by Jann Rowland
While his sister was sitting with Mr. Darcy, toadying up to Miss de Bourgh, Charles Bingley watched her with barely constrained irritation. Upon reflection, he realized he should have known that Caroline would come here. In her mind, she could not allow Darcy to get away, especially with the man back in near proximity to Miss Elizabeth.
“Did you know your sister was to come?” asked Miss Bennet.
Grateful for being distracted from his dark thoughts, Bingley turned to his angel and shook his head. “I did not. But had I considered the matter, I am certain I would have expected her to come. She is fixated on Darcy.”
For several moments, Miss Bennet did not say anything. She wore a frown, and she seemed deep in the middle of some ruminations.
“Lizzy has made the same comments.”
“Your sister is quite observant.” Bingley sighed. “Ever since she was first introduced to him, Caroline has had Darcy firmly in her sights. I have attempted to inform her that he is not interested, but she hears nothing I say.”
Though Bingley might have expected Miss Bennet to try to see the good behind his sister’s actions—though even she might have difficulty making the mere suggestion—she was silent for several moments before she spoke.
“You have my apologies, Mr. Bingley, but I cannot support your sister. My sister’s happiness appears to be wrapped up in Mr. Darcy, and I will not allow your sister to ruin it for her.”
Bingley laughed quietly. “Nor will I, Miss Bennet. Caroline wants Darcy for one reason and one reason only, but Darcy has never shown her even a hint of interest.”
“I wish someone else would show some interest in her.”
Both Bingley and Miss Bennet turned to see Hurst standing nearby. The man was watching Caroline’s performance, seeming like there was a foul taste in his mouth. He took a swig of brandy, seemingly trying to wash it away. He had apparently helped himself to Fitzwilliam’s libations.
“She has had interest in the past, as you well know,” replied Bingley.
“Yes, but they were not Darcy, so she would not hear anything of it.”
Hurst and Bingley shared a commiserating look, even while Miss Bennet looked on them with surprise, and even a hint of uncertainty. It appeared that her ability to censure another was limited, even in the face of Bingley’s exasperating sister.
“You have my apologies, Bingley,” grunted Hurst, turning his attention to Bingley. “Your sister was making my life miserable, with her constant entreaties to come to Brighton. I was tempted to spend the entire week in a drunken stupor.”
“You do not anyway?” asked Bingley, grinning at his brother.
Hurst shrugged. “It is easier to do so, especially since I met your sister. At times this week, I think even your elder sister was tempted to join me.”
Shaking his head, Bingley looked back at Caroline, who was speaking some drivel to Miss de Bourgh, likely praising her as she was wont to do.
“But I managed to gain a hint of revenge,” said Hurst, drawing Bingley’s attention back to his brother. When Bingley directed a pointed look at him, demanding an explanation, Hurst shrugged. “I told her the only house I could find to let was on the other side of town.” Hurst’s grin was positively evil. “With each mile that passed, I could see her anger rising. We are a full twenty minutes away by carriage.”
Bingley laughed. “Then I will count on you to keep her away from us as much as possible.”
But Hurst was not amused. “She has already made me miserable, Bingley, and she is your sister. For the sake of us all, it might be necessary to install her in an establishment of her own.”
It was a hard truth, but Hurst was correct. “I will, if it comes to that. Thank you, Hurst. If she becomes unbearable, let me know and I will take action.”
A grunt was Hurst’s only reply. Bingley turned his attention back to Caroline, and until he was forced to intervene and they departed, he considered the situation. Though he was loath to acknowledge it, setting her up in her own establishment might be the best for all. He shuddered to think what her reaction would be when Darcy finally made an offer to Miss Elizabeth. It would be nothing that would do any of them any credit.
The party returned from their adventure sea bathing in high spirits. Not one of them had ever had the experience, and regardless of everything they had heard of it, none had known quite what to expect. They visited a nearby café before they returned to the residences, and there the topic of the day’s activity dominated their conversation.
