Chapter Nineteen

Fall 1811

O ver the next several days, Mr. Darcy visited Longbourn daily. He was usually accompanied by both Mr. Bingley and Richard, as neither would yield the field to the other. Mr. Darcy was amused by the rivalry between the two men, though of course he hoped Richard would be the victor.

Today, he was accompanied only by his cousin. "I hope you and Miss Elizabeth will walk into the garden today," Richard said, as they walked up Longbourn's front steps.

"Doubtless we will, but why?"

"I would like to spend some time with Miss Bennet so that she might know me better. It has been difficult, with Bingley always in the way."

"Of course, cousin."

Jane was happy to hear Mr. Darcy and the Colonel announced. She had not had much time to speak with the Colonel on his own. Drinking tea in the parlour with the Colonel, Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth, and her mother, Jane studied the man from under her lashes. He was not a handsome man, she thought; his face was too wide and his nose too large. Mr. Bingley was far handsomer. But the Colonel was sturdy, tall and broad-shouldered, whereas Mr. Bingley was rather slight. And where Mr. Bingley's conversation was light and pleasant, the Colonel was more serious. Would she prefer a more serious man? She did not know.

Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy left for the back garden almost immediately, with Mary providing chaperonage.

"Colonel, tell us a bit about yourself," she invited him. One thing she had been taught by her mother was this: men enjoyed speaking about themselves.

The Colonel complied. "Miss Bennet, I believe you know that my father is an earl, but as a second son, I have neither wealth nor title. I have served my king and country for a decade now, and my rank was earned, not purchased."

Jane's eyebrows rose upon hearing this. "You astonish me, Colonel. I would have thought that your parents would have preferred to purchase a rank for you, to try to keep you out of danger."

"I know that this is the accepted practice among the aristocracy, Miss Bennet, and my parents would have been happy to do so. But I could not rest easy, knowing that I had been placed above other men in battle simply because of my birth."

"I honour you for that," Mrs. Bennet contributed. "I have never heard of anyone else doing such a thing."

"No, nor I," Jane agreed, thoughtfully. "You have an elder brother, then?"

"Yes; he is Edward, named after our father, but he is also the Viscount Huxley."

"I hope he is married with sons, so as to assure your family's succession," Jane said, politely.

"He is, indeed, Miss Bennet. He has two sons, both of whom would be spoiled rotten if my mother had her way."

"That is the right of every grandmother," Mrs. Bennet said, nodding her head. "If we are forced to discipline our own children in order to raise them properly, then we ought to be allowed to spoil our grandchildren as much as we wish. Not that I have yet had the opportunity to do so myself, Colonel," she added, with a meaningful look at Jane.

Jane blushed, but ignored her parent. "Have you any other siblings, Colonel?"

"No, Miss Bennet; it is just Edward and myself. And even had I other siblings, I would never allow them to interfere in my life."

"I know that you refer to Mr. Bingley," Jane said, surprised at how steady her voice was.

"I do. I like the man, so I will say no more." He then turned to Mrs. Bennet and enquired after the rest of the family.

"Lizzy is in the garden now, as you know, but she spent the morning helping her father with his translations. The younger girls are visiting Mariah Lucas," she explained.

"Translations?" he asked.

Mrs. Bennet shrugged. "I do not understand it at all; you explain it, Jane."

Jane smiled. "My father is translating some works of Chaucer from Middle English into modern English."

"And your sister is aiding him?"

"She is; Lizzy is of a scholarly bent, as is our Papa."

"She and Darcy would do well together, then, as it is only the need to manage his estates that keeps him from his beloved books."

"Papa is exactly the same, but I am not certain that the management of the estate actually does keep him from his books."

The Colonel threw his head back and laughed heartily. At that moment, Jane decided that he was a very handsome man indeed.

"Tell me about yourself, Miss Bennet. I am eager to know you, and your family as well."

***

As they walked in the garden, ostensibly chaperoned by Miss Mary – whose head was buried in her bible – Mr. Darcy asked, "How did you manage to learn Middle English? Your father mentioned it, you recall."

"I think one can learn anything one chooses; there are certainly books enough to teach everything and anything."

"Surely your father has not let you read the Wife of Bath's tale? Or the Miller's Tale! Or the Reeve's Tale!" He recalled Canterbury Tales being the subject of much interest among the young men at school, and not for academic reasons.

"Of course not," she said.

Mr. Darcy could see that she was trying not to laugh. "What is it?"

"I dare not tell you."

"I know you well enough now to hazard a guess," he replied.

