Page 46 of A November to Remember

“She refused it.”

“Refused it!” Colonel Fitzwilliam stared at Jane with the sorrow of a commander betrayed by a trusted lieutenant. Then he collected the bowl, wiped a stray drop of water from the roses off the spoon with his sleeve, and prepared to eat. “No sense in it going to waste.”

Mary, who had retreated to the edge of the tea table to escape her mother’s loud appraisal of the drapery, stared at the towering officer.

“Did you not consume breakfast, Colonel?” she inquired, her voice cutting through the general clamour. “It is eleven o’clock.”

“I require a second breakfast, Miss Mary,” he answered with gravity, pausing with the spoon. “A man of my dimensions cannot survive on morning air and toast, though this fact constantly shocks Miss Bingley.”

Mary looked at the bowl, and then up at his face, her expression gentle, lacking its usual lecturing edge.

“The world is too quick to judge what it does not understand,” she stated solemnly. “Seneca wrote that the mind must be given relaxation, that it may rise better and keener after resting. I imagine the body requires the same reassurance after exertion. It is an emotional necessity, Colonel, not a moral failing, no matter what the gossips preach.”

“You are a very astute woman, Miss Mary,” the colonel said sincerely. “I find a solid meal keeps the shadows precisely where they belong: firmly in the past.”

“Then I shall remain near the tea tray,” Mary replied with a tight smile, “lest anyone attempt to clear away your provisions.”

“I would pity the man who tried to breach your line, Miss Mary,” he replied with a chuckle.

Elizabeth regarded her sister in confusion. But before she could fully comprehend this unsettling development, the peace was shattered once more.

“There is nothing to look at from these windows!” Lydia wailed, dropping the curtain she had been inspecting and stomping her boots on the spot. “Not a single red coat! Only lawns and peacocks. Netherfield is excessively dull in the morning. Mr Bingley, do you not keep a billiard table? Or a regiment?”

“I saw a gardener earlier,” Kitty offered unhelpfully. “But he was very old and wore a terrible hat.”

“A gardener does not signify, Kitty!” Lydia huffed, throwing herself onto the settee. “I am perishing of boredom. Mr Bingley, why do you not throw a ball? Think about it! It would be marvellous!”

“Ah... yes, yes. Marvellous. Of course,” a bewildered Mr Bingley replied.

Over the noise of the complaining girls, Elizabeth noticed the colonel catch Mary’s eye. He raised one thick eyebrow towards the dramatic display, and Mary’s lips pressed together as she fought a smile.

Elizabeth blinked. They were sharing a joke! However, she was not the only one to witness the silent exchange. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs Bennet’s fan pausing mid-flutter for the second time. Her eyes darted from the well-connected colonel to her plainest, most difficult daughter. Elizabeth could practically hear her mother’s mind tallying the value of an officer’s pay against the sheer unlikelihood of Mary ever securing a husband. The matriarch’s eyes narrowed as she tapped her fan against her lips.

And then there was Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was dressed in impeccable green superfine, his cravat tied flawlessly, his dark hair brushed into severe order. The wild, elemental man from the stables was gone; the imposing master of Pemberley stood in front of her. He stepped away from the door, surveyed the crowded room, executed the mathematics, and withdrew to the corner containing the fewest Bennets.

“Miss Bennet, I hope you are feeling better,” he addressed Jane.

“I am, Mr Darcy, I thank you.”

He nodded, and stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes finding Elizabeth, who was trapped between the window and her mother.

I apologise, her eyes communicated, a silent plea over the shouting. I have no control over this madness.

Darcy’s posture relaxed by a fraction of an inch, the left corner of his mouth twitching, barely perceptible, into a smile.

I am aware, his eyes answered. You have my deepest sympathies.

The connection was swift and private. It was a rope thrown in a stormy sea, and Elizabeth gripped it tight. For three seconds, the noise faded into nothingness. There was only the amusement in Mr Darcy’s eyes, acknowledging the absurdity of the situation and anchoring her to sanity.

Elizabeth’s eyes flickered to the left. Viscount Keathley was no longer watching Jane; he was watching Mr Darcy. Then he shifted his gaze to Elizabeth, a smirk spreading across his handsome face, before tilting his head and catching the eye of Mrs Bennet, who had paused her interrogation of Mr Bingley’s dining habits.

The viscount and the matriarch exchanged a look. It was not a casual glance; it was a silent communication, a meeting of minds that boded ill for everyone else in the vicinity. Mrs Bennet’s eyes widened, darting towards Darcy, then to Elizabeth. A feral light ignited in them, one that usually preceded a season of relentless matchmaking.

Elizabeth looked back at Mr Darcy. He had observed the exchange as well. The smile had vanished from his lips, a deep furrow of confusion between his brows. He glanced at Elizabeth, an urgent question in his eyes.

What was that? his gaze demanded.

I do not know, Elizabeth’s eyes replied, but we are in danger.