Elizabeth inclined her head, yet continued in the same firm tone.
“Some time ago, one of my sisters discovered a letter which we believe was written by Mrs Henry to her daughter.”
“Youbelieve?” the colonel asked with fury, and Elizabeth saw his hands clench upon the balustrade of the balcony.
Elizabeth did not reply to his challenge, but went on. “It had been left in a book that my sister borrowed from the library at Netherfield.”
She drew from her reticule the deeds of sale of the house, together with a letter and a second paper containing its translation, but the colonel refused them.
“Miss Elizabeth, I dislike this account exceedingly. It is precisely what I supposed it would be—idle gossip from the—”
“—countryside,” Elizabeth interposed.
“Exactly. You said it, not I.”
“Yet it is what you thought, and that is most offensive to me.”
“As offensive as to me is your attack upon the woman I love.”
“I am sorry. I pronounce no judgement. I have told you only that she has misled you respecting her parents—and that is certain. Do you agree?”
The poor colonel merely inclined his head, and that was of weight, for he had begun to believe Elizabeth and to doubt his betrothed. Perhaps not in any decisive manner, yet her falsehoods were disquieting between two persons who were to shape their future together. Yet, they might still be explained and forgiven.
“You have made this entire journey in order to show me that she deceived me concerning her family? It is unpleasant, I do not deny it, and she must offer me an explanation, yet it is not of grave importance, and she may well have reasons which I could wholly accept.”
“It is more than that,” Elizabeth said, and a deep disquiet seized her, which did not escape notice. The colonel looked at her with astonishment, for Elizabeth Bennet was not a woman to perform a part; she was indeed distressed, sorrowful, and for the first time that afternoon, his heart seemed to cease within him.
“You must read this letter,” murmured the lady.
The colonel took the letter and, after one glance, regarded Elizabeth with astonishment. “It is in French.”
“Yes. Mr Henry is in truth Monsieur Anri, a French gentleman; and both mother and daughter speak the tongue with ease.”
Am I mistaken, or does the colonel blush?thought Elizabeth. Yet it was difficult to discern, for the sunset deepened into night. She had judged aright, however: it was more a change of bearing than of hue. It was evident that doubts assailed him.
“Does she speak French?” asked Elizabeth.
“Yes,” he muttered, recalling moments when Emmeline had whispered words in that language. He had thought it enchanting, refined, even daring. When he enquired how she had learned, she told him of a governess, a lady of rank who had fled the Revolution…not a family member.
“Pray translate the letter,” he said, and Elizabeth gave him the second paper.
They returned within, where a footman had already lighted the candles. He read with a grave countenance, then appeared relieved.
“There is nothing shocking here. Her mother disliked Meryton, and your mother—I regret to add.”
“True, but she was in Brighton to seek an officer.”
“Yes, she told me she desired marriage, and that her mother was eager for her to find a husband.”
“But why was her mother absent? Why was she left with only that relation?”
“They had an estate in Scotland, which her mother was obliged to manage.”
They listened to the sea’s unceasing sound, flowing through the open windows. It was strange to hear such noble music of nature while distress and disquiet reigned between them.
“Miss Elizabeth, I am in love, and you strive in vain to persuade me that Miss Henry conceals some secret touching our connection.”
“I understand.”
