A/N: Vacation is almost over, and I am looking forward to a return to routine, which should include a more predictable posting schedule. Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites, as well as the thoughtful criticism. It's much appreciated. Happy New Year!
I am not Jane Austen, but I do look forward to a long chat with her somewhere in the afterlife.
Chapter Three
"Miss Bennet? Miss Bennet?"
Lizzy kept her eyes closed, but she was unable to prevent a low moan from escaping through her lips. She was entirely exhausted and had thought she would doze instantly upon descending from the horse—there was so much soreness and discomfort that true rest was probably impossible—but she had been awake for several minutes now, simply hoping that if she could pretend, she could keep the torture from continuing for a few precious moments.
"Miss Bennet, you must eat and drink something before we set off again."
"Not hungry," she murmured. "No more horses."
Mr. Darcy sounded sympathetic. "I can imagine how uncomfortable you are. These men should have taken you at your word when you claimed to be no horsewoman. But truly, walking for these last moments before the rest break ends will ease your stiffness more than pretending to sleep."
She cracked one eye open to glare at him. "Nothing will help. I will die in perfect misery."
He knelt before her makeshift bed, a pile of leaves in a small clearing some way off the road, with some bread and cheese in one hand and a battered tin cup in the other. Over his shoulder, she could see the group of kidnappers gathered near where the horses were drinking from a small stream, consulting in low voices. She knew the morning travel had been slower than they had hoped. They were rethinking their decision to have her ride now that they had seen how poor she was in the saddle.
One man in particular, Reg of the square jaw, appeared quite agitated, gesturing wildly. That Man was listening to him respectfully but seemed relatively unmoved by his companion's obvious frustration. The fellow she had nicknamed Scissors, for his poor haircut, leaned against a tree near her, his bored gaze tracing back and forth between her and Mr. Darcy, but the other men all watched the interaction between That Man and Reg with wide eyes and ongoing silence. Lizzy wondered whether they ever spoke at all. She returned her attention to Mr. Darcy again.
"That would indeed be a shame," he said, one corner of his mouth raised in a half-smile. "But until you have 'shuffled off this mortal coil,' I suggest you take my advice. It comes of experience."
She closed her eyes tightly and turned her back to him.
Suddenly there were hands underneath her arms, and she was lifted quickly upright until she stood on her feet. She balanced for a moment, her eyes popping open, before she was able to spin and glare at him again. She wobbled a little as she turned, and his hands reached out to steady her, grasping her shoulders gently.
"I hate you," she said coolly. "I hate these horses for being so very hard and bouncy, I hate these men for being cruel and selfish and unfeeling, and I hate you for knowing everything. There is nothing more insufferable than a man who knows he is right."
"Hate me all you want," he answered gravely, his eyes dark. "The feeling cannot be new to you. In the end, I must care for you the best I can, whether you are willing or not."
She instantly wished she could swallow her previous words and sentiment. She had not expected him to accept her insults so willingly. She had been venting her spleen, not even slightly meaning it. However, before she could speak, he was shoving the food and drink into her hands and turning his back on her, moving closer to the horses.
She watched him go, angry at herself. She should not have spoken so thoughtlessly, but she also should not feel so badly about it. Yes, this was a unique circumstance, and yes, any remaining ill will toward him had been diluted by fatigue, but she had her principles, did she not? She was still cross with him for his high-handed dealings with Mr. Bingley, whether or not his intentions had been pure, and he had so far made no attempt to explain his conduct toward poor Mr. Wickham. And as he had just proven, he still acted as if he were master of the whole world. She owed him some gratitude, obviously, but she had every right to continue hating him.
She flopped gracelessly back onto her pile of leaves, sloshing a few drops of the liquid in the tankard onto the dirt beside her. The only problem was that she no longer hated him at all, whether she should or not. In fact, he had been quite brave and admirably unselfish the previous night, and this morning he had been… well, charming, or something like it, once he had stopped being insufferable. He had at least been kind and attentive. Had she only seen this version of him before his frightful proposal, she might have been more tempted by it.
She blushed at the thought and deliberately bent over her meager meal. Perhaps she should stop considering the issue at all, since clearly her mind was muddled by the entire situation.
"Well, well, Miss Bennet."
