“Most vociferously.” The colonel chuckled. “To my great fortune, my father understood something of my need to remove myself from a situation in which I was once again reduced to being a boy of ten and supported my going away. I still receive letters from my mother everyfew days, but that is better than enduring her efforts to manage my recovery.”
Jane could not help the giggle in which she rarely indulged, and Colonel Fitzwilliam looked on her, pleased by her reaction. “Given these troubles of yours, I cannot understand why facing the French is not the preferred option.”
“If I were not in Hertfordshire,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “you would be correct.”
They spoke about inconsequential matters for some moments, then he raised a subject that spoke again to the growing depth of his regard.
“Please pardon me, Miss Bennet, but I have something I should like to ask you.”
At Jane’s assent, he said: “Am I mistaken, or have your spirits lightened these past weeks?”
Surprised, Jane said: “That is curious, Colonel, for I am considered inscrutable. Even Lizzy, the dearest person in the world to me, cannot always understand my moods.”
The colonel shrugged. “Sometimes I am uncertain, but I fancy I have gained some understanding of you.”
The comment was secretly thrilling, but Jane pushed the sensation to the side in favor of considering what she might say. To be anything other than honest with the colonel would not do, and not only because she was truthful.
“When you arrived in Meryton,” said Jane at length, “it was not long after Mr. Bingley departed. As you know something about what happened when he was here, you understand that his retreat was... unexpected.”
“I can think of other ways to describe it,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Perhaps you are a better person than I, Miss Bennet, for I would not be so circumspect.”
“There is little other choice,” replied Jane. “I have no hold over Mr. Bingley, and I would not wish to control him even if I could.”
“What of his honor?”
Jane shook her head. “As Lizzy said, I know nothing of Mr. Bingley’s honor, and would not wish to keep a man in my company for such reasons. I wish to love a man and earn his devotion in return—keeping a man’s attention for no other reason than duty would be a cold advantage next to what I hope to achieve.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam considered this. “Then you have recovered from your disappointment?”
“I suppose I have, to a large extent,” mused Jane. “I never loved Mr.Bingley. Though his withdrawal was hard to bear, and I believe even now that I could have reached that state with him, I know now that he did not provoke that depth of feeling.”
“Then I am pleased to hear it, Miss Bennet,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Bingley’s loss is my gain.”
It was some moments before Jane could understand the meaning of his comment, and when she did, she felt her cheeks heating. “I do not know if I am recovered enough from Mr. Bingley’s departure,” whispered she, unable to speak any louder.
“And I shall make no demands.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression of compassion warmed Jane all over. “I do not act precipitously, Miss Bennet. However, I would like you to understand that my interest is not of a tepid variety. You are the best woman of my acquaintance, and I wish to know you better. Let us proceed with care, learn about each other before we confront such weighty subjects as love.”
“I agree,” said Jane, feeling rather breathless. “I shall anticipate it.”
The smile came easily to his lips. He opened them to say something, but his eyes darted to a point behind her, his tender expression turning to shock, then to rage in the span of an instant. Confused, Jane turned to see what had caught his attention, but she could see nothing but the officers’ arrival. When she turned back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, Jane noted the icy fire burning in his eyes—a clear sign he was displeased about something.
“What is it?”
It appeared he had almost forgotten about her, for he turned to her as if reminded of her presence. The smile returned to his face, but this time it was tighter, grim determination replacing fury. And Jane understood at once—not only was he a capable man, but he could be an implacable enemy when aroused. What Jane could not understand was what had provoked his ire.
Chapter IV
Wickham! What the blazes was that stain on humanity doing in a sitting-room in Hertfordshire, of all places, and dressed in the uniform of the militia? The mere notion of a man such as Wickham enduring the discipline of the army nearly provoked him to burst into sardonic laughter. There was something at work here, and if Fitzwilliam knew anything about George Wickham, it was nothing good. The greater concern was how he had approached Miss Elizabeth at once and was already employing his usual charm designed to disarm. Unfortunate though it was for the rabid dog, Fitzwilliam was not about to stand aside and allow Wickham to wreak havoc. But before he confronted Wickham, Fitzwilliam needed more information.
“Come with me, Miss Bennet,” said he, taking her arm and guiding her to a corner where they would not be easily observed. “There is a problem—I need to know more before I decide how to deal with it.”
Miss Bennet did not question him; she allowed him to lead her, and when they were in position, she glanced back over her shoulder once, and turned back to him, her expression searching.
“What is it?”
“The man with whom your sister is speaking,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.
When Jane turned to look, Fitzwilliam’s hand rose of its own accord, to touch the silky smoothness of her chin and prevent her from looking around. “Do not make any sudden movements, Miss Bennet—I would not wish him to catch sight of me. The man’s name is George Wickham, a name I have known and cursed for many a year.”
