by Meg Osborne
“I did not realise you had other friends in Meryton, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mary said, shyly. “I fear you surprised him by your presence.”
“I fear I did!” Colonel Fitzwilliam asserted, as the party began to walk once more. “And I further wager he was not as happy to see me as a true friend might have been. But Wickham is scarcely worth our conversation, Miss Mary. Come, I wish to hear more of music. You recall my complete illiteracy when it comes to compositions. I do hope to impress my aunt and cousin upon my visit to Rosings, so perhaps you would be kind enough to educate me. What was the piece that Miss Bingley played last evening, for instance, when we danced? It was not so fast, nor so technically difficult, I am sure, as the pieces you chose.”
This gentle compliment caused Mary’s whole face to light up, and Richard scoured his memory for more he could say in praise of Mary’s musical accomplishments, for it was not even a falsehood on his part to admire her playing. Truly she was talented, and he had sought to take an interest in music he had never had before in hopes he might have reason to use his newfound knowledge and please her.
Mary chattered happily about the pieces, both her own and those that Caroline had played, how they were suited for dancing because of their lively pace and the easily followed beats that instructed, without the need of words, the dancers when to move.
“I see it is strategy, at its finest,” he marvelled, with a grin, and dropped his voice. “For do not think I did not notice the slow, romantic piece you played the first time your sister and Mr Bingley danced. You would play your part in encouraging a particular style of dance, of conversation between partners by your choice of music.”
Mary’s cheeks flamed.
“I would not say that -”
“Such modesty. Yet you certainly observe more than you admit to, I am sure. For instance, you understood almost immediately how I would feel coming into so close-knit a society as this after so many months away and have made every effort to see me settled, even when it requires you to speak rather more than you might personally choose.” He smiled, warmly. “It is appreciated, Miss Mary. You are a very generous person, and I am glad to call you my friend. At least, I hope I may be so bold as to call you my friend?”
He held his breath, wondering if in her answer Mary might crush the hopes that had begun to lodge with ever more fervency in his chest. His relief was palpable, then, when she murmured, so softly that he might have missed it entirely, had he not had his eyes fixed on her features.
“Yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Of course, you may!”
DARCY HAD NOT SAID a word since they passed George Wickham. He could not get the scoundrel's sly smirk out of his mind. He had approached determined to ruin the morning, he was sure, and it seemed as if he had succeeded. Sensing Darcy's discomfort with rather more grace than her sister, he heard Jane Bennet inquire quietly of Bingley “whether that gentleman was a friend of Mr Darcy's?” To his credit, Bingley had denied it and claimed the two shared an unhappy past connection. He went further still, intimating that he, Bingley, was equally unhappy to know of Wickham's presence in Meryton, but was determined that such a fellow would not spoil their walk, and would Miss Bennet not be so kind as to tell him the name of that tree up ahead with the large green leaves?
Darcy made a promise to himself that he would thank Charles later for his efforts, and focused his energy on walking, with purpose, hoping that with enough force to his steps he might shed some of the energy he might more gleefully have turned against Wickham’s face, smirk and all.
“I did not realise you knew so many people in Hertfordshire, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth Bennet asked, after a moment more of quiet.
“I know many people,” he replied, unwilling to be drawn on the nature of his connection with George Wickham.
“Then I am sorry that the person whose path you crossed today is not someone you think fondly of,” she said, with a generosity of spirit that compelled him to lift his gaze. He saw curiosity darkening her features, yes, but something more beyond. She was sympathetic, concerned that he was not unduly unsettled by the unhappy meeting. Concerned for me? Darcy felt a tiny flicker of hope, but before he could nurse it into being Elizabeth spoke again.
“You are kind to accompany my sisters and me to Meryton, Mr Darcy. I am sure you have far more important things to be doing with your time.”
“Important?” He lifted one corner of his lips in a half-smile. “Indeed, like haunting Netherfield with none but Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst for company.”
