Page 16 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Elizabeth laughed again. “Then you have my sympathy, Colonel.”
They walked for some time, discussing nothing of great importance, though Elizabeth could not shake the sense that he was watching her closely. She was just about to ask him what was on his mind when he suddenly changed the subject.
“You have been in Kent for some time now, have you not?”
“Nearly four weeks. I was here a fortnight before you arrived with Mr. Darcy.”
“And you have seen much of Rosings?”
“I believe I have walked nearly every path,” she admitted, “though I am sure there are some I have yet to discover.”
The colonel gave her a considering look, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his next words. “Have you ventured to the lake, then? There is a path that runs along the ridge toward the old orchard. It is seldom used now, but I have always found it a pleasant walk, particularly when one wishes to avoid . . . company.” He frowned, and Elizabeth was sure he had not meant to reveal his feelings to her. “It was always Darcy’s favourite view as a boy, though I do not think he has wandered up there in years.”
Elizabeth glanced at him sidelong. “Are you suggesting that I seek out a more obscure path to avoid others, or are you merely confessing your own habits of escape?”
His lips twitched. “A little of both, I suspect.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “An old orchard and a lake, you say? That does sound worth the walk.”
He gave her a knowing smile but said nothing more, merely inclining his head in farewell as they reached a point where their paths must diverge. The colonel had successfully piqued her curiosity, and she followed the direction he had indicated. The gravel path soon faded to softer earth, damp and rich from the recent rain.
The trees grew thicker here, the overgrown branches heavy with moisture. A faint mist clung to the lower ground, curling around the remnants of what must have once been a well-kept orchard. Gnarled trees stood in uneven rows, their twisted trunks showing their age. She wondered why it had been abandoned but supposed it could have been any number of things. The apple orchard at Longbourn had been partially attacked by a canker a few years back, and it had taken a great deal of care and attention to prevent it from spreading. Perhaps they had not been as fortunate here.
Elizabeth slowed, breathing in the damp, green scent of moss and wet bark. It was quiet here, the kind of silence that soothed. She wrapped her cloak more tightly about her and meandered deeper into the grove, letting her thoughts settle.
Why had the colonel asked her about Rosings? Had his interest been merely polite conversation, or had there been some underlying motive? He had looked at her in that way people sometimes did when they knew more than they were willing to say. Did he know something about Mr. Darcy?
She shook her head and pressed on, brushing past a low-hanging branch, not caring that it left a damp trail along her sleeve. At the end of the orchard, the path dipped down to a small lake, not much more than a pond, really. Had the colonel and Mr. Darcy played here as boys? It was amusing to think of them in such a way.
Alas, for all her musings, there were no answers to be found here. Only the quiet rustling of leaves, the distant “tur-tur” of the turtledoves, and the soft, rhythmic sound of her own footsteps.
As Elizabeth emerged from the orchard and reached the crest of a gentle slope, she paused to adjust her cloak. The weather was warming a little, or perhaps she was warmer due to the exercise. From this vantage point, she could just make out the parsonage in the distance, its nearly new roof peeking through the trees. Her gaze drifted beyond it, toward the narrow lane leading from Rosings.
A lone figure moved along the path.
Even from afar, there was no mistaking him. The tall man with a deliberate stride—Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening despite herself. He was heading toward the parsonage. Was he intending to call?
For a fleeting moment, she remained rooted to the spot, torn between lingering to observe him and retreating before he might notice her. It was absurd, of course. She had no reason to avoid him, and yet her thoughts about him were still jumbled. He did not like her, yet he stared at her so. He disdained the company of her family and neighbours in Hertfordshire, but visited the parsonage in Kent. And the memory of both his kindness and his unreadable expression yesterday—it was all too much to untangle.
And then, as if fate itself conspired against her, he paused mid-step.
Would he turn? Did he feel her watching him?
Elizabeth’s breath caught, but before she could be certain, Mr. Darcy continued his course, unhurried but determined. Then she laughed at herself. He was likely only calling to assure himself that the ladies had not caught colds from Mr. Collins’s ill-advised actions.
It was the polite thing to do. But she would not be there, nor would she enter the house in her current state—dirty hems and muddy boots—while they had such an august guest. She did not wish to see his censorious stare return.
Hadit been censorious, though? It had. Had it not?
Oh, she could not face him just now.
Her decision made, she walked past the path to the parsonage and instead took the path that led to the hill where the folly sat. Over the top of the hill and down a bit on the other side was the shaded grove where the bluebells grew so abundantly. If she must wrestle with her thoughts, she would do so with an armful of flowers rather than under the scrutiny of Mr. Darcy’s penetrating gaze.
And if she lingered a little longer among the blossoms than was strictly necessary—well, that was no one’s concern but her own.
Elizabeth found the grove beyond Lady Catherine’s folly particularly restful. The newly leafed trees created a dappled pattern on the ground, and the bluebells made a lovely carpet beneath. She leaned against one of the trees and read Jane’s most recent letter before sighing and tucking it away.