"Very well; guess away!"

"Your father has not allowed it, but you have read these forbidden tales on your own."

She laughed. "How could I not? Though I confess I did not understand all the words, and I could hardly ask Papa to explain them."

He could not help thinking how he would enjoy explaining it to her, in detail, in the mistress' suite at Pemberley!

Mr. Darcy enquired about her other areas of interest, and was soon astonished at Elizabeth's level of education. Not only was she familiar with Middle English, but she also spoke French and Italian, was adept at mathematics, and studied European history. Most young ladies of fashion would have feared being labeled a bluestocking. "Do you not fear being considered too intellectual by a potential husband?"

She put her head to one side and replied, "I would not want a husband who requires me to hide my light under a bushel. What sort of man fears an intelligent woman?"

"Only an unintelligent man, of course," he replied, adding, "And such a one could not be worthy of you."

Miss Elizabeth was undoubtedly the most unusual young lady he had ever met. She was lovely, of course, but it was a particularly lovely sort of loveliness. The so-called diamonds of the ton were all pale, wan girls, who looked as if they might faint at any moment. Miss Elizabeth, on the other hand, was lithe and nimble. Miss Bingley had complained about Miss Elizabeth walking the three miles to Netherfield, but that was, to Mr. Darcy's ears, high praise. Who wanted a fainting flower for a wife? What he needed was a companion in arms, someone who could help manage the vast business enterprise that was Pemberley.

And then there was that jasmine scent… To think that not long ago she had been a complete stranger to him!

More importantly, he was drawn to her in a way he had never imagined possible. Suddenly, all the poetry he had ever read made sense! He thought of Cowper's poem, the Symptoms of Love. He quoted it to himself, silently, as they walked in the garden.

Would my Delia – but here he substituted Elizabeth – know if I love, let her take My last thought at night, and the first when I wake; With my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.

Let her guess what I muse on, when rambling alone I stride o'er the stubble each day with my gun, Never ready to shoot till the covey is flown.

Let her think what odd whimsies I have in my brain, When I read one page over and over again, And discover at last that I read it in vain.

Let her say why so fixed and so steady my look, Without ever regarding the person who spoke, Still affecting to laugh, without hearing the joke.

Or why when the pleasure her praises I hear, (That sweetest of melody sure to my ear), I attend, and at once inattentive appear.

And lastly, when summoned to drink to my flame, Let her guess why I never once mention her name, Though herself and the woman I love are the same.

She interrupted his silent musings, saying, "I would be very interested in hearing more about your sister; would it distress you to tell me about her?"

Thus recalled to his present circumstances, he considered it. Would it distress him? Perhaps remembering the young girl he had raised would give him comfort. "She was only four years old when our mother died, and twelve years old when our father died. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, is the closest thing Georgiana has had to a mother her entire life, and I have stood in as her father since our father died."

"Does she play? Sing? Paint?"

"She plays the pianoforte beautifully, having shown early promise on the instrument and subsequently been provided with the best masters available." Indeed, he had hired music masters to come all the way from London to nurture Georgiana's talent. There was a Broadwood grand in the music room and another in the drawing room.

"Is she dark, like you?"

"She has dark eyes, but her hair is blond, like your sister's, and falls into perfect ringlets. She is always beautifully dressed." The perfection of those ringlets, he was well aware, were thanks to the efforts of his sister's very expensive French lady's maid, Genevieve. Genevieve had a keen eye for fashion; as a result, Georgiana's wardrobes were crammed full of expensive gowns, some of which she had never gotten around to wearing.

In fact, as he thought about it, Georgiana had but to express a wish for something, for it to materialise. She lived like a princess; in fact, he had jokingly called her the Princess of Pemberley! What was she running away from, when she ran off with Wickham? She was the luckiest young lady in the country! How could she have been so very ungrateful? So thoughtless?

Elizabeth watched his face tighten and his eyes narrow. His breath was coming fast. "Do you see it now, Mr. Darcy? You are angry with your sister. Look at your hands."

He looked down at his hands; they were shaking. "Angry! Of course not, how could I be…" His voice trailed away. "I am angry. I did not realise it until this moment."

"I understand why you would be. You gave her everything and this is how she repays you."

"Yes, that is it exactly." He was grateful beyond words that she understood him so well. He took several deep breaths to try to calm himself.

"But you understand that you must find a way to release your anger in order to move forward with your life, do you not? Remember what Katherine says to Hortensio: ‘ My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break ."

Before he could respond, Miss Mary called out, "It is cold; let us go inside."