A letter from Jane and a talk with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Which one is more vexing?

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Part 3

The woods in this part of Rosings were too thick for the early morning sun to penetrate deeply. Cool and dewy, they smelt of green and loam, and freedom, peaceful enough to make one forget all she might count among her troubles.

Elizabeth came to a fork in the wooded path. Both options were pleasant, but this morning she craved a bit of quiet and solitude. She had a letter from Jane and nothing sounded so appealing as a bit of privacy in which to read it. Mr. Darcy had frequently run into her when she had taken the right hand path, so she chose the left.

What a puzzle he was. He had been behaving so strangely since he arrived. How many times had he and Colonel Fitzwilliam called upon the parsonage? Not quite daily, but very nearly. While he could hardly be called a sparkling conversationalist, Mr. Darcy was far more apt to engage when the topics were substantive which, thanks to his cousin, were far more common that was typical for a morning social call.

Odder still were the number of times they encountered one another, here in these woods and instead of greeting her and being about his business, he insisted on accompanying her. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought. To prevent its ever happening again, she took care to inform him at first that it was a favorite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third.

He never said a great deal, but it struck her in the course of their third encounter that he was asking some odd unconnected questions: about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’ happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings, and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying there too. His words seemed to imply it.  What could he mean by such a thing?

Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? Surely not, he would not be the type apt to match making. But what else could he be thinking? It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the fields opposite the Parsonage.

She leaned against the gate and opened her letter. Although it was Jane’s handwriting, there was little of Jane’s spirit there. Even the very characters she wrote appeared despondent. Though she did not say it, the reason was clear: Mr. Bingley.

“Miss Bennet! Pray excuse me.”

What was Colonel Fitzwilliam doing here?

She put the letter away and forced a smile, she said, “I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”

He smiled broadly and bowed. How unlike his cousin he was. “I have been making the tour of the Park as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

“No, I should have turned in a moment.” It was a lie, but what else could she possibly say? They walked towards the Parsonage together. “Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?”

“Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.” He winked as though it troubled him very little indeed.

“And if he is not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”

“He likes to have his own way very well.” Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled, deeply from his belly, a fond, friendly sort of sound. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich. A younger son as I am, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.” He pressed a hand to his chest, affecting woe quite unconvincingly.

“In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”

“Perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.”

“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.”

“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.”

She colored. Surely he did not think her in need of discouragement toward himself.  Or did he? “And pray, what is the usual price of an Earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.” There, hopefully that should set him quite on the straight and narrow.

He flashed his brows and quirked a funny smile at her. Perhaps her point was taken.

“I imagine Mr. Darcy brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. It seemed, for an instant or two he might have that in mind when he visited Meryton in the company of Mr. Bingley and his sisters.  I think I have heard you say that you know them.”

“I know them a little. He is a pleasant gentleman-like man—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.”

“Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.” She tried not to roll her eyes.

“I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most wants care.” He turned toward her and caught her gaze, as though trying to convince her of something very important.  “From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture. It is a circumstance which Darcy, of course, would not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.”

Her stomach knotted and cold spread through her chest. “What is it you mean? You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

“Remember, I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What Darcy told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars.  I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort.”

She drew a deep breath to steady her voice. “Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?”

“There were some very strong objections against the lady.”

 Against Jane? He had objections toward Jane? How could he, how could anyone?

A flash of movement caught her eye as an orange streak raced across the path and leapt at her. She barely caught Ginger without being scratched. “What are you doing here?”

 

What could Ginger possibly be up to and how much trouble will it result in? Tell me in the comments.

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