Soon, Elizabeth found herself once again immersed in the sweet and peaceable sanctity of the Rosings Park rose garden. At long last, she could breathe again, inhaling the tender, near ethereal scent of pearl pink and scarlet red roses as her gaze devoured the beauty of the florals.
For a few precious moments, she lost herself in the garden, seeking the solace in beautiful birdsong as she struggled to regain her bearings.
To mention little of her lost pride.
Never had she felt so insulted—so utterly humiliated… She fumed in silence, remembering Lady Catherine’s words as she suddenly conjured all of the clever rebukes that had eluded her moments earlier—all of the sharpened bon mots that she was more than certain would have put Lady Catherine de Bourgh very much in her place.
Seeming to read her mind, Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to face her with serious eyes and a slight, though markedly sincere smile.
“I am truly sorry, Miss Bennet, for the behavior of my aunt,” he apologized with a deep bow. “For once I must admit it, I am abashed by her conduct.”
Forcing a polite smile, Elizabeth waved away the colonel’s words with a weak attempt at a casual wave.
“Oh, dear Colonel, you have no need to apologize,” she assured him. “And you really should not have been called away from your hours of reading and relaxing to play the role of my chaperone. Mr. Darcy did, after all, offer to accompany me for the occasion of this walk.”
She bit her lip all of a sudden as she took note of the undeniable lilt that elevated her tones at the mere mention of Darcy’s name.
The colonel shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.
“I assure you, dear lady, it is never any trouble for me to enjoy a long good walk in the gardens of Rosings Park,” he assured her in a charming tone. “Especially when I walk by the side of a beautiful young lady.”
He paused here, adding with a shrug, “Although I must agree that Darcy no doubt would have much preferred to stand in as your escort this sunny afternoon.”
Elizabeth felt a slight blush creeping onto her cheeks at his words.
“Do you think so, Colonel Fitzwilliam?” she murmured, her cheeks flaming at the colonel’s emboldened—and, she had to admit, most welcome—comments. “Truly?”
The colonel nodded with a smile.
“Indeed,” he affirmed. “I do believe, Miss Bennet, that you claim an ardent admirer in my dear cousin.” He arched his eyebrows. “As ardent as Darcy ever gets, that is.”
Elizabeth giggled outright, her step becoming light and vibrant as she practically skipped her way through the trails of the rose garden.
Just then, she caught herself, slowing her step as she cleared her throat loudly and folded her hands before her.
“Well, I must say, Colonel Fitzwilliam, that I am most pleased to hear of Mr. Darcy’s favourable opinion of me,” she stated, struggling to even and steady her tone. “He seems a fine gentleman.”
She was surprised to find that she really did think so. Although their initial meeting had been less than ideal, and his pride had often got in the way, Elizabeth was surprised to realize—and admit to herself—that she truly did like Mr. Darcy.
The colonel nodded in agreement at her comment.
“He is indeed the finest of gentlemen, and you should be most pleased to earn his good opinion,” he declared, pinning Elizabeth with a meaningful look. “He, shall we say, is most selective about his company.”
Elizabeth nodded, an odd chill coursing the length of her spine as she considered these cryptic words; sentiments that seemed to once more paint Mr. Darcy as a rather prideful man.
…which just so happened to be the manner in which she had initially perceived him…
Ah, but perhaps she should not be swift to judge him—at least not until she knew more about the man.
To this end, she turned to her escort and asked in a mild tone, “Just what might one do, I ponder, to earn Mr. Darcy’s poor opinion?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam pitched his head back, letting loose with a deep, robust laugh as he considered this most facetious question.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy is most polite and charitable to everyone he meets,” he insisted. “He is most particular, however, about those who he welcomes into his circle of friendship—and he is at all times most protective of his friends. Recently, for example, he salvaged an impressionable young friend of his from what would have been a disastrous match—a most unsuitable union indeed.”
Elizabeth arched her eyebrows.
“Truly?” she asked. “And just why, may I ask, was the union so wholly unsuitable?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head sadly.
“Perhaps unsuitable is a too strong of a word,” he sighed. “However, it can be said that Darcy’s friend—a charming, handsome and most prosperous young man—deserved far better than the young lady he intended to court. Fates be thanked that our friend, Mr. Darcy, stepped in to intervene on his behalf.”
Elizabeth nodded her understanding of a situation that—in truth—she had yet to understand at all.
“So, what, may I ask, was so very intolerable about the young lady in question?” she inquired, wincing as she voiced the word that—far too recently—had been applied to her.