“I told you, Mr. Bennet,” said the man’s wife, her tone and expression suggesting smugness, “sea bathing was a wonderful adventure. I am quite content after having experienced it.”
“That means that your infamous nerves will finally be content for a time?” asked he.
Mrs. Bennet did not deign to respond, but hers were not the only raptures on the subject.
“Had I known how fun it would be, I should have invited Harriet!” said the youngest Bennet. “There is nothing so relaxing or freeing as being weightless in the water. How I long to do it again!”
And it was warmer than I thought,” added Miss Kitty. “I would have expected to shiver the whole time I was immersed, but when I was in, I found it quite pleasant.”
“You should try the waters of the Mediterranean, Miss Kitty,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling at the girl. “The waters there are so warm in the summer that it feels like you are stepping into a tub of heated water.”
“Truly?” gasped Miss Lydia. “You have been to the Mediterranean?”
“Indeed, I have, during my grand tour many years ago. The wonders of Greece and Italy are beyond description, and I cannot even begin to do the Coliseum, the Parthenon, and other such sights any justice.”
Miss Lydia made a face. “The waters sound lovely, but if you wish to speak of such things, you should talk to Lizzy. The rest of us care nothing for crumbling buildings and dead civilizations.”
Amused, Fitzwilliam smiled at the girl, even as he saw Miss Elizabeth shake her head and look to the sky, as if in supplication. They were an odd family, Fitzwilliam decided, containing such disparate characters as Miss Elizabeth and her two youngest sisters, to say nothing of the parents. But Fitzwilliam found that he enjoyed their company—there was little of artifice about the Bennets, as most of them—apart from Miss Bennet and Miss Mary—were inclined to say exactly what they thought. And even if the two were reticent and little predisposed to sharing their opinions, at least they were honest characters. If only Darcy had recognized their characters from the beginning, he might have saved himself much heartache.
A movement by his side caught Fitzwilliam’s attention, and he turned his eyes to Anne, who sat watching him.
“You seem deep in thought, Cousin,” said she, her head tilted slightly to the side. “Dare I ask the subject of such weighty ruminations?”
Fitzwilliam laughed and shook his head. “Nothing ponderous, Anne. In fact, I was considering the contrasting characters of the Bennets, and how Darcy might have prevented much distress had he not noticed that regardless of their sometimes . . . peculiar behavior, they are, in essence, good and honest people.”
A nod of her head informed Fitzwilliam that Anne agreed with him. “If not that, then he should at least have realized that Miss Elizabeth is worth more than the sum of her family and fortune.”
“You esteem her greatly.”
“Her and her elder sister, yes,” replied Anne. “I admired Miss Elizabeth almost from the start, when I realized that she was not about to bow down to my mother for nothing more than her lineage.”
Nodding his head, Fitzwilliam’s eyes found Miss Elizabeth, and he noted that she was sitting with Darcy and was laughing at something he said. They had grown much closer during their days in Brighton, and Fitzwilliam now possessed some hope that they would be able to rise above the acrimony of the past. Based on nothing more than compatibility, they were a good match, and Miss Elizabeth would make Darcy happy.
Another thought occurred to Fitzwilliam, and he laughed, shaking his head. Anne looked at him with curiosity, and he said: “I was just thinking about how well Miss Elizabeth and Darcy would do for each other, and then I thought that she would almost certainly keep him on his toes.”
“You will forgive me saying,” replied Anne, “but I believe that is exactly what he requires. Darcy is a good man, but he tends to think himself better positioned to understand and act whenever any problem arises than anyone else I have ever known. It will do him good to have a woman like Elizabeth to knock him off his high horse on occasion.”
“I could not agree more, my dear Cousin.”
They sat in companionable silence for some time, watching and listening to the conversation of the others. The three younger girls were sitting at a nearby table chattering among themselves, and even Georgiana, who, at times, almost seemed afraid to say a word, was speaking freely and with very little hesitation. Fitzwilliam smiled—perhaps the little mouse had learned that if she wished to speak at all, she must take every opportunity, as the youngest Bennets were certainly not shy about sharing their thoughts.