Elizabeth laughed, and he felt sure it was the loveliest sound he had heard that morning, chasing away the spectre of George Wickham into the far recesses of Darcy’s mind.
“And what of poor Mr Hurst, is he not company for you?”
“He is hardly company when he is sleeping, which is often.” Darcy frowned. “He is hardly energetic company when he is not sleeping...”
“And that is what you crave, is it? Energetic company?” Elizabeth's head tilted. “You surprise me, Mr Darcy. I felt certain you preferred silence, but if company is insisted upon then it must also be quiet.”
“I confess I prefer calm to chaos, is that worthy of comment?”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth said. “On this point, we are not dissimilar, although I wager our means for finding calm differ. You enjoy a solitary seat indoors: I seek it on a walk.”
“And so today we must both test your method,” Darcy remarked, gesturing to the path before them, occupied by Charles and Jane Bennet.
“Ah, this is but a short journey!” Elizabeth said, with a smile. “One mile only!”
“Indeed, I forgot. A walk is not to be countenanced unless it consists of upwards of three miles, preferably through rain and mud, so that when one reaches one’s destination one is not only exhausted, but frozen and filthy to boot.”
Elizabeth laughed again, and Darcy determined to recall the nature of their conversation in provoking such a reaction that he might use it again to such effect.
“You tease me, Mr Darcy! And before now I was convinced you did not know how.”
“Because I do not do a thing often is not to suggest I am utterly incapable,” Darcy said, his voice low and tinged with more urgency than he intended. Suddenly fearing he was in danger of straying too close to things he did not wish to mention, or, worse, betraying his feelings to the very woman he wished to conceal them from until he could better gauge her own, he cleared his throat, and, lifting his gaze, changed the subject. “Is that not Meryton ahead? How quickly we have reached it!”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, a slight flicker of confusion darting across her features at Darcy's sudden change in attitude.
“You wished to look at music, cousin?” He turned toward Richard, who was at that moment speaking in a low voice to Mary Bennet and did not respond straight away to Darcy's comment. Elizabeth, too, noticed the quiet couple and remarked upon it.
“What a sweet picture they make, Mr Darcy!” She spoke in a whisper, and moved a little closer, that she might be heard only by him. “I do not suppose your cousin anticipated losing his heart on his visit to Hertfordshire?”
“His heart?” Darcy craned his neck to look once more. It was his cousin, right enough, and yet Richard Fitzwilliam looked different than Darcy could ever recall seeing him. There was a gentleness, a kindness to his actions in the way he accompanied the young Miss Bennet, as if he were concerned only for her. His attention was on their conversation, and he nodded, encouraging her to speak and rewarding every word with a smile or a nod as if it were quite the most compelling conversation he had ever been a part of.
“You disapprove?” Elizabeth asked, her voice catching. This time Darcy did not look at her. He could not tear his eyes away from his cousin and Miss Mary, seeing for the first time what Elizabeth and Jane, and probably Charles too, for despite his impression of ignorance, he knew his friend to be far more attuned to the feelings of others than he was often given credit for, had seen with a glance. Richard
was happy, more so than Darcy ever recalled seeing him. He might have made his career in the military but this was a man eager for a home of his own, which state Darcy could well understand. It was his cousin’s evident desire for a wife - and such a wife - that until now Darcy had not fully appreciated.
“No,” he said, softly. “I do not disapprove.”
Had Richard formed such an attachment weeks earlier, or perhaps if Darcy had been aware of it only days sooner than he was, he might not have been so content with the suggestion of his cousin aligning himself with a member of the Bennet family. But Darcy was not insensible of the change his own feelings were undergoing.
“I am glad,” Elizabeth said, and this time when Darcy did look at her, she smiled, almost wistfully, in his direction.
Darcy’s own heart lifted.
Perhaps I must learn from my cousin. Bachelor living is wearing indeed. Would it be such a terrible thing to marry, and to marry such a woman as this?
