Page 30 of Pemberley's Imposter
Elizabeth would have laughed had she not seen the rage suffusing Mr Darcy’s entire being.
A twig snapped in a nearby shrub, and Jonathan emerged from the bushes.
“I am sorry, Mr Darcy, but when Mrs Darcy insisted on continuing alone, I thought I should follow to make sure she did not become lost, sir. I beg your pardon if I was missed at the house, but I could not in good conscience let them wander off while Mr Wickham is unaccounted for.”
“How did you know Mr Wickham had left his regiment?” Mr Darcy asked. “I have yet to inform the servants about that development.”
And me!Elizabeth thought wryly, though she had no idea why Mr Wickham’s whereabouts should be of any concern to her.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam told all the servants to be on the lookout for him, sir. He feared for the child as she is an easy target for extortion. I have heard about the child-strippings and abductions in London. It is not even a crime but a misdemeanour—”
Elizabeth gasped and clutched her daughter.
“Very well. I see your point and must thank you for your diligence. You are dismissed and may return to the house.”
The footman spun on his heels and set out with long strides.
Elizabeth regarded Mr Darcy warily. What exactly was the man insinuating? That she was having a liaison with a footman in a grove with her child at her side? The thought was nauseating. The chance of her allowing a man to come close enough to touch her inappropriately was slim to none, and certainly not by her own choice.
Rage still lingered on Mr Darcy’s countenance. Elizabeth had never regarded him as a violent man, but when he stepped closer, she had to repress the impulse to recoil. He sniffed her. Anger rose from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Was her husband smelling her to gauge whether she had entertained the footman in an intimate fashion? Her arm rose involuntarily and slapped him across the cheek.
“I never thought the day would come when I wished I had accepted Mr Collins!”
Her hand stung, while the imprint of it bloomed on the left side of Mr Darcy’s face. She turned and bundled up the throw. With Ellie on her hip and the basket in her hand, she left her stunned husband in a fit of pique that had her fuming the entire way back to the house.
Dinner that night was the most uncomfortable meal Elizabeth had ever endured. The atmosphere was frosty between the master and mistress as neither could stand the sight of the other. The colonel looked confusedly between them, probably wondering what he had missed, while Mrs Fitzwilliam did not notice.
When the meal had been consumed, Elizabeth rose to leave, but Mr Darcy immediately stopped her.
“Let us all remove to the music room,” her husband suggested.
Mr Darcy included her in the invitation so he could torture her with his presence. When he turned to leave the room, the handprint on his face became visible. Elizabeth stifled a gasp. It was no wonder he was upset with her. She had not imagined her lapse of comportment would have such a lasting effect. She owed him an apology.
Chagrined, she followed him to the music room and sat in the corner she usually occupied, away from the others. She was searching through her mending basket for diversion when Mrs Fitzwilliam begged off playing the pianoforte. The colonel had bought her a new novel, and she was eager to continue her reading.
“Cannot Elizabeth play?” Mrs Fitzwilliam asked innocently.
Elizabeth shook her head, but Mr Darcy did not notice.
“Yes, if you are not inclined to entertain us,” he answered for her, addressing his sister.
Elizabeth had scarcely played for the last two and a half years. She had taught Miss Freight, but the instrument at their house was an old and out-of-tune spinet. Certainly nothing to the grand pianoforte Mrs Fitzwilliam had received as a gift from her brother in the summer of 1812.
Sitting on the stool, regarding the music on the stand, Elizabeth could see that the score was unfamiliar and too complicated for her to manage with proficiency. She was leafing through the stack in search of something simpler when Mrs Fitzwilliam gave her a welcome reprieve.
“Why is it only men who write poetry?” she asked with her nose still buried in her book.
“Men have a greater depth of feeling,” her brother explained.
Elizabeth managed not to laugh aloud but rather wished to direct the conversation away from such treacherous waters. “Are you reading poetry? I thought it was a novel.”
“It is. Poetry is only mentioned,” Mrs Fitzwilliam explained.
Elizabeth nodded and returned to her search for a simple piece to play for her audience.
“Would you say gentlemen or ladies love the longest when all hope is lost?” Mrs Fitzwilliam enquired.
“Gentlemen!” “Ladies!” the master and mistress of Pemberley exclaimed in unison.
