humour began to vanish.

“Then he mocked Mr. Bingley after he had.”

“Mocked?” Elizabeth questioned with much skepticism. “A man who leapt into icy water to help his friend would not be eager to mock.”

“Mocked may be harsh,” Jane admitted, “but once Mr. Bingley came to stand, the Colonel pointed at him and laughed. Loudly.”

Fighting her amusement with only momentary success, Elizabeth’s laughter bubbled up, her eyes cutting to Mary who slowly began to join in.

Arms crossed, Jane huffed as she glanced between them.

“Remember at harvest time,” Mary chuckled as she turned toward Elizabeth, “how I fell in the mud? We both laughed and laughed once the worry and shock of it all wore away.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said as she at last stilled her laughter, though the grin she bore stretched wide. “I remember. I also remember how upset Jane was that you entered the kitchen covered in mud and… you know.” Facing Jane Elizabeth softened her tone, “Is it all so bad that you would condemn the friend of the man you wish to defend? If sisters can find folly and humour in one another’s falls, why would close friends not do the same? Men, after all, tease one another far more than women do.”

“He did not mean any harm,” Mary said softly, her gaze hopeful as she turned toward Jane.

“He did not,” Jane agreed, a faint lift to her lips following as she drew deeper into her chair. “And I admit I see where he might have found humour in the situation; though I think he ought to have waited until Mr. Bingley laughed before doing so.”

“So, Mr. Bingley did find it amusing in the end?”

“He did,” she admitted with a nod, “though I did not.”

“No,” Mary agreed. “Though I am certain I saw a curl to your lips when you viewed him splattered with mud.”

“Dressed in mud is more like it,” Jane chuckled. “It covered him from head to toe… how a man can appear so handsome drenched as he was, I do not know?”

“Handsome you say?” Elizabeth teased. “Well, I know who you will want to sit by at dinner.”

Blinking rapidly, Jane’s face reddened. “I… that is… I.”

“I see. Well, I shall do my best to see it done. What of you, Mary? Any gentleman you wish to be seated by?”

The sound of the gong reverberating through the household, Mary shot up and toward the door; Elizabeth’s suspicions confirmed.

“We ought not be late,” Mary remarked as she hurried through the doorway.

Two sisters smitten? Elizabeth laughed to herself, a frown forming as Jane followed after Mary. Two.

With Kitty all but married and now this, it would not be long before Lydia and she were left alone. Not that their sisters’ newfound attractions would necessarily lead to matrimony. Both finding husbands at a house party seemed unlikely. The Bennet sisters were not exactly catches–no wealth to speak of or great family connections.

No. Two matches would be unlikely. But one? Unfortunately, that sounded far from improbable. Much too far.

∞∞∞

Coming round the corner to the dining room, Elizabeth chanced to see Lady Charmane in one of the smaller rooms of the grand house, the ajar door as close to an invitation she would find.

Knocking on the doorframe, Elizabeth waited until the Countess met her gaze before stepping inside.

“Lady Charmane,” Elizabeth began as she came to stand before her. “My sisters and I were surprised at our invitation. The missive we had from our Aunt Gardiner hinted at an acquaintance between our late mother, Mrs. Fanny Bennet, and yourself, though you can well guess that only offered up more questions.”

“Indeed, that could puzzle even one as discerning as yourself,” Lady Charmane said, her gaze flicking toward the doorway. “A pity we must hurry to sup; a good hostess ought never leave her guests waiting.”

Opening her mouth to object, Elizabeth watched the Countess dart from the room like the dogs at a hunt. Now she had more questions than before–not the least of which involved the eccentric Lady Charmane.

Huffing, Elizabeth left the empty space and made her way to the long, crowded table in the dining room, the sight of a space between Mr. Darcy and Lord Brayburn smoothing her features. A place elsewhere might have been enough to send her to her bed.

Standing, Mr. Darcy greeted her with a smile. “Miss Elizabeth, please, sit here. I hope the end of your afternoon proved quieter and more agreeable than the first?”

“It did, Mr. Darcy. Though not as pleasing as the start of my day; I am very fond of walking.”

“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth,” the Earl said, a slight bow of his head given as he came to stand.

“Good evening, Lord Brayburn; has your head improved?” Elizabeth asked as she took her seat, the gentlemen following suit.

“Not its source,” he answered cryptically. “However, the ache has lessened.”

Shifting in her seat as she sought to puzzle out the man’s meaning, Elizabeth’s gaze turned toward Mr. Thomson as his voice raised across the table.

“A traitor,” he growled, Elizabeth’s eyes growing wide as his hand came down on the table with a thud, the rattle of dishes drawing the attention of many. “His grandfather spied on the British, you know; he was a traitor, and what is worse, I hear that the man’s son was no better. HE may not have spied on the British, what with the war having ended and all, but his sympathies lay with that ‘fools nation!’ I would be surprised if such feelings did not reside in the newest master of Pemberley. He grew up there, you know, across the sea. Worse still, he waited until there were rumours of war before he returned… earning a place amongst us so he might emulate the role of his grandfather, if you take my meaning.”

“How awful,” Miss Edmund said, hand coming to her chest as her eyes darted toward Mr. Darcy. “Do you think we are safe?”

