The colonel, seeing the alarm in her eyes, chuckled softly. “Oh, do not be alarmed. My cousin, for all his omniscience, is not privy to every rustle of a skirt in these corridors. But I, you see, upon my arrival this morning happened to be taking a constitutional in the west wing – a rather gloomy and neglected part of the house, I must say – when I thought I observed a certain new mistress of Pemberley fleeing hastily from the gallery.”
She sought refuge in a light, dismissive tone. “Surely you have not discounted the possibility of phantoms? Darcy ancestors, I imagine, are a perpetually disappointed sort.”
“True,” he conceded easily, his smile unfaltering, “The light in that wing is poor, and the shadows can play tricks.”
His pleasant agreement was a disarming trap. He was offering her an easy retreat, a way to maintain the social fiction, yet the keen glint in his eyes told her he had seen through it completely. To continue the charade would be an insult to his intelligence, and her own.
“I confess you have found me out,” she admitted, “My curiosity is an ill-mannered creature, especially when provoked by so many closed doors and so little information. Mr Darcy has been less than forthcoming.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam threw back his head and laughed. “Less than forthcoming! I was unaware you had such a talent for understatement.” He leaned forward again, his expression one of an amused fellow conspirator. “Did he specifically forbid you access there? I should not be at all surprised. It is one of his most private sanctums.”
Elizabeth felt her colour deepen, shame flooding her at the confirmation of her transgression. “Truly I do regret intruding, especially after I saw the portraits of his family.”
She saw the precise moment her words registered. The amusement vanished, his expression sobering instantly. “Ah. You saw the portrait of Georgiana.”
“Is she his sister?”
“Yes. His sister. My cousin. Darcy and I were named her guardians after the late Mr Darcy passed away.”
“I am so sorry,” Elizabeth said quietly, her heart constricting with an unexpected surge of sympathy. She had been so focused on Darcy’s grief, she had not considered how this loss must have touched the colonel as well.
First surprise, then confusion crossed his face. “Sorry?” he repeated, as if the word were unexpected, almost out of place.
“Well, she…” Elizabeth paused, an awkward uncertainty gripping her. She had assumed, from Darcy’s reaction to the name, from the gallery’s funereal air, that Georgiana was lost tothem in the most final way. Yet how did one politely enquire into the nature of a beloved sister’s tragic fate?
Then, realisation, swift and clear, dawned on the colonel’s face. “She is not — ”
The colonel’s reply was cut off abruptly as footsteps sounded. A half second later, Darcy himself stood framed in the doorway, radiating stern severity. He was still clad in his riding attire, his boots splattered with mud. The vague earthy aroma of horse and wet wool clung to him.
“Cousin!” Colonel Fitzwilliam said heartily.
Darcy checked at the threshold upon seeing them. His gaze swept from his cousin to her, lingering with a peculiar expression. It was a look that seemed to find fault in her easy laughter, in the comfort she had taken in his cousin’s company. She felt her spine stiffen, her brief moment of pleasure instantly extinguished by his powerful disapproval.
The atmosphere in the room which, despite their topic of conversation, had been so relaxed just moments before, instantly crackled with a renewed tension.
“I am glad to see you well, Richard,” said Darcy evenly, “I trust you have not been unduly boring my wife with tales of your military exploits?”
The colonel’s charming smile was firmly fixed back in place. “Not unduly, no.”
“We have merely been engaging in a civilised exchange of pleasantries,” said Elizabeth, unable to resist the gentle provocation.
Darcy’s eyes flickered, the only indication he gave that he had heard her. “Brooks informed me that you intend to stay.”
“Ah…yes, I was just arriving at that point,” replied the colonel, before he turned his earnest gaze towards her. “I thought to beg for an invitation for an extended duration,Elizabeth, if it would not be an imposition. I have received a few weeks of unexpected leave, you see.”
“But of course,” she replied, uncomfortably aware of Darcy’s looming, watchful presence, “You may stay as long as you wish. Pemberley is certainly large enough to accommodate a guest.”
With Darcy’s gaze still fixed upon them, the room seemed to shrink, the air thrumming under the weight of his power. Elizabeth, sensing the opportune moment to withdraw from his galling presence, swiftly rose to her feet and said, “You two must have matters to catch up on. I will speak with Mrs Reynolds and ensure the necessary arrangements are made for your comfort.”
CHAPTER NINE
Elizabeth sat alone before the crackling fire, Jane’s letter, now crumpled from repeated readings, resting in her lap. Her thoughts, however, were not solely on Jane and Mr Bingley. Instead, her mind kept drifting to the images of Darcy and his family in the portrait gallery.
His father, his mother, his sister. It seemed he had suffered such loss in so short a time.
The thought was a disquieting one. It did not excuse his condescension and his often high-handed treatment of her, but it did offer a different perspective. A glimmer of understanding, perhaps even a reluctant sliver of sympathy, began to penetrate the thick walls of her own resentment.
This new understanding subtly altered the landscape of her own emotions. Her irritation towards him was now tinged with a complex element. It was easier to despise a man one believed to be merely proud and unfeeling. It was far, far more difficult to despise a man one suspected was masking deep pain.
