Chapter Twenty-One

Mary, deciding that maybe she wasn't quite up for tea just now, silently slipped down the hall and into her own bedroom, closing the door behind her and shutting out the sound of the children greeting Kitty and Mrs. Gardiner joyfully.

She ran her fingers over the ridged cover of Mr. Greengrass' book, picking it up and moving towards the wingback chair by the empty fireplace. She curled her feet upon underneath her skirt and opened the book to the chapter about trusting the Lord for all things great and small, including his providence and care for our well-being.

It would all come right again … somehow …

Charlotte stood in the morning room of Lucas Lodge tightly clutching the small box of mourning rings which had been delivered by secure courier only moments before. Her heart was pounding, her head was spinning, and she felt very, very certain that she was going to do the absolutely most ridiculous thing and faint dead away.

It was only a minute ago that she had happily accepted the rings (about time!) and was providing payment for the young man when Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared suddenly in the door, frightening her more than was truly sensible. She had welcomed him, being the only person up and about at that hour, and invited him into the morning room. She had ordered tea and left the door open, assuring him that her parents would surely be down momentarily, but she had barely finished speaking, hadn't even had a chance to set down the box of rings, before he was suddenly terribly, alarmingly close. He took her free hand and clasped it in both of his, and his eyes captured hers so fiercely that she could not break them free – even if she wanted to do so.

"Miss Lucas," he said quietly, his voice overflowing with sincere affection even in just the speaking of her name, "may I beg a moment of your time, now that a private audience has been so conveniently granted to us?"

This was when the head spinning and heart pounding had begun. She had murmured some sort of assent, she was sure, because he was speaking quite confidently moments later.

"Miss Lucas, our acquaintance has been remarkably short," he noted, plying her fingers with his own in such a way as left her completely breathless. "Not even a week, in fact. And I am sure that makes what I am doing … well, either incredibly stupid or incredibly clever. I'm more inclined to believe the latter."

Charlotte allowed herself a short, breathy laugh and felt some much-needed air return to her lungs.

"However, since the beginning of our acquaintance, I have been most significantly impressed by your understanding – of people, of situations. And not just your understanding, but also your judgement, your wisdom – the way that you handle those people and those situations, the way that everything runs smoothly when you are in charge of it. You are a fearless leader, like a captain at the helm of his ship or a commander leading a charge … but much lovelier, of course."

At this point, he removed the ring box from her hand and placed it elsewhere. Charlotte neither knew nor cared where he had put it, for her thoughts were more pleasantly occupied. It couldn't be what she thought it was, what she wanted it to be. And yet, what else could it be? She had no right to expect it, but what else could it be?

"I know that you were attempting to attract Mr. Collins."

Charlotte flushed, embarrassed not only by the fact but by his easy acknowledgement of it. It sounded so coarse when one said it in such a way. She tried to pull her hands free, but he held on to them firmly.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam, I beg you –"

"You beg me? Never beg me, Charlotte," he said in a low and intimate voice that made her shiver with his closeness. "No. Beg me to do what, Charlotte? Leave you? I will not. Forget you? I cannot. No, Charlotte, truly … do you believe me so horrible as to drive away your chance for a happy life without offering a happier one as an alternative?"

"Colonel, it cannot be!" she cried, her hands trembling fiercely in his own. A tear escaped her eye and slid quickly down her cheek. "Please, do not torture me with those things which cannot be. Please. You cannot marry me!"

"Why? Is it because you do not want it? Or is it because you fear the obstacles in our path? I assure you, I am a soldier – I am not accustomed to allowing mere obstacles to keep me from my goal."

"Your family would never approve," Charlotte said, pulling out her best argument first. "They will expect a greater match for you, a woman of wealth and title, of which I have neither. Their disappointment will make you miserable, and you will regret me."

"Regret you, Charlotte?" Why did he insist on saying her name so often?! It broke her, hearing her name spoken with such clear affection. It had never sounded so lovely from anyone else's lips.

"I could never regret you. My family would like for me to marry a wealthy, titled lady, but that is more for desire for my own comfort than as a rule. They will meet you and they will adore you, as I do, because they, too, will recognize the value that I see in you – the value of wisdom, of good judgement, of kindness, of intelligence. These things will make us happier than money or titles ever could."

"Lack of money strains any relationship," she protested half-heartedly. "Surely the stress of financial difficulties would lead you to regret me, especially once there are children to support!"

