Page 7 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
ThemorningroomatHunsford parsonage was not large, but it possessed the virtue of excellent light, a characteristic of which Elizabeth was particularly sensible as she observed their callers. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat at perfect ease in the humble surroundings, his agreeable countenance and ready conversation providing a marked contrast to his cousin’s reserved demeanour. Mr. Darcy stood by the window, his tall figure casting a shadow across Charlotte’s rug, his eyes returning to Elizabeth’s face with perturbing frequency.
“I trust you find the neighbourhood agreeable, Miss Bennet?” the colonel enquired, his eyes twinkling. “Though perhaps after the liveliness of Hertfordshire, you find our corner of Kent rather too sedate?”
“I assure you, Colonel, I have found no shortage of diversions,” Elizabeth replied. “The paths here offer excellent prospects for walking.”
Mr. Collins, who had been hovering anxiously near the door as though afraid his esteemed guests might attempt an escape, hastened to interject. “Indeed, the walking paths at Rosings are of the highest quality. Lady Catherine herself has overseen their placement with the most exacting attention.”
“Oh yes!” Maria exclaimed, her natural timidity overcome by enthusiasm. “And is not the folly romantic? Like something from a novel! I have sketched it three times already in my journal, though I cannot quite capture its elegance. When the sun strikes the columns just so—” She broke off, suddenly remembering herself, and flushed deeply. “Do you not think it marvellous, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth was conscious of Mr. Darcy’s sudden stillness by the window. “I confess I find its presence less romantic and more . . . assertive,” she said carefully.
Mr. Darcy turned to face her. He appeared—curious?
Unlike his silent cousin, the colonel laughed. “Assertive!Thereis a diplomatic way of stating it. Would you not say, Darcy?”
“I would say nothing on the subject at all,” Mr. Darcy replied, though his rigid posture spoke volumes.
“That is a change,” the colonel murmured. Elizabeth heard him, but it was clear she was not meant to and so she offered no reply. She surmised this was yet another topic on which Mr. Darcy had decided opinions.
“Come now, Darcy,” the colonel continued, this time loudly enough for those near him to hear, “surely Miss Bennet’s opinion interests you?”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm under Mr. Darcy’s intense observation. “Nature has arranged the landscape with considerable artistry already,” he said in a tone Elizabeth could only call dismissive. “Man’s improvements often serve only to diminish what was perfect in its original state.”
Despite his brusque way of speaking, Elizabeth found herself in agreement with Mr. Darcy. While she considered that astonishing fact, Mr. Collins stepped into the breach.
“Diminish!” Mr Collins appeared quite horrified. “My dear Mr. Darcy, I must protest. Lady Catherine’s taste is beyond compare. The folly adds a most elevated touch of classical refinement to the grounds, which of course are already magnificent.”
“I am sure Lady Catherine’s intentions were good,” Elizabeth remarked. She did not believe it, but she did not wish for her friend to spend an entire evening placating her husband over Mr. Darcy’s insult to his aunt. She searched for another subject. “My sister has been in London since the beginning of the year, Mr. Darcy. Have you ever chanced to see her there?”
“No,” he said abruptly. “I have not had that pleasure.”
She would have inquired further, but Charlotte, who was ever alert to the way the currents of conversation flowed, suggested that refreshments might be welcome—and Elizabeth truly did not wish to bring dissension to the parsonage. As Charlotte shrewdly drew her husband away to ask his judgement on the tea service for their important guests, and Maria fell into an eager conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam about the latest musical entertainment at Rosings, Elizabeth found herself abandoned in her corner of the room. Mr. Darcy, who had maintained his post by the window throughout the exchange, moved slightly closer.
“Do you often walk the paths near the folly, Miss Bennet?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only she might hear.
“Only to the bluebells beyond,” she replied, deciding that honesty need not extend to revealing her favourite reading spot. “I confess I prefer the grove, where one might imagine oneself quite alone in the landscape.”
“Good,” he said, but did not explain. Something flickered across his countenance. Recognition, perhaps, or a brief sort of interest. “You prefer solitude to society, then?”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth answered, lifting her chin. “I merely believe there are times when nature offers better company than one might find elsewhere.”
“And what of the danger of walking alone?” The words seemed to escape him against his will, his brow furrowing as soon as he spoke them.
Elizabeth could not help but think him rather attractive. It was a shame his manners did not complement his countenance. “Danger, Mr. Darcy? In Lady Catherine’s perfectly maintained grounds?” She could not quite keep the arch tone from her voice. “I am certain she would never allow it.”
His jaw tightened at her reply. Before she could apologise, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice rang out across the room.
“Miss Bennet, we require your assistance in settling a matter of some importance. Miss Lucas and I find ourselves in an intractable debate about the merits of country dances versus the statelier minuet. You must lend us your expertise.” He exchanged a look with Mr. Darcy—was he irritated with his taciturn cousin? She was only grateful the interruption had come before Mr. Collins overheard. He might decide that Mr. Darcy—and therefore Lady Catherine—would not approve her walking out on her own.
From his post by the window, Mr. Darcy shifted slightly, and Elizabeth could have sworn she saw him frown.
Elizabeth was grateful for the interruption, but as she turned her attention back to the others, she had the oddest sense that Mr. Darcy’s eyes lingered on her still. It was perplexing. He had been watchful before, at Netherfield and anywhere else they happened to meet, but here in Kent, his reserve seemed . . . different.
She had once thought she understood Mr. Darcy well enough: proud, aloof, and disapproving. But as she returned to the lively conversation of his cousin, Elizabeth began to wonder whether she knew him as well as she believed.
Elizabeth brought in the last bit of the dandelion leaves from the garden and helped Charlotte lay them out for drying.
She pretended to scrutinize their work. “What do you think, Charlotte? Sufficiently practical for Lady Catherine’s discerning housekeeping? I fear anything less than perfection might reveal our lowly understanding of the stillroom.”