Safe? As if Mr. Darcy would harm anyone, Elizabeth’s thoughts roared as she glanced between them and the stoic gentleman beside her. What gall! Injuring a man’s reputation while seated at the same table. Few of them knew Darcy well, but even if this history of his family were true, blaming him for those who were dead felt… ridiculous. Wrong.

“Worry not,” Mr. Thomson remarked, hand boldly coming to rest on Miss Edmund’s. “I shall remain alert. No one will harm you… I will see to that.”

Sitting back in her seat, the scowl Elizabeth wore rested in full opposition to the awe resting upon Miss Edmund’s–the woman had been drawn in as a lamb to the slaughter.

She would keep an eye on the pair, but there would be little she could do to help Miss Edmund if help were not wanted… and if the tale remained real in the young lady’s mind, then any who chose friendship with Mr. Darcy and his circle would be without trust.

Gulping, Elizabeth could hear Mr. Thomson’s defamatory speech echo in her mind, twisting its way deep within. Did she believe him? About Darcy being a spy? No. That was unlikely. The rest? That was harder to judge.

Harder to know if it mattered.

“Pemberley?” Colonel Fitzwilliam uttered darkly. “You speak of my cousin then, it seems, Mister Thomson. I would have thought gossip to be beneath any man; let alone one who has designs toward being a gentleman.”

“Fitz,” Darcy said softly, his head shaking as he sought to calm his cousin.

“Gossip? No. Fact. I will forgive your remark however, Colonel…” Mr. Thomson sneered, “such manners must be expected from a man in your profession. Your outburst this afternoon lends credence to that.”

“Ah, the white soup,” Lady Charmane interrupted, though the two men continued to incite the battle with their eyes. “My housekeeper and I discussed a new addition to its flavouring. Veal and the typical delights of course, with a new spice from Bombay. Do try it!”

Thus, each of her guests obeyed her directive, the soft sounds of dipping spoons and sipping the only noises to be had.

To her left Mr. Darcy sat unnaturally straight and stiff, his face a blank, though Elizabeth could have sworn his jaw twitched. Further down the expanse and across, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s fingers clenched around his spoon, his eyes cutting down the row to Mr. Thomson; the wicked man proud as a peacock and flirting shamelessly with Miss Edmund as conversation at last resumed.

Horrid little , Elizabeth began to think uncharitably of Mr. Thomson, until the deep, quiet voice of Mr. Darcy drew her gaze and thoughts.

“Please, Miss Elizabeth… do not distress yourself.” His lips curling, he added, “If you continue to stare at Mr. Thomson with such fierceness, he may yet call you out. Though I would gladly take your place were he to do so, dueling is illegal you know.”

Shoulders easing, Elizabeth let out an unsteady laugh. “Has that improved my countenance? Might we avoid a duel?”

“No duels,” he agreed, his voice growing soft as he continued, “To your countenance, in all its veins I have found no fault. Though, I readily profess, its manner in this moment is first in those I have beheld.”

Dipping her head, Elizabeth gulped. How had they come to this? From anger and frustration at Mr. Thomson… to… to quiet words and compliments, and with the very man Mr. Thomson had maligned.

With Mr. Darcy.

“Elizabeth,” Mary’s voice carried from her place by the Colonel, “would you mind terribly if Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Bingley, Jane, and myself were to go riding again tomorrow? You are welcome to come, of course… only, I know how much you dislike handling horses.”

With a nervous chuckle Elizabeth reached for her glass, the eyes of those around her, including the handsome Mr. Darcy, turned toward her. Fear mingled with a simple disinterest in the art of riding had kept her almost exclusively on the ground, yet… Mr. Darcy. He had declined riding earlier–his prerogative–but she felt keenly that he had done so to spare her the quiet awkwardness of her not joining. Of being alone.

Should she decline now, he almost certainly would do the same. She could endure a day or so of riding during their stay.

Stomach twisting and chest tight within her, Elizabeth returned her glass to the table. She could do this.

“I do dislike it… though I… I am of a mind to see if I can remember how to do so. It has been some time since I agreed to; two years, perhaps?”

“Nearer three,” Mary frowned, her piercing gaze reading Elizabeth with all the ease their closeness as friends and sisters allowed.

Sitting straighter and meeting Mary’s gaze, she sought to confuse what Mary might find. Not that she knew herself, Elizabeth mused as she sought a more natural smile.

“You are certain?” Mary asked, her eyes flitting between Elizabeth and the man seated beside her.

Mary understood her reasons, and probably better than she did, Elizabeth huffed, Mary’s slow nod and growing smile exacerbating.

“Quite,” Elizabeth answered, her former fabricated smile lost. “A ride around the picturesque countryside of Staffordshire, with the chill and delights of the season at hand… What more could one want?”

Hands clenched in her lap, Elizabeth caught bits of the ensuing conversation as her heart raced. Mr. Darcy would join them. That had been what she wanted.

All she had to do now was mount a horse and ride around for a bit. That was all. Children often did so. It was nothing to fear.

Nevermind that people fall from horses. Die. All would be well.

Please Lord, let all be well.