A short distance away, Miss Elizabeth and Darcy sat at a table with Bingley and Miss Bennet, and both courtships appeared to be proceeding well. Should matters continue as they were, Fitzwilliam had no doubt that Bingley and Darcy would be brothers, though not in the manner Miss Bingley had always wished. And then Mr. Bennet, his wife, and middle daughter sat at another table, and while Mrs. Bennet appeared to be following the conversation of the youngest girls, Mr. Bennet was conversing with Miss Mary. The girl, who had always struck Fitzwilliam as stuck between her more vocal younger and elder sisters, seemed to have gained some confidence in the past weeks. Good for her, Fitzwilliam decided—though she tended toward moralizing and should never sing in company, she had always struck him as a good sort of girl who would benefit from the genuine interest of her family. As for his own companion . . .
Fitzwilliam turned his eyes toward Anne, doing his best to avoid being observed. For many years, most in the family had considered Anne to be nothing more than an appendage of her mother, a pale reflection with no interest in life, no talent, and cursed with a surly disposition and a weak constitution. But she had proven to be so much more. She was possessed of a sharp wit, a droll sense of humor, and an intelligence he had never suspected of her. They had all failed her by never taking the time to look closer at her than they had.
Anne was not the sickly, unattractive girl she had always appeared to be in Kent. Part of that had been due to general unhealthiness, some of which had been improved by her increased activity, a better diet, and a doctor who examined her and recommended true treatments, and not a toady who told his aunt exactly what she wished to hear. It was also, Fitzwilliam was surprised to see, due to the introduction of a more flattering style of dress and hair.
Indeed, the changes were almost astonishing. Anne would never be large—she was smaller than even Miss Elizabeth, who was a dainty woman. But her complexion was now a healthier color, her hair seemed to have more life, and her face was pleasant to look upon. She was built of fine china, seeming ready to break should a stiff wind blow, but he well knew she possessed previously untapped wells of strength. Yes, there was much to admire in his cousin.
“If you continue to stare at me, I shall think there is something amiss with my hair, or something on my face.”
Starting, Fitzwilliam looked at Anne with shock; she had apparently noted his scrutiny, and though she appeared to be uncomfortable, she had attempted levity. It was something Fitzwilliam could not have fathomed only a few short weeks ago.
Anne colored at his surprise, and she looked at him with annoyance. “I know I shall never be a beauty, Fitzwilliam, but must you compare me with the Bennet sisters? They are a rather comely lot to be sure, but you do not need to make me feel lacking by comparison.”
A sudden decision came into Fitzwilliam’s mind, and he looked at his cousin, censure in his gaze. “You may be jesting, Anne, but I do not truly appreciate the substance of your jest. I do not find you lacking by comparison—quite the opposite, in fact.”
His cousin stared at him as if he was mad, and Fitzwilliam could not resist the urge to laugh.
“I do not find your sense of humor amusing, Cousin,” said Anne.
“And I do not appreciate you devaluing your own worth,” replied Fitzwilliam.
They exchanged a long look, Anne trying to determine if Fitzwilliam was in earnest, while Fitzwilliam watched her, trying to inform her through his steady gaze that he was not attempting to make sport with her.
“Anne, I have wondered,” said Fitzwilliam. “What do you want in life?”
A shrug was Anne’s response. “I have never considered it. My mother controlled every aspect of my life, and I was not consulted. It seemed pointless to think of such things.
“Maybe it was that way in the past,” replied Fitzwilliam gently. “But it is not that way now. None of us wish to dictate your future for you. Recently, however, I have found myself hoping that your future might include me.”
Anne gasped. “Are you saying what I believe you are saying?”
“I believe I am, dearest cousin.
“Anne, you are no longer the dominated girl with no future but to wait while our cousin decided if he would ever bow to your mother’s demands. You are vibrant, intelligent, and making your own way in the world. And to hear you say that you cannot hold a candle to the Bennet sisters makes me believe that you have not looked in a mirror recently. Any man would be fortunate to have you for a wife.”
