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Darcy noticed that Anne, who had been sitting all evening in a dull, vague contemplation of the hearth, turned to look at the colonel at this comment. Odd that this topic—regarding people whom she had prevented from visiting—should garner her interest at last.

“But that is where you are quite wrong,” Lady Catherine argued. “The girl had every opportunity to become the next mistress of her home. Indeed, I personally advised Mr Collins to choose from amongst his cousins, to avoid any such future difficulty. He assured me that he asked Miss Elizabeth Bennet for her hand, and was most relieved when she refused it, giving him the freedom of choice and the release from an obligation he could not prefer. He was quite happy about it. I daresay Miss Bennet is quite stupid to have repudiated such a match.”

Darcy caught the amusement in Fitzwilliam’s eyes, at her notion that there was any world in which the portly Mr Collins would have preferred Miss Charlotte Lucas to be his bride over the lovely, tantalising Elizabeth.

Darcy found nothing amusing in the idea at all.

In the instant of hearing that another man had proposed marriage, he learnt the whole truth: he was never going to be free. His feelings were far different than mere desires—those, he was accustomed to bridling. No, in addition to the relentless wanting was this yearning to ensure her comfort, her welfare, her future. Only if he could always know that she was happy and protected, he realised, would his own well-being be assured.

His family would not be happy, no; but then, Lady Catherine would not have been happy with his choice of anyone except her own daughter. Fortunately, Anne was not of the same mind, and although neither of them bothered to argue with her ladyship any longer, he knew there was no interest or intent from that quarter. His uncle, Lord Matlock, could be brought around in time and with the colonel’s aid, he was certain, once he came to know her. Elizabeth had not been much in society, which he had considered a detriment, for Georgiana would need help. Yet, he had no doubts that Elizabeth would conquer them all, and her liveliness, loyalty, and goodness would help his shy sister far more than any other woman he could name.

“I ought to have known in November that I could not bear to let her go,” he told his reflection in the looking-glass that night. “I am well and truly lost.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

AN UNEXPECTED INTERFERENCE

Elizabeth was taking her usual route through the parklands—frankly, the only thing she truly appreciated in this visit—and counting the days until she could return to her home and Jane. Her sister’s letters from town truly showed that she was not in good spirits, although of course, she did not complain. It was just such a determined cheerfulness, as if she was reading the lines from a play—yes, here was where the character would count her blessings; this next line was the place in the script when the actor might wax prolific regarding the beauties of the sights surrounding her. Jane was always good-natured, but the words emerging from her pen were stilted, a forged happiness.

“I need to spend time with her, help her forget Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth said aloud, sighing.

She had not walked very many steps farther when the sound of booted feet approaching behind her nearly made her sigh once more. Not Mr Darcy again! What can he mean by it? I told him which paths I am likely to take so that he could avoid me! He never has a thing to say, and always feels he must accompany me once he has found me, so that the only thing to do is return to the parsonage. Pasting her own expression of determined cheerfulness upon her face, she turned to greet him.

To her pleased surprise, it was not Mr Darcy at all, but Colonel Fitzwilliam; he was much more pleasant company. “Are your plans fixed?” she asked conversationally. “I think I heard my cousin say that you will remain in Kent another two weeks.”

“Unless Darcy puts our departure off—it is entirely up to him.”

“He does like to have his own way, does he not?”

“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it, because he is rich—I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.”

“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now, seriously, when have you been prevented from going wherever you choose, or procuring anything for which you had a fancy?”

The colonel smiled. “Perhaps not in coaches or clothing, but in matters of greater weight, I may suffer. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.” He gave her a long look which she could not quite read. “I might have supposed your situation to be similar, but last evening, my aunt provided us with a most illuminating example of unorthodox independence. She revealed that you, evidently, had the opportunity to become both mistress of the parsonage at Hunsford and, in future, of your family’s estate, but chose your autonomy instead.”

Elizabeth thought his observation particularly ill-chosen, despite her previous teasing. “You have met my cousin. I would not think that my reasons for refusing him were a mystery.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “No, just unusual. You disapprove of Darcy for wanting his own way, but I mean to prove my point. We all want it. He simply has more material means of obtaining it.”

“If the want is proper and good, there is nothing wrong in that,” she argued. “Material considerations cannot be the only indicator of justice.”

“No indeed. Darcy uses his power wisely, as often as possible. I learnt from something he told me in our journey hither that Bingley was lately saved by him from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage. Was that not good of him?”

It was all Elizabeth could do, to continue walking along as if the stroll and conversation were still casual. “Did Mr Darcy give you reasons for this interference?” She managed to phrase the question lightly, but within, a fury had ignited.

“He did not say, but it sounded like a rescue to me.”

Elizabeth thought of so many things she wished to say, and was choked with so much indignation, she could hardly utter a word. There was only one woman from whom Mr Bingley might have required ‘rescue’. It was fortunate that the colonel turned the topic to something less fraught, and the parsonage was soon in sight.

As soon as he was gone and she safely could manage it, she made her excuses of a megrim to Charlotte, and retired quickly to her room. Once the tears were finally conquered, the megrim became a real one.

She was lying on her bed in darkness with the curtains drawn, when Charlotte tapped upon her door, then entered.

“Eliza, do you feel any better?” her friend asked hopefully. “I have wonderful news—we have at last received an invitation for tea from Lady Catherine.”

The thought of going anywhere near Mr Darcy at this particular moment was an impossible one. Her head ached and, worse, her heart did. That he should have so vilified her sister—her dear, gentle sister, who deserved none of it—made her refusal a given. “I feel terrible, Charlotte,” she replied truthfully. “I am sorry to refuse an invitation so long awaited, but I do not think I can go.”

“Oh, dear,” Charlotte replied. “My husband will not like to disappoint Lady Catherine.”