Her grief was plain upon her face, and the colonel was perplexed. He could not comprehend what so greatly concerned this young lady, whom he had always valued and respected. Perhaps she desired to attract Darcy’s notice, and this letter was the instrument she had chosen. He regretted thinking so, yet she had come only to accuse the woman he loved.
“Have you married?” Elizabeth asked, though she knew the answer.
“No. We determined to wait for her mother’s return, and then to announce our engagement. But I suspect you have not told me everything you have discovered. What you have urged against her may be refuted with ease. I do not believe you came so far to present so meagre a case as her mother being from Meryton.”
“No, you are right.”
For the first time in days, Elizabeth questioned whether she was justified in laying before him all their suspicions. Suddenly, the whole affair seemed, as the colonel saw it, no more than trifles—a lover’s indulgence, forgiven without delay.
“Pray continue, Miss Elizabeth.”
“We are persuaded that Miss Henry shows an unnatural interest in your work.”
“What?” cried the colonel, springing up again. He looked with disgust upon the young lady before him. Once, he had held her in the highest regard, but this was beyond endurance. He longed to dismiss her at once, yet sought to master himself, unwilling to let her go without defending the honour of his betrothed.
“An unnatural interest? Why should you suppose so monstrous a thing?”
In that moment, it ceased to signify. She had come to declare what many already suspected of Miss Henry, and whether their friendship ended mattered little.
“Because, Colonel Fitzwilliam, she sought a man of high rank—”
“There are generals, madam,” he retorted with evident derision.
“Yes, but few are unmarried. She encouraged you, with subtlety, to accept a post at the War Office, and thus you are now directly engaged in preparing for the war with France.”
“Stop. Pray stop. Are you saying that she steals intelligence from me? You have gone too far!”
“Yet that is the truth, cousin!”
Both turned to the door, where Darcy stood, his countenance as inflamed as the colonel’s own.
“Darcy! What are you doing here?” He halted, then laughed. “I perceive it now. You came together—of course, you came together. This is a contrivance to destroy Emmeline’s reputation!”
“I believe Miss Henry’s reputation is already lost. No innocent lady would pass months beneath the same roof with a gentleman—”
The colonel rose with so menacing an air that Elizabeth hastened to place herself between them. She pressed them gently apart. “Pray, gentlemen—let us be seated and converse with civility.”
“A civil manner would exclude such aspersions upon the conduct of my betrothed!” Yet the colonel yielded to Elizabeth’s request and sat down, as distant from them as he could.
“Miss Henry is properly attended, I assure you!”
“As she was in Kent?” enquired Darcy.
The colonel was so struck that he forgot his anger. “How could you possibly know—?”
“That she followed you into Kent, and that you passed almost every other night at Hunsford?”
The colonel, aghast, looked only then at the objects Darcy had placed upon the table beside him.
“Yes, the perfume, dear cousin. Each morning at breakfast, you were steeped in it. I smiled, trusting you with all my heart.”
Elizabeth coloured deeply, and they both remembered her presence.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. Then he looked towards his cousin, who took his meaning: this is how an innocent young lady responds when such words are spoken.
Darcy took a small bottle of perfume from the table and gave it to Elizabeth. “Pray read what is inscribed upon the bottom.”
“'Louis Fargeon—Parfumeur distillateur breveté fournisseur de l’Impératrice,’” Elizabeth read aloud. “'Patented perfumer, supplier to the Empress.’”