“But my health . . .”
“Only limits you as much as you let it,” said Fitzwilliam. Anne was surprised by the firmness of his tone, but Fitzwilliam would not be gainsaid.
“And what of your profession? I would not become a wife to a man who might make her a widow at any moment.”
“No, I can see how that would be of concern,” murmured Fitzwilliam.
Another might have been affronted at the way she phrased her words, but Fitzwilliam was not one of them. It was a legitimate concern. Being a younger son and having the family properties tied up in the earldom, Fitzwilliam had always known he would need to make his own way in the world, and his independent streak and sense of duty had ensured that the army had been his destination. His father had purchased a small estate outside the family properties, and though the income would not make him a rich man, it would still give him some support when he finally put off the scarlet.
His attraction to Anne opened new avenues that Fitzwilliam had never considered. The aforementioned sense of duty meant that he was of two minds about resigning his commission, but the idea of a wife to love and care for and a sedentary life managing an estate appealed to him in a way that he had never imagined it would. He was tired; he had spent years in the military, had taken part in several campaigns, and been shot at in several battles. The exhilaration of battle had become stale, and he knew that sooner or later his luck might run out. His parents had asked him to leave the army for some time, and though Fitzwilliam had always put them off with a laugh and a jest, now might be the opportunity for which he had waited. He could count on support from his family; the true test would be to discover if he could make a life with Anne.
Slowly and with many stops and starts, Fitzwilliam began to pour out his feelings to Anne, and his cousin looked at him with wonder. Whereas Darcy was infamous for his closed demeanor and refusal to reveal anything about himself, Fitzwilliam had always hidden himself through humor and a jovial attitude. Anne had likely never thought him capable of baring his innermost thoughts.
“I would not have you think that I wish to court you for the dowry you will inevitably bring,” said Fitzwilliam, after he had finished sharing his thoughts. “It is only in the past several weeks that I have begun to see you as more than I had ever noticed, and I would like to discover what we can be to each other.”
“And if we can be nothing?”
Fitzwilliam spread his hands out. “Then we need go no further. I am not suggesting a formal courtship. I only suggest that we each attempt to see the other as a potential match. Whatever happens from there will be decided by us both.”
Anne was silent for a moment, thinking on his words. It was not long before she directed a shy smile at him. “I agree. Of course, I will require you to cease flirting with every woman we come across.”
Laughing, Fitzwilliam put his hand over hers. “I swear to you, Annie, that you are the only woman I shall see from this day forward.”
Chapter XXIV
Given her previous antipathy toward the man, Elizabeth was finding it difficult to understand how quickly her feelings were changing toward Mr. Darcy. There was something . . . Though Elizabeth could not quite put words to her feelings, she thought he was almost estimable.
The very thought caused her to giggle a little—to espouse the opinion that a man did not even possess a hint of a redeeming quality was ridiculous, of course, but it was very near what she had previously thought of Mr. Darcy.
The fact was that Mr. Darcy was of an estimable character. He was not perfect, as his behavior the previous autumn, his shunning of most society, and his tendency toward believing his own opinion to be infallible demonstrated. But he was far nobler than Elizabeth had ever truly thought to find, and he was particularly ardent as a suitor. The man possessed a knack for making Elizabeth feel as if she were the most important person on the face of the earth, and after some reflection, Elizabeth decided that to him she likely was. The journey from hatred to love was one which was difficult to imagine, but the more the man paid his attentions to her, the more she realized that it was not unfathomable.
Rarely a day went by when the Bennets did not spend much of the day in company with Mr. Darcy’s party. Even her father had been far more open with Mr. Darcy and his party than Elizabeth might have expected. Of course, that was not always the case—he was her father, and she knew him well. He still spent many hours in the company of his beloved books, and here in Brighton, he was not even bothered with any hint of his responsibilities to the estate, though he did sometimes receive and respond to correspondence from Mr. Hill, Longbourn’s butler and the man who was managing their affairs in the family’s absence.