Lizzy tensed at the voice, but she did her best to appear unaffected. She suddenly felt the awkwardness of her attire. How on earth was a lady supposed to appear ladylike if she had to worry about what her lower half was doing as well as her upper? Oh, how she missed her skirts! She looked over as That Man sat down easily next to her, leaning back against the trunk behind her.
"It would seem that you were truthful in your claimed lack of horsemanship. Either that or you are a very accomplished actress."
Lizzy looked up, hoping her glance around the camp seemed bored. Talking to That Man always put her on edge, but it was somehow far more uncomfortable this time, and it required only a moment to realize that the difference was the lack of Mr. Darcy's fortifying presence.
Where had he gone? He would not have left her here and escaped into the woods alone—she may have angered and embarrassed him, but she trusted him too much to believe he would willingly abandon her. She finally located him leaning against a tree near his mount, his back to her. She willed him to turn and notice her, but he stared resolutely toward the road. She would have to face That Man on her own.
"I meant every word, sir," she said with a dramatic sigh. "It will take me weeks to recover from this single morning's ride."
"I hope for your sake that you exaggerate. But we may also face some consequence of your slowness. This operation is… delicate, and our timing is crucial. We have already been hindered by your unexpected-though-not-unwelcome presence and that of your paramour, and we cannot afford to lose more time."
"I would apologize for the delay, sir, but as I am not in the least sorry to cause you difficulties, that would be a pointless deception."
That Man laughed good-naturedly, and Lizzy was again struck by the handsomeness of his features. After the morning's long ride, he was more than a little dusty and untidy, but that seemed to have little effect on his aspect… or his confidence. His smile was wide and unconcerned despite his words, and as he prepared to speak again, his face lit with mischief. Lizzy had a feeling she would not like what was coming next.
"I appreciate your candor, my dear one. It is always good to know one's standing in a lady's eyes, even a lady who does not quite look herself." He stared rather openly at her awkwardly folded legs, and it took all her courage not to squirm and bend over to hide them. Instead she glared back at him defiantly. He continued, "In return, I, too, shall be candid. You ride too slowly, and we require speed. Therefore we have two options. The first is for you to ride with me, my inexperienced, much younger brother."
"Never!" The word came out sharply, and she colored as she spoke it, but she did not take it back.
That Man just chuckled. "The second is for you to ride with your beloved."
Lizzy was surprised at the offer, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "You would allow that?"
"I would naturally prefer that you choose me, given the pleasure of having you pressed against me for several hours, but I feel certain that keeping the two of you together will keep your rather volatile lover more docile, and that, for now, is worth more than my personal gratification. He can be quite troublesome when the two of you are separated."
Lizzy had not noticed it before, but during his speech, That Man had reached up unconsciously and fingered what she could now see was a dark bruise on the right-hand side of his jaw. He must have given Mr. Darcy that bloody lip, but apparently Mr. Darcy had paid the debt in kind. For some reason Lizzy chose not to analyze, that thought made her swell with pride.
"Again, I am unable to apologize."
That Man gave her an amused look and leaned nearer, so near that she felt his breath blowing the stray hairs on the side of her face. "Do not worry, my dear Miss Bennet. I will win you over yet. It will not be long before you forget all about your tedious beau and beg for my favors."
Lizzy was unable to stop herself from leaning a little away, too uncomfortable to remain so near him. "Well, that day is not today, sir. I choose to ride with Mr. Darcy."
That Man stood, his eyes still on her though she could not meet them. "Very well, for today. Now prepare yourself. We will set off again in a few minutes."
"Sir?" she called after him, using every last drop of her courage. Lizzy noticed Mr. Darcy turn at the sound of her voice, and he immediately began striding toward them, obviously alarmed. Knowing he was approaching soothed her agitation.
That man turned back with a flourish. "Madam?"
"What is your name?"
He looked at her thoughtfully before finally allowing a half-smile to appear. "I apologize for not introducing myself sooner, my dear Miss Bennet. You may call me Geoffrey."
"I would prefer a more formal name, sir." Mr. Darcy arrived at her side, standing just behind her shoulder with his arms folded.
That Man was unintimidated. "But Geoffrey is the name I would prefer to be called, by you at least. Now, prepare yourselves to journey onward. Excuse me."