Colonel Fitzwilliam beamed at her and kissed her hand joyfully, sending her nerves into a fine frenzy. "Children!" he breathed happily. "Charlotte, be my wife and give me children – as many as you can bear! They shall all be loved dearly, and they shall want for nothing. I am not destitute, and I know you to be clever about managing anything and everything – you would not fail to also be careful with our meagre funds. And if even our best efforts fail us, I have a family which would never leave us suffering. No, Charlotte, I will not accept such a silly reason as a refusal. What other refusals can you offer me? I promise, I have answers!"

He was kissing her hand again, and Charlotte felt her knees going weak. He did insist on standing so terribly close – she could not get her head straight, much less compose well-reasoned responses to his declarations. She was sure that there were more reasons to refuse – she had thought of them a million times over in the privacy of her bedroom – but none seemed to come to mind at the moment. The only thing that seemed to be on her mind was the feel of his hands over her hands, the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, the earnest expression in his voice that made her want to believe every word he said – not just believe it, but dive into it and swim and soak and absorb every bit of his joy and optimism and, dare she say it, love!

"Charlotte," the Colonel spoke again, softer now. He released the enthusiasm and the teasing tone he had enjoyed previously, settling into a low, serious voice which seemed to speak directly to her soul. "You and I are … so similar. I have spoken of practical matters, but truly … I speak not of passion only because I have no words to describe this feeling, no way to explain these emotions. I do not pretend to be a very great man, nor a handsome one, nor a clever one. I am a seasoned soldier with many troubles and not many suitable attributes to recommend himself to a woman. I want a wife. I want to come home to a smile and a warm hearth that I can call my own. I know nothing of love – I know only that I saw you, and I knew you in that moment better than I had ever known anybody else, and I knew that I could not be without you. I saw you encouraging that awful parson, and I could not bear the idea of you shackling yourself to such a man. I saw it would be a suitable match for you in the eyes of the world … but in my eyes, Charlotte, I am the only suitable match for you. I may not have a comfortable home to offer you, but I can offer you those things which I think are even more valuable – understanding, kindness, respect, even love, if you can teach me how. Please, Charlotte. Say that you will marry me."

Charlotte found her confidence grew with every word he spoke, so that by the end of his monologue she could very nearly compose herself. Her hands were only trembling very slightly when she managed to say, with a reasonable degree of equanimity, "How could any woman refuse such an eloquent proposal?"

The Colonel did not wait for any further elaboration. He dropped her hands only to promptly take her in his arms, engaging her lips in the kiss he had been craving since the second time he saw her and realized that he could not give her up. It was lucky that he had her so securely wrapped up in his arms, because Charlotte's knees finally gave way in the wake of such intense emotion.

A choked gasp at the door startled the happy couple from their embrace, followed by the sound of harsh coughing. Charlotte found her feet quickly, and the Colonel turned his most charming grin towards their intruder. Sir William stood in the doorway, red-faced and breathing heavily with a once-bitten apple in his hand. He was staring at them, in between coughs, with wide eyes.

"Sir! What excellent timing! I was hoping to find a moment alone with you! Shall we take a moment in your study?" Colonel Fitzwilliam asked brightly, taking Sir William by the elbow and guiding him gently out of the room. Sir William allowed himself to be led, still coughing, and Charlotte collapsed onto the nearest sofa, completely overwhelmed.

She was engaged to be married.

She, Charlotte Lucas, was engaged to be married!

Noting the box of mourning rings sitting on the side table where the Colonel had haphazardly set them, she smiled – wait until she told Elizabeth! She would be so happy! She had always wanted Charlotte to marry for love rather than comfort! She would be thrilled to hear about Charlotte and …

Oh dear.

What on earth was his Christian name?

Elizabeth was not enjoying her afternoon.

Oh, there was certainly some measure of enjoyment in watching Jane and Bingley make eyes at each other. It was terribly entertaining to observe their eye-catching, hand-brushing, knee-touching romance!

Aside from Jane and Bingley, however, there was not much pleasure to be had. Kitty was once again sequestered in the window seat, staring off into the distance and paying no mind to any other creature. Mary was wrapped up in her book again, which Elizabeth could have sworn she had finished earlier that week. Her parents were in the study with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though to discuss what, Elizabeth knew not, for they would never include her mother in a discussion of the investigation – rather they would have laid claim to Bingley and Darcy. Instead, Bingley and Darcy were in the parlour. With Jane preoccupied with Bingley, that left Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth's safe-keeping. She did not look on the task particularly favourably.