Colonel Fitzwilliam shrugged.
“Well, I’d hardly call the lady intolerable,” he allowed. “She was, in fact, strikingly beautiful. Gold of hair, fine of figure, and very fair of face—or so I’d heard, for I never did meet her myself.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew wide as—sudden and unbidden—a defined mental picture of her sister Jane formed somewhere in the depths of her psyche.
“So, you say that the girl was a lovely blonde maiden, and very fair of face?” she asked in disbelief. “In the minds of most gentlemen, I daresay, she would hardly be deemed intolerable—unless, of course, she proved herself unkind, ill-tempered, or perhaps dull-witted.”
She held her breath now, waiting for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s response—even as she realized that no one with their own wits intact would describe her good sister in such horrid and unflattering terms.
“Oh, not at all!” the colonel declared, seeming to echo her thoughts. “Quite the contrary, the young lady was very kind of nature and spoke in an intelligent and refined manner. I hear she cut a fine figure at society balls, dancing with grace and speaking with wisdom and courtesy at all times.”
He paused here, shaking his head from side to side. “It is a shame, however, that her family pedigree did not explain or reflect her vibrant and sophisticated persona. She was a beauty certainly, but not a society beauty. The lady did not come from money, as it were.”
Elizabeth gulped hard, coming to a halt at the centre of the rose garden as—swiftly and suddenly—her generally ethereal surroundings began to swirl around her at a breakneck and disorienting pace.
She’d had her suspicion already a moment ago, but now… The person Colonel Fitzwilliam described sounded like the spitting image of her dear sister Jane.
“Pardon me, Colonel Fitzwilliam, if I am being incredibly rude, but may I inquire as to the identity of Darcy’s friend?” she asked, needing to know the answer more than anything. “The one he saved from this undeserving young woman?”
She wanted to know… Needed to know… Although she feared the answer to this question.
Her eyes flew wide as she felt herself nearing a most uncomfortable truth. A part of her yearned to change the subject; perhaps even to turn and run from the garden before she heard too much for her own liking—indeed, for her own good. But another part forced her to stand stock still in her place, demanding an answer.
The colonel seemed oblivious to her troubled state, nodding sharp and sure in response to her request.
“Of course,” he agreed. “I do not believe I am breaking any confidences here when I say that the young man in question was one of Mr. Darcy’s very closest friends, a man whom I have met on several occasions as well and who is a very fine young gentleman; Mr. Charles Bingley.”
Elizabeth gaped, recognizing at once the name of the suitor who had so ardently courted her sister Jane. Her heart immediately fell to her stomach as the answer she had so feared turned out to be the very answer she received.
Her hands balled in fists as a wave of righteous anger gripped hold of her heart and soul.
So, Darcy was the man who had come between them, driving them apart and breaking her sister’s heart, Elizabeth thought in silence. The man she had slowly started to think of as handsome and kind… He was the villain who had caused her sister such great and incredible pain—who had stolen her love and hope outright, and without an ounce of shame?
Elizabeth could hardly believe it.
It now seemed that her original impression of Darcy had been a correct one all along. A pang of sadness stabbed Elizabeth in her chest at this realization. He was indeed a scoundrel of the highest (or, rather, the lowest) order, a man of society who wielded his power much like a knife, to rip asunder the lives of others.
How could she have been so foolish as to believe his masquerade? How could she have failed to see through the façade—the smiling, cordial mask that he wore so recently when in polite company?
Suddenly, she suffered from an unbidden onslaught of pain and shame—pain on her own behalf, as she let go of the ardent feelings she’d been fostering for the man she now knew as a liar and a fraud. And shame on behalf of the sister who was slighted by this same contemptible man.
“Oh, dear heaven,” she murmured, her tone soft but distant.
Seeming to take notice of her sudden, distressed state, Colonel Fitzwilliam touched her arm with a sympathetic hand.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Bennet?” he inquired, his tone laced with tender concern.
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Actually, Colonel, I do not feel well at all,” she said, turning away from the Colonel. “I believe that perhaps Lady Catherine was right after all, in that I must be ill today. I am sorry to say this, but I do believe that I shall cut short our walk and go back to Hunsford to recover. If you will please excuse me.”
With those words, she quickly scurried away from Colonel Fitzwilliam and toward Lady Catherine’s manor house, ready to let her friends know that she could not—would not—spend another moment on this estate, with these horrid people.