Lizzy sat for a few moments after he left, gathering herself after that strange conversation, then brushed aside the fear That Man (she would not call him Geoffrey) always inspired and finally stood stiffly, bending and moving to try and ease some of the worst soreness. Mr. Darcy did not offer her assistance, she noticed with some regret, but he remained near her.
It galled her to admit it, but Mr. Darcy had been right. She felt better in motion than she did on the ground. It made her dread the return to the saddle even more.
Too soon, Scissors was ushering them toward the horses. She shoved the last of the bread into her mouth and washed it down with the water in the cup before it was tugged from her hand. Mr. Darcy approached her mount to help her into the saddle, and Lizzy looked questioningly, hopefully, at That Man.
"Mount up, Mr. Darcy," That Man said, motioning toward Mr. Darcy's horse. "I will lift Miss Bennet up behind you."
Something flashed across Mr. Darcy's face, a very strong reaction though it was gone too fast for Lizzy to interpret, before he nodded, crossed to his mount, and swung up into the saddle. He lowered a hand down to her, and she grasped it just as That Man gripped her waist and raised her high. She was installed behind Mr. Darcy after only a moment, grateful for the first time to be wearing breeches.
"Now, I know it will be difficult," That Man said dryly, "but do your best not to wrap yourself too tightly against him, Miss Bennet. Do not forget that you are a hapless younger brother, not a lover."
Lizzy bit her tongue to keep from saying any one of the hundred things she wanted to say to That Man, including where he could take himself, and nodded once. She understood his meaning, of course, but what else was she to do? Short of tying herself over the horse's flanks like a pack, the only way to keep herself perched so precariously on the rolled back of the saddle was to grip tightly around Mr. Darcy's waist, an action that would already require perhaps more courage than she possessed. At least Mr. Darcy's height did not correlate to his width, or she really would be riding directly on the horse's back.
They sat silently as the other five riders attempted to remove all traces of their presence then mounted up. When all were ready, That Man led out, directing as before that Mr. Darcy should keep his horse in the middle of the grouping, neither in the lead nor at the back.
"Hold on," Mr. Darcy advised quietly.
The horse began walking forward, and Lizzy was forced to lean into him, placing her arms around his waist. She touched as little of him as possible, keeping her head strained back and her eyes on the road she could see just over his shoulder, but she could still feel his warmth seeping through his greatcoat.
They rode some distance in silence. Lizzy tried to distract herself from his nearness by listening to the sounds around her, springtime birds calling from the trees, the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze, the burbling of brooks, and the clopping of hooves on dirt and grass and stone. She silently named the variety of each tree they passed for some miles before that no longer kept her attention from the hardness of the muscle against her chest. Because the sun was well-hidden behind steel-gray, high clouds, she used the moss on the trunks of the larger trees to analyze their direction—approximately north-northeast—to prevent herself from noticing the newly burning areas on her legs and the increasing ache in her back and shoulders.
Eventually her comfort had eroded so much that as they crossed a rougher patch of road, obviously washed out in a previous storm, the horse took a jarring step to the side and she was forced to release a quiet moan.
"Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy said in hushed voice over his shoulder, "you must relax. It is no wonder that you suffer so much discomfort if you always ride as stiffly as you are doing now."
"And of course you know how to advise me to fix it!" she snapped, tempted to pinch his side with her fingernails. She was miserable enough without him nagging at her.
"Yes, I know!" he whispered harshly. "I have been riding horseback for over twenty years! I watched many friends learn to ride as well, and I taught my sister myself some time ago. Is it wrong that I should offer knowledge that will aid you?"
"Yes!" Lizzy hissed back. She started to speak again, to say something like, Keep your knowledge to yourself!, before she was jarred again by another descending step. She gritted her teeth and kept the latest moan deep in her chest. The pain in her back was enough to give her pause, to provide a moment of space before answering, and the ridiculousness of her response rushed upon her in a single breath. What was the matter with her? She was being perfectly unreasonable!
"That is, no," she corrected, trying to sound calmer. "It is acceptable for anyone to offer knowledge for the sake of someone else's good."
"Then why are you so angry at me when I do?" He, too, sounded more controlled, but his question was deeply sincere.
"It is your manner, sir, that is offensive," she bristled, annoyed at his sincerity. "You are so very condescending, so supercilious. You offer your knowledge as if it is a gift presented in great disdain from an emperor to a peasant."
