“Indeed?” he said lightly, though the tone beneath was unmistakably strategic. “Then perhaps you’ll forgive the liberty of a question or two. Merely for my own clarity. I find it helps, when something baffles me, to march around it. Inspect from all sides. Familiar terrain is rarely what it first appears.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, uncertain whether to be amused or alarmed.
“Georgiana, for instance,” the Colonel began, still conversational. “She is a dear girl, though painfully reserved in company. And yet you, Miss Bennet, seem remarkably acquainted with her musical preferences.Clementi, I believe you said?”
Elizabeth’s composure held. “It was but a guess—he is a favourite of many young ladies of her age. His sonatas are elegant, clear.”
“Yes,” the Colonel agreed mildly. “Though Georgiana’s taste is rather more distinct than most. For years she preferred Beethoven—Lady Catherine calls it wild, of course, but Georgiana has always admired strength in harmony.”
Elizabeth offered a light shrug. “Clementi or Beethoven, I dare say one can hardly go wrong. Both are fashionable.”
The Colonel nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. And yet the other evening, you chose not Clementi, nor even one of the older Italian masters, but Beethoven’s Sonata in E-flat, Opus 81a. A curious choice, for such a recent composition. I was given to understand it was published only this past winter—and not widely circulated beyond the Continent.”
“I—I saw the score,” Elizabeth said quickly. “On the pianoforte at Rosings. I did not realise it was so new. I have played it before—once or twice. Perhaps it stayed in my fingers.”
“Indeed?” he said again, gently. “An uncommon piece to stumble upon—and to play so well. You performed it as though you knew it intimately.”
Elizabeth felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “I am fond of music, Colonel. One may develop a quick ear.”
“No doubt,” he said, offering a faint, knowing smile. “And then there was Mr. Darcy’s favourite—‘Ode to the Happy Heart,’was it? A remarkably obscure choice. I confess, I’ve rarely heard it outside a private circle.”
Elizabeth looked away. “It was... a fortunate guess.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he said quietly. “Three guesses in a row. One might think you had spent years with them.”
She did not reply.
“I am trained to observe inconsistencies, Miss Bennet,” he continued, his voice softening. “In campaign, small discrepancies may presage great dangers. When something is off, a commander must know why. You speak with precision, you play as if rehearsed beside them, you flinch when I speak of danger... and you call my cousin—Fitzwilliam—by his given name, as though it were habit.”
Elizabeth froze. Her eyes lifted to his, and in them she saw it—that quiet, watchful sharpness of a man who had marked more than he had spoken. A chill ran through her, not for his words alone, but for the certainty that lay behind them.
Fitzwilliam.
The name rang in her ears now with dreadful clarity. When had she said it? She searched her memory, sifting through their conversation like a woman retracing her steps in a fog. Had it been yesterday? Yes—yes, that must be it. A casual remark, spoken without thought, without awareness. And afterward—his silence. That sudden, disquieting withdrawal.
How easily it had slipped from her. How carelessly. As though it belonged to her—as though she had spoken it a hundred times before. And now, in the Colonel’s measured gaze, she saw what her heart had not wished to acknowledge: it had not passed unnoticed.
Her familiarity, so unthinking, so intimate—it had marked her out. Her presumption had betrayed her.
A flush crept up her cheeks; her hands twisted together in sudden desperation.
Not in this time, she thought, dismayed.Not here.
“Oh—” she breathed, her voice scarcely more than a tremor. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, I... I can explain. But please—please—allow me to speak with him first. Let me explain it to Mr. Darcy. I beg you.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, during which the air between them seemed to grow thick with silent calculation, he said, “And why, Miss Bennet, should I permit that? Why not explain yourself to me, here and now?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She had expected such a question—and yet, when it came, she found herself no more prepared to answer. How could she possibly begin? The truth, spoken aloud, would seem to him no more than the ravings of a madwoman.
“I do understand your suspicions, Colonel,” she said at last, her voice low but steady. “Truly, I do. But there are things I cannot—indeed, I must not—say to anyone but Mr. Darcy himself. Were you to know their nature, I believe you would agree my caution is not without cause.”
He studied her with the deliberation of a man assessing a battlefield—one who knew that a single misplaced footstep might conceal a snare.
“You ask a great deal, Miss Bennet,” he said at last, his voice thoughtful but firm. “You request silence in the face of uncertainty, loyalty in place of proof. I am trained to weigh risks, to distinguish between a ruse and an ally. If I allow my cousin to walk blind into something—whatever this is—I must answer for it.”
“I do not seek to mislead him—or you,” she said, her voice rich with sincerity. “Only to speak with him. Once. In private. I swear to you, that is all.”
He inclined his head slightly, though his eyes never left hers. “And what,” he asked, “is it that you must say in secret that could not be said here and now, to one who has known him all his life—and would defend him with mine?”