Chapter Fourteen
Meryton was not especially busy, but when they reached their destination it became clear that the small music shop would not comfortably house the entire party.
“There is no problem,” Darcy remarked. “Bingley, I wish to enquire about a new pair of gloves. Perhaps we might go directly to the outfitters, and meet the ladies, and you, cousin, for tea?”
This was agreed upon as being the best course of action, although Richard felt a flicker of anxiety at being left to fend for himself amongst all three ladies. He was very soon put at his ease, by Jane's questions pertaining to his aunt and cousin, and Elizabeth's good humour about her own musical abilities. Only Mary was quiet, and at first, Richard worried he had said or done something amiss during the walk to town. He had been pleased to be able to converse so freely and to see her step out of her shell a little. She was quieter than Elizabeth, certainly, but appeared to share her same powers of observation, and had the ability to remark humorously, in so quiet a manner, that he had found the entire journey quite enjoyable. There had been something so natural about the way they had walked and talked that he had begun to hope she might mirror his feelings and afford him the chance to ask the question he dearly wished to ask, yet he still delayed, fearing he would speak to soon and surprise or upset her.
“And what is the piano like at Rosings, Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Jane asked. “We have heard much of Rosings grandness and decor from our cousin -” Here she paused and gave Elizabeth a cautious glance, before continuing. “But, alas, he has not spoken at all of Lady Catherine or her daughter’s love of music. I imagine they must have a very beautiful instrument.”
“Beautiful, yes,” Richard said, running his eyes over the interior of the small shop, and wondering how anybody made sense of the black lines and squiggles that appeared to him like hieroglyphs from an ancient culture. “That is, I imagine so. I believe my aunt has recently purchased a new piano for my cousin to play, so I am afraid I can only speak to their previous instrument which was indeed a fine one.”
“How lovely it must be to have a new piano!” Mary remarked, with a faint sigh.
“Ours is unfortunately quite old,” Elizabeth said. “And has been hammered on so often by five sets of hands as each of us matured and realised we had very little skill at playing and even less interest in learning - all save Mary, of course, who outshines us all!”
Mary coloured at this praise and turned her attention to a selection of music books on a shelf. She picked one, it seemed to Richard, at random, and handed it to him.
“This might be something your cousin would enjoy, although I fear she may already be familiar with it.” She frowned, and Richard felt a flicker of concern at her attempt to please him by finding something new and interesting to recommend to a young lady who was as yet but a name to her.
“What of the piece you were playing that very first day I stumbled into Longbourn?” Richard asked, glancing over the book she had handed him and nodding, though h could not make head nor tails of its contents. “That was a particularly lovely piece, and has quite haunted me ever since.” He grinned. “Although you will be pleased to hear I have not made any attempt at playing it myself. I am all too aware of my precarious position as houseguest and fear the wrath of Miss Bingley, were I to risk playing the piano as hamfistedly as I assuredly would, within her hearing.”
“Oh!” Mary smiled. “Well, that is something quite new, but I do not believe they will have another copy here, for I had to order it specially. Perhaps -” Her voice faltered. “I mean, your cousin might take my copy, of course, if you would allow me the time to make my own copy.”
“You are most generous, Miss Mary!” Richard smiled. “But I would not dream of putting you to such a task. No, indeed, you must keep your music, and we might find something different for Anne. Perhaps you might tell me the name of the piece, though, so I can mention to her how pretty it is.”
“It is The Song of the Lark,” Mary said. “For you recall, the trills on the notes at the beginning - they repeat towards the end - they mimic the lark’s call.” She hummed a few notes, breaking off only when she realised all three of her companions were regarding her closely, and coughed. “At least, that is the idea. I am sure it is much clearer when played, and played by someone more skilled than I.”
“More skilled than I, she says, as if she were not the most talented in our whole family!” Elizabeth said, patting her sister warmly on one shoulder.