He did not answer for some moments, keeping his eyes forward. Finally he said quietly, "That is not my intention, nor a true reflection of my feelings. I only offer advice to those I believe are deserving, those who are worth improving. It is a mark of my respect and affection."
"Worth improving?" she spluttered. "So it was respect that made you advise Mr. Bingley to abandon my sister?"
He pursed his lips and nodded. "I never would have given advice of any kind to a friend I cared for less, whether or not in the end the advice proved correct."
"Is there anyone you would not dare advise? An uncle or mentor whom you hold in high regard?" Surely there was someone he would respect enough to leave to his own devices, and that would prove his assertion invalid.
"No," he answered easily. "Those I respect the most are those to whom I give advice freely and from whom I expect to receive advice in return."
"Truly?" She was openly surprised.
"Of course. Is that not the essence of equality and respect?"
Lizzy hesitated, unable to answer. Was that the meaning of respect? She would have said that true respect was to let another make his own decisions without interference, to trust in his ability to solve his own problems, but perhaps she would feel differently if she had a wider range of experience in the world, if she herself were more likely to know things others did not.
"I… that is, I do not…"
The sound of the horse's hooves beating the ground seemed impossibly loud in her ears.
"Perhaps," she finally said, very slowly, "I sense disrespect in your manner because I expect it, not because it is present."
He waited, not responding.
"And perhaps that is because I lack confidence in my own knowledge and experience, and therefore, I expect others with more of either than I possess to look down upon me. I expect you to belittle me because I… because I feel deserving of it."
A great cavity of understanding had opened inside her, one that sucked her down into what felt like an abyss of self-awareness. She was both falling and standing on a precipice, watching herself with disgust as she sank into the void. Words came out of her mouth, attempts to grapple with what she suddenly knew.
"I feel that I deserve censure yet resent it at the same time. I am angry when I receive advice from you because I know I need it and hate myself for the needing. I believe it all roots back to the beginning of our acquaintance! Regardless of what you may have come to feel for me after, you made it quite clear on the night of the Meryton Assembly that you not only disapproved of my neighborhood and family but particularly of myself. I hated you in that moment, not for being wrong but because inside I knew you were an experienced, intelligent gentleman who was likely to be right!
"I am only tolerable when compared with Jane or any of London's great beauties, and I despise knowing that. Oh, Mr. Darcy! I feel as if the window through which I have always viewed my world has suddenly been shattered! Until this moment, I never knew myself!"
"Miss Bennet!" Mr. Darcy said sharply, turning slightly in his seat in order to catch Lizzy's eye for just a moment before looking back at the terrain ahead. "The beginning of your statement I understand, although I quibble with the idea that your need for advice speaks of any unworthiness—we are all unworthy when compared with all we ought to be, and the entire task of our lives, in my opinion, is to struggle forward against the natural tendencies that hold us back from improvement. But what is your reference to my disapproval of yourself upon our first acquaintance? I do not remember even truly noticing you until near the end of the evening, and we never spoke. I would recall that, I am certain."
Lizzy half-laughed, still somewhat distracted by her own racing thoughts. "You were speaking to Mr. Bingley, who had withdrawn from the dancing long enough to approach and encourage you to dance. You refused on the basis that he was dancing with my sister, the only pretty girl in the room. He argued and pointed me out specifically as proof against your assertion.
"Your exact words regarding myself that evening were burned into my mind by my own vanity: 'She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.' Why should I have cared for your opinion? You were a disdainful boor. And yet I admit it has haunted me, and only now do I realize that it was because it was a truth I had no wish to hear! I rather liked being thought of as pretty, even if I was not lovely like Jane."
"Miss Bennet, I…" He cursed loudly enough that he drew the attention of the riders nearby. Reg gave them a dark look from his seat nearest their right side. Mr. Darcy lowered his voice, but Lizzy could feel his continued high emotion through the tension of his back and arms. "I do not remember speaking such words, but I do remember that conversation. I simply did not wish to dance! I was prepared to say whatever was necessary to convince Bingley to leave me alone. I had no friends in the neighborhood and so said the most offensive thing of which I could conceive in order to drive him off. I had no idea of your overhearing it."
"You looked right at me as you spoke."