She certainly did not think so badly of him as before – once it had come to light the sort of man that Wickham was, Elizabeth was far less inclined to believe his tales of maltreatment at the hands of Darcy. Even if there were a nugget of truth in the mess of lies, she felt sure that it was justified. After all, who would truly desire a gambler, drunkard, and philanderer as the vicar of their parish church? She still thought the man rather proud and haughty in company, but in truth the most vexing quality of Mr. Darcy's was his perpetual staring. All other things she could dismiss, but his stares unnerved her.

He had been staring at her all morning and all through luncheon. She had attempted polite conversation about the roads and the weather, but the longest response she had received from him thus far had been "Yes, it is remarkably cold for this time of year."

"Come, Mr. Darcy, we must have some conversation!" she exclaimed at last. "We have discussed the roads and the weather. Shall I now comment on the French?"

Mr. Darcy smiled at her, a surprisingly broad smile considering the impetus.

"Do you talk by rule then, while you have guests?"

Elizabeth smiled then as well, flushing a little bit in recognition of the mirror conversation from the Netherfield Ball. That had not been her proudest moment, full as she was in that moment of righteous fury on behalf of Mr. Wickham.

"Sometimes," she replied, as she did at the ball. "One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."

She was surprised by how much of that conversation she remembered. She very nearly found herself speaking with him as he followed her statement with his own:

"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?"

There was something truly fascinating about repeating a conversation from a week previously. How many things had changed since then!

"Both, I imagine, for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb."

Darcy's smile was warm, and Elizabeth was shocked to find it so. Did he not think terribly of her? She had always imagined it so. Then again … he had asked her to dance at the Netherfield Ball. One does not ask someone to dance with them unless he or she can at least bear the person's company. Abject hatred, then, was out of the question. Veiled disgust was also out of the running. Hmm.

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure," Mr. Darcy echoed his own words yet again. How long could they continue? "How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."

His smile faltered on this statement, as though believing the words to be true and finding them disheartening.

"I must not decide on my own performance," Elizabeth said. Suddenly, however, a burning desire to make amends with Mr. Darcy for the remainder of that conversation (in which she had practically attacked the poor man over his behavior towards Mr. Wickham) took up residence in her chest, and she knew that she must now break with the conversation. Now was her chance to begin her apology. Perhaps that was what was bothering her about Mr. Darcy – a guilty conscience! That would explain everything! Perhaps, with an apology, she would be freed from her mutinous thoughts regarding Mr. Darcy's person and character.

Emboldened by this thought, Elizabeth added, "My judgment has lately proven quite intractable and frighteningly fallible." He looked at her with interest, uncomprehending. "I owe you an apology, sir, for my behavior at the Netherfield Ball. I-"

"Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy interrupted her quickly, face flushed with embarrassment. "Please. There is no need to apologize. I assure you, you are not the first young woman to be deceived by Mr. Wickham, nor are you likely to be the last."

The sorrow in his eyes surprised her. Elizabeth was not quite used to thinking of Mr. Darcy as a sympathetic character.

"You have known other women who have been deceived by that man," Elizabeth observed quietly, sad to see the recognition in his eyes. "Deceived much worse that I have been."

Mr. Darcy drew in a shaky breath, clearly thrown off balance by her comment. He opened his mouth to reply, only to shut it again quickly as Bingley stood.

"Well, Darcy, I believe we should be off if we wish to call on the Gouldings before tea. Besides, the weather may not hold – we should hurry."

Mr. Darcy stood, and Jane and Elizabeth followed suit. Elizabeth was slightly disappointed – she was beginning to see the interesting side of Mr. Darcy, the human side. It was absolutely fascinating, and she was not yet ready to cease her studies. She held her tongue, however, and kept herself to the politest of farewells as the two men readied themselves for departure. It was snowing lightly outside when they left, and small whorls of snow skittered into the front hall as the two men set out into the cold. Jane watched from the hall window with concern, nearly pressing her nose against the glass to be sure that the men made it safely to their horses, and Elizabeth allowed herself to laugh at the scene. Jane turned, surprised.

"Why, Lizzy! Whatever is so funny?"

"You are, my dear," she smiled broadly, putting an arm around her sister's waist affectionately and leaning her head against her sister's shoulder. "You are absolutely adorable in love, and I cannot help finding it amusing."

"Just wait until it's your turn, Lizzy," Jane warned good-naturedly. "I shall tease you mercilessly."

"Jane Bennet? Merciless? Never!"

The two girls shared a laugh, watching as Darcy and Bingley disappeared into the distance.

Mr. Darcy locked himself in the library after dinner with absolutely no regrets.

Caroline Bingley was, he decided, the single most obnoxious lady he had ever had the displeasure to have dinner with.