“As you have already pointed out to Colonel Fitzwilliam that does not account for much,” Mary replied, archly, and Richard laughed to see the sisters interacting so comfortably together. He had no close relationship with his brother, and so he valued both Darcy and Georgiana as closely as if they were more than mere cousins. His life had not been lonely, for he had spent much of it in school or in the military, but he could not help but wonder how different his experiences would have been with a brother or sister close enough in age to tease and be teased by.
“Well, Miss Mary, I am indebted to you,” Richard said, taking one final glance through the book of music she had selected, and moving towards the proprietor to pay. “Is there anything else you need, while we are here, ladies? Speak now...” His eyes twinkled, merrily, and everyone laughed.
“You are far too generous to us, Colonel Fitzwilliam. We shall be certain to remember it when we order tea!” Elizabeth said, her eyes gleaming.
“It is not often I have opportunity to be generous,” he remarked, making his purchase and following the party back out into the bustling Meryton street, for it seemed to him that in the short quarter-hour they had been inside, the crowd without had multiplied. “And I still consider it paying a debt, for without your choice, Miss Mary, I would but utterly lost.” He squinted over his shoulder at the music displayed in the window. “It is all Greek to me!”
“Italian,” Mary said, with a smile to indicate she, too, was teasing. “But we shall not hold that against you.”
“Come, Jane, Mary, let’s go ahead to the tea shop. We must try and secure a pleasant table for when Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley join us!” Elizabeth announced, and the three ladies set off at a pace. Richard hung back a little, walking with a relaxed contentment. He was enjoying his morning, and every word he shared with Mary Bennet, or, indeed, with her sisters, convinced him further. This was the type of family he had dreamed of, and if she would consent to be his wife, and he had reason to hope, from the happy way she smiled at him, that she might, he would spend the rest of his days trying to make her happy.
“LIZZY! OH, JANE, MARY, good morning!”
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth’s heart filled at the sight of her friend Charlotte Lucas occupying a table with her sister inside the very tea shop they had selected as their appointed meeting place with Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley. Leaving Colonel Fitzwilliam with Jane and Mary to secure a place for them, Lizzy hurried over to greet Charlotte and Maria with a warm embrace.
“It feels an age since I saw you last!” Charlotte cried. “How are
you?” Her intelligent eyes passed over Lizzy’s shoulder towards Colonel Fitzwilliam, and returned with a questioning smile. “And who is this dashing young man who accompanies your sisters?”
“Oh have you not yet met Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Lizzy asked. “He is Mr Darcy’s cousin, if you can believe it.”
“His cousin?” Charlotte looked again, an appraising glance that caused her to nod her head approvingly. “Yes, I can see some slight resemblance. I wager he is far friendlier than Mr Darcy, however.”
“I do not know,” Lizzy said, with a shrug. “Mr Darcy is not so very bad...”
“Lizzy!” Charlotte was all astonishment, and Maria giggled. “Goodness me, how completely your opinion has changed. I must hold tight to the table for support, as such a thing happens so rarely I am quite convinced the earth is shifting beneath me.”
Elizabeth swatted her friend playfully on the arm.
“I merely concede I may have been mistaken in my first assessment, that is all. I am not about to marry the man!” Her lips quirked. “Indeed, I have news on that score also.”
“Jane is engaged?” Charlotte guessed.
“No,” Lizzy shook her head. “Not yet, at any rate. I am sure there will be an announcement before long, for certainly, Mr Bingley is utterly in love with her.”
“That much was apparent at the assembly!” Charlotte laughed. “I am pleased, for he and Jane are both so good they deserve their happiness.”
There was a wistful note to Charlotte’s voice, and Lizzy felt a flicker of compassion for her friend. Charlotte was intelligent and sensible but sadly plain, and despaired of ever securing a husband, lacking the wealth that might cause a less scrupulous gentleman to overlook an occasional flaw in one’s visage.