"Did I? I am certain you are right, but I cannot have truly seen you, for it was not too long after that conversation that my attention was drawn to the far side of the ballroom, caught by an open, carefree laugh accompanied by a pair of sparkling eyes, the finest I had ever seen. You were talking with Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas at the time, both of you laughing in delight. Your dress was blue."
Lizzy stared at his profile, dumbfounded. "We were laughing at you. I told Charlotte what you said of me, probably to prove to myself unaffected. It was so horrifying that it was humorous."
"The irony is poignant, is it not?" he asked grimly, his jaw clenched tightly. "The beginning of your disgust for me was in turn the genesis of my admiration for you. I assume you would agree that such an inauspicious beginning made my multitude of other offenses against you that much more unpalatable."
Lizzy leaned her forehead against his back, closing her eyes in sudden exhaustion. "I told myself that my judgment of you was impartial, but I am suddenly finding all my assumptions regarding my motives and conclusions to be suspect. I believe you are correct, sir."
They rode in heavy quiet, both obviously dragged down by their words and realizations. It was not until a mile or two had passed that he finally asked quietly, "Do you find that you are less uncomfortable now?"
Lizzy pulled back from where she had been resting against him without realizing it. "Yes," she said in surprise. "I am still sore, but it is no longer so sharp."
"I believe you were distracted enough to relax into the horse's rhythm instead of fighting it."
He was right, but it was more the acceptance of her proximity to him that had relaxed her than the beat of the horse's movements.
"Your advice was sound."
He gave a derisive laugh. "If only my manner did not make it difficult to heed."
"If only I was humble enough to accept correction instead of resenting it."
"You are not pretty."
Lizzy stiffened sharply and found that her new resolve to accept criticism was not as firm as she might have hoped. A poor segue was one thing, but an outright insult was another. "I… you are…"
"At first glance," he went on, his eyes steady on the road ahead, "you are no more noticeable than any other young lady. Your hair is a common color; your figure is acceptable but not remarkable."
At least she was not hideously deformed, she thought in irritation. He would obviously have no qualms about telling her so.
"But there is something both beneath all that and above it, something in your being that invites the eyes back to look again. It is then, in the second glance, that one notices intelligent, emotive, dark eyes and a ready, teasing smile. It is then that one is captured by the vibrancy of your person, by the spring in your step and the toss of your head. It is then that a man finds himself enthralled, inexplicably drawn forward to notice the details, the blush in your cheeks when you triumph in a debate and the curve of your neck when you turn to look archly over your shoulder.
"And suddenly, before he is even aware of it, you are the most beautiful creature he has ever beheld, the handsomest of women, because while others are pretty or graceful or elegant, you are alive, and you kindle in him an answering life that he never knew was missing until you demonstrated its absence. And now, no other can keep his attention. No other can wake him. No other can tempt or interest or intrigue. He is lost."
He drew in a slow breath. "You are not pretty, Miss Bennet. Nor will you ever be."
Lizzy could not have been more at sea had he abandoned her in a dinghy in the middle of the Channel. She had no response, nor could she foresee a time in any distant future when she would be able to formulate one. Instead she sat silently, playing his words over and over again in her head as first a mile and then several miles passed, memorizing their sound and the way she felt as he said them.
And the farther they rode, the more she relaxed against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder and forgetting about her pains and fears, trusting him to keep her safe.
"Where is Lady Catherine, Evans?" Fitzwilliam asked the butler as he and Mrs. Collins passed through the oversized outer door. "Dining yet?"
"No, Colonel," Evans replied, taking his hat as well as Mrs. Collins' outerwear. "Luncheon is at one o'clock as usual."
Fitzwilliam glanced at yet another gold-filigreed clock on a side table. "Oh. It felt later than noon. Then where is she, man?"
"She is not receiving visitors today, sir. Lady Catherine is indisposed."
"Well, where is Ann then?"
"Miss Ann is resting all day today."
Fitzwilliam stared at the man in frustration. He would go storming room by room if he had to, but he would prefer to save his dwindling energies. He opened his mouth to berate Evans for his foolish loyalties.
"Evans, how is your dear wife?" Mrs. Collins asked quietly, stepping forward with a quelling glance toward Fitzwilliam. "Mr. Collins and I pray for her nightly."