The entire meal, all she had spoken about were her plans for the house, complaints about Mrs. Nicholls (who, honest to God, had the patience of a saint, because if he had to take orders from Miss Bingley, he knew that he would certainly not be able to maintain the façade of politeness which Mrs. Nicholls managed every day), complaints about the lack of society, complaints about Bingley's indecisiveness, complaints about no one attending to her all day long … which, of course, would not have happened if she had deigned to join them in calling on their neighbours.

He and Bingley had visited with the Bennets for most of the day and then spent part of the afternoon at the Gouldings, attempting to suss out the whereabouts of Mr. William Goulding on the morning after the Netherfield Ball. That particular tall, dark-haired gentleman was hard to pin down – he might have been sleeping, he might have gone for a ride, but he was certainly home for breakfast at 10:00. In short, he did not say anything which completely ruled him out as a suspect, nor did he say anything which qualified as incriminating. Thus, the investigation was no further along than it had been the day before.

They might have visited more families and done more investigating but for spending so long at Longbourn, but Bingley could barely stand to be torn away from Miss Bennet's side. The poor sap was head over heels in love! It would very quickly become annoying how often they were at Longbourn, especially if the cold, snowy weather stayed through the holidays, and most especially if he could not keep himself under better regulation in the company of Miss Elizabeth.

It seemed like every word she spoke to him was designed to cause some sort of reaction – to rile him, to please him, to placate him, to annoy him, to make him laugh, or to make him regretful. Sometimes she said just the thing that he needed to hear to set him at ease, and other times she said the very thing that set his teeth on edge and made him want to flee the room as quickly as possible. These days, it was typically more of the former than the latter. This afternoon, for example, she had been everything charming and endearing.

To think of Elizabeth apologizing for being duped by that rake! It was he who ought to be apologizing to her for not protecting her from him in the first place – for not calling him out on the spot in Meryton, for not speaking to her father to keep her away from him, even for not warning her in advance of his sly ways. Perhaps it would not have been completely appropriate, but if it would have saved her from the fear and insecurity which she was currently experiencing … doubting her own good judgment …

He began to doubt his own decisions regarding Wickham. Perhaps he ought to have pushed for a more severe punishment, tried to restrict him in some way. He worried for Georgiana's reputation, but he was beginning to realize that Georgiana was not the only gentlewoman Wickham might pursue. If he had tried to persuade Elizabeth to elope with him … ! The thought wasn't worth considering. He hadn't. She didn't. She was not compromised by him in any way. To think of the possibilities now, when the danger was practically non-existent, was a futile effort.

And yet, what other gentleman's daughter would Wickham impose upon if he were not stopped? While his debts and indiscretions had come to light in Meryton, the militia would move on to a new town in a new part of the country. It had not bothered him before once he knew that his sister was safe, and he was tempted to let it go once again now that Elizabeth was safe, but … they say that bad things always come in threes. Wickham had certainly more than three indiscretions, but … Darcy had a terrible, ominous feeling that the next time truly would result in disaster.

But what could he do about it? He couldn't call him out – he was a good swordsman and a good shot with a pistol, but he couldn't take the chance that he might leave Georgiana alone. He was not so selfish with his life as to risk such a thing. He had already presented his evidence of Wickham's villainy to the local gentry, to the local magistrate, and nothing had been done.

Mr. Darcy threw himself into the chair nearest the fire and rubbed his brow wearily, feeling a pulsing headache pressing against his skull.

So many questions to answer, and so much to get done …

Christmas was around the corner, only a little over two weeks, but he had a feeling that the business in Meryton would not be concluded by then. He needed to write a few serious letters of business to his solicitor and to his steward regarding his investments and the care to be taken of Pemberly in the winter months. If there was snow down here in Hertfordshire, there was certainly snow at Pemberly. He would also have to write a very difficult letter to Georgiana to somehow explain his absence at Christmas without mentioning Wickham, or the murder of a gentlewoman, or … well, any of it, really. He could make Bingley's engagement (courtship, really) his excuse, although it was a poor one … combined with the inclement weather, it may be just enough to satisfy her and keep her safely in London until he could return and they could celebrate Christmas together.

With a heavy sigh, Darcy rose and found the nearest desk with writing tools, settling in to begin the many letters that needed to be completed. His headache continued to pound, but he knew that he would feel better once the letters were written, even if it kept him up late …

… but he was just so tired.

AN: SUPER thank you to my amazing reviewers for defending me! It was so encouraging, and I appreciate it so much! This update is for you! :D 3