Now, if only he could make time move faster.
March 1807
Longbourn
Elizabeth
The first signs of spring were everywhere as Elizabeth walked out. The ground was soft but not muddy, and the brown grass already sprinkled with shoots of green. Bluebells would soon appear, followed by a profusion of colour. Breathing deeply, she set out for Oakham Mount, eager to see whether any flowers had yet bloomed on the summit.
The winter had been a sore trial. Mr Fiennes persisted in his awkward attentions, calling at Longbourn three times each week. Elizabeth bore it with as much patience as she could command, striving to always to avoid him. When they did speak, conversation began with uneasiness, sometimes even friendliness, before ending in some remark or gesture that unsettled her and left her questioning whether she were foolish, fanciful, or simply an anxious miss unskilled in managing a gentleman’s notice.
Unable to work off her frustrations by walking—lest she encounter the man—Elizabeth took to pacing the upper hall until her mother forbade it, declaring she would wear a path in the carpet with her restless strides. Now that the weather permitted her to be out of doors, Elizabeth cared little ifshe encountered the objectionable owner of Netherfield Park. She longed to stretch her limbs and breathe the open air until her spirits were restored.
Cresting the rise, she drew in the view with delight. The oak that gave the mount its name already put forth tender green leaves, and its gnarled trunk showed the marks of winter storms that beat against it year after year. Grass sprouted all around, and the sunlit clearing, ringed by trees, was carpeted with blooms of every hue. A small cry escaped her; she hurried forward and sat down amidst them, heedless of her gown. Laughing under her breath, she gathered several blossoms and breathed their fragrance. “Perfection!” she cried aloud, and lying back on the grass, closed her eyes, letting the flowers and new grass brush across her cheek.
“Miss Elizabeth!”
The alarmed call sounded close, and before she could rise, she was lifted in strong arms.
“Are you hurt? Speak to me!”
“Release me, sir!” Elizabeth pushed against his chest with all her strength. “I am perfectly well!”
Mr Fiennes obeyed,setting her on her feet, only to take hold of her arms. He studied her with seeming concern, his thumbs drawing idle circles against her sleeves; the contact turned her stomach, and she swallowed hard.
“Forgive me,” he said. “From where I sat atop my horse, it seemed you had fallen.” He gestured towards the animal standing some paces off beneath the trees, placidly cropping grass.
“I did not fall.” She cleared her throat. “I was merely admiring the flowers at close quarters. I beg your pardon for alarming you.”
“You ought not to do such things, you know. My heart nearly stopped. What would become of me if its very reason for beating were gone?” He spoke lightly, yet the intimacy of his words made her shrink within herself.
“I should return to Longbourn.” She drew herself up and stepped back. His hands dropped away, and she stooped to collect her shawl, which still lay where he caught her up.
“Allow me to accompany you,” he offered. “I have business with your father.”
He fetched his horse and walked beside her, talking cheerfully while she answered little. She kept sufficient distance that he could not take her arm, and on reaching Longbourn, she bade him farewell the moment they were within doors.
Her good humour gone, Elizabeth withdrew to her chamber and remained there until tea.
Fiennes
“Good morning, Bennet. As promised, I have come to hear of your progress in the investment.” Fiennes smiled, the picture of unruffled confidence.
Bennet looked rather stricken, his features altering at once; he forced a brittle smile in return. “Of course. I have just composed a letter to send to Cartwright.”
“Indeed?” Fiennes twirled the ring on his finger, maintaining a courteous air. “Have you heard from him?”
Bennet shifted in his chair. “Well, no. Such is the purpose of my missive. He promised to keep me informed, yet two previous letters have gone unanswered.”
Fiennes suppressed a smile, a burning satisfaction stirring within him. “There are still six months. I am confident all will end favourably.”
“That is very good of you to say. Your confidence does me good.” He rose and went to the side table, where a decanter and glasses stood ready. “May I pour you a drink?”
“I thank you, but no.” Fiennes inclined his head and took up his hat, intent on taking his leave now that he had his information. “I have business at Netherfield Park. Good day to you.”
Bennet waved him off and drank with evident relief, a wavering smile lingering on his face.
Fiennes was content. He found pleasure in the stillness that followed persuasion; submission freely given was obedience of the finest sort. There remained a small chance that Bennet’s venture would succeed, but he doubted it. Soon everything would be precisely as he wished.