Evans, who had been stern and unyielding since Fitzwilliam was a boy, suddenly lost all trace of imperiousness and smiled down at Mrs. Collins from his rather impressive height. "She is feeling much better, madam, thank you. The doctor says the bone is finally beginning to heal. We had been trying My Lady's recommendations for so long, but I am glad we followed your advice and consulted Dr. Wagoner, even if it was against My Lady's wishes."
"I am delighted to hear it." And she genuinely looked delighted, Fitzwilliam realized. She was not just being kind. She was kind. "Mr. Evans, I know you take your duties to Lady Catherine very seriously, but do you remember my friend, Miss Bennet?"
"Yes," he said. "A lovely young lady."
"Well, you see, she is in some distress right now, and Lady Catherine may be the only person who can help her. It is difficult to explain, but it is extremely important. Please allow us to talk to her, even against her wishes."
Evans stared at Mrs. Collins for several seconds, looking troubled. Fitzwilliam held his breath.
"Very well, madam," he said, leaning forward and speaking very quietly. "But please do not tell her I directed you."
"Of course not," she assured him.
"She and Miss Ann have been closeted all morning in Mrs. Jenkinson's rooms. They have not even rung for tea."
"I am eternally grateful to you, Evans."
She had seemed about to say more, but Fitzwilliam had taken her arm and dragged her down the west corridor toward the companion's sitting room. He could feel his wakefulness draining away, and he knew he would need all his reserves to deal with his dragon of an aunt.
It was a matter of moments to reach the mostly-empty wing where Ann's companion had a modest suite. They approached the room hurriedly, but as they neared, their steps slowed. There were voices raised behind the door.
Well, really only one raised voice.
"Ann, I think you are not understanding the gravity of the situation. You can pretend this has nothing to do with you, but you ought to know by now that I am not a woman to be trifled with or gainsaid, and when I see a thing in a certain way, then it is certain to be as I see it! It would be one thing if it were just that upstart girl, but Darcy, your own betrothed, has been spirited away, and…"
There was a low murmuring, and Lady Catherine's voice cut off. The voices continued after that, but they were too hushed to understand.
Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Collins shared a significant glance before Fitzwilliam shoved open the door and barreled into the sitting room.
"Good gracious!" Lady Catherine cried. She was seated in a high-backed chaise near the fireplace, where a low fire sat sputtering and ignored. Her clothing was as regal as always, but she seemed slightly awry, a steel-gray hair hanging down across her brow and a section of ruffling along her neckline folded up instead of down. "What do you mean, Fitzwilliam, by barging in here in such a manner? I informed Evans that I was indisposed for visitors, even houseguests."
"You meant me, did you not? You did not want to see me? Well, unfortunately for both of us, dear aunt, I must demand a few moments of your precious time to see to the small matter of the disappearance of Darcy and Miss Bennet, whether you are indisposed or not."
"I am not of a humor to discuss these unfortunate tidings, particularly not in the hearing of those whom this does not in the least concern," Lady Catherine replied, raising her nose ever higher in the air, as if glaring down from on high at poor Mrs. Collins.
"But this does concern me, Lady Catherine," Mrs. Collins replied, not even slightly impressed by Lady Catherine's dismissal. "My dearest friend has been kidnapped from my home, along with your nephew, and as you have given orders that no one should know yet of her abduction, it is left up to me to do all I can to aid the good colonel in finding her."
"Finding her!" Lady Catherine barked unpleasantly. "You have no hope whatsoever of finding her. I was correct, was I not, Fitzwilliam? The miscreants were obviously quite clever enough to whisk away a grown man and woman with little difficulty, which means they would also be quite clever enough to hide their tracks. I told you that we must simply wait to receive a notice of ransom, as the letter suggests. Darcy will be returned to us as soon as the demands are met."
"And Lizzy?" Mrs. Collins asked.
Lady Catherine put on an obviously false expression of sympathy. "Oh, my dear Mrs. Collins. You are hopelessly naïve if you believe that there is any chance armed ruffians and thieves have the slightest intention of ever returning Miss Bennet to good society. They will have separated her from Darcy as soon as possible, being as her family could pay no ransom worth gaining, and she will probably already be on her way to a brothel in London or Dublin. Not that such a thing could not have been predicted—such an impudent, opinionated girl, of no good family or upbringing. She would have ended there anyway. Why, all five of her sisters out at once!"
"Lady Catherine!" Fitzwilliam burst out, his fists clenched at his sides. "How dare you speak so of a…"
"You are spending much energy," Mrs. Collins interrupted, eerily calm and unaffected by what the harridan had said, "maligning Lizzy's character. Are you doing it in order to make yourself feel less guilty regarding your part in this affair, or do you honestly think you can anger us enough that we would leave without the answers we seek from you?"
Fitzwilliam realized with some chagrin that it would have worked perfectly well on him. Another few speeches such as that would have had him storming out of the room with his hands thrown in the air, giving up altogether on breeching his aunt's defenses.
Lady Catherine stared at Mrs. Collins in surprise for a few seconds before she could manage to reassemble her offended pride. "You are no one! How dare you challenge me? The wife of a clergyman against the daughter of an earl! I have obviously made a mistake in showing you any kindness at all."
"Lady Catherine," Mrs. Collins sighed, shaking her finger as she would at a misbehaving child, "tell us at once of your connection to the gambling man in Coxton."
"What? How do you…?" Lady Catherine turned bright red as she gritted her teeth. "I have no idea of whom you are speaking."
"You owe him money, too, then? So it was your penchant for wagering on race horses that convinced my husband it was an innocuous pastime?"
"I beg your pardon, I am not… I do not…" She looked wildly around the room, less controlled than Fitzwilliam had ever seen her before. Her eyes fell on Ann, who was sitting on the chaise across from her mother, wrapped so heavily in furs she might have been drowning. She was as pale as ever, with thick, dark circles above her cheeks, but her eyes were bright as they met her mother's gaze.
"Mother," Ann said quietly.
Was she chiding Lady Catherine?
Lady Catherine's eyes bulged as she stared back at her daughter, her cheeks swollen with fury. She did not speak, possibly could not speak, for above two full minutes. Fitzwilliam wanted to break in, to demand an explanation, but he took his cue from Mrs. Collins, who stood calmly, watching the silent interchange between the two ladies as if they were discussing the latest fashions over tea.
Finally, grinding the words out as if her teeth were millstones, Lady Catherine said, "Very well. I admit that… that I owe Lord… Lord Smythe some small amount of money. I sometimes allow Mr. Collins to place… wagers for me on the… fastest horses… at the races." She rushed on then. "But it is a very small amount, a pittance, and he did not inform me clearly that the money was due to him soon. I considered it a small matter."
"Mother," Ann said, chiding again and looking slightly disappointed, as if she were the mother instead of the child, "ninety-thousand pounds is no small matter."
"Ann!" Lady Catherine cried, jumping to her feet and towering over her daughter. "How could you…"
"I am sorry for embarrassing you, Mother, but it is important for the good colonel and Mrs. Collins to know the truth if they are to help find dear Cousin William." She turned to them, closing her eyes as if the slight effort exhausted her. Perhaps it had—even Fitzwilliam had never heard Ann say so many words at one time. She must be truly concerned for Darcy's well-being. He wondered what she would think if she knew he had probably been wooing Miss Bennet when he was abducted.
"And no matter what Mother says," she added a little breathlessly, looking sincerely toward Mrs. Collins, "I hope Miss Bennet will be all right. She is a sweet young lady and does not deserve this trouble."
Fitzwilliam offered Ann his most beaming smile. All this time he had thought she was merely indolent and ill-tempered, but perhaps she truly was just a sweet girl who was too ill to participate in life as she might. And who apparently had opinions of her own! He was so pleased that he crossed the room and took her hand, kissing it heartily. She smiled at him wanly and lay back against the chair, closing her eyes. "Mrs. Jenkinson, would you bring me my tincture? I feel a bit faint."
As the frowsy, middle-aged Mrs. Jenkinson bustled toward Ann with a decanter full of a brownish liquid and a small glass, Fitzwilliam simply rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his aunt, who was still staring daggers at her daughter. Ann had been under treatment from a Doctor Spencer, a physician from London, for several years, and although his strange methods and cures had never brought about much improvement, he was even more obsequious and fawning than Mr. Collins, and Lady Catherine had taken a liking to him that had not yet ebbed.
"Now, Lady Catherine," Fitzwilliam said, aiming all his attention and ferocity toward his aunt, "we need to know everything you can tell us about Lord Smythe."