Tempted: Chapter Six

Hello, everyone! I’ve gone to ground , enjoying this summer weather a little too much and getting a little too lost in the final phases of this book.  I hope this post finds you all safe and well with all the hard things going on in the world right now.

This will be the last chapter I post of Tempted. I hope to have more news for you very soon! I will send out another chapter or two via  my newsletter, and before you know it, it will  be cover reveal and launch time! I’m so excited to get this book OFF MY DESK. (It’s only been two years.)

Disclaimers: It will be long. It will be angsty (but not horrible, I hope). It will have lots of Darcy and Elizabeth page time and good people in hard situations.

Oh, and it has a cameo!  Our own Sheila Majczan steps into the role of Lady Matlock. We always knew she was nobility, right?

Here we go with Chapter Six. Enjoy!

Read previous chapters HERE

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Wyoming, United States
April 1900

The morning after all the soldiers had arrived, Elizabeth and Kitty were taking their turn together in the general store with Mrs Gardiner, while Jane had gone to care for their young cousins. Elizabeth plunged her scoop into the fresh coffee beans, drinking in their rich earthiness as she measured five pounds into a burlap bag. Her task complete, she rolled down the top and returned to the customer at the counter.

“Here you are, Mrs Long, and Kitty has gone out back to set out your flour. Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, Elizabeth,” the woman said as she withdrew a coin pouch. “Have you seen your father lately?”

“I ride out at least once each week. I was there yesterday, in fact.”

“My husband tells me a new lot of soldiers came to town yesterday. Is it true? I don’t know what we’ve come to, overrun with the English all over again!”

Elizabeth laughed. “They come in peace, Mrs Long. Did you bring a wagon to town? I will have Billy load your heavier supplies.”

The woman shook her head and sighed, all the doleful predictions she might have uttered silenced because of Elizabeth’s lack of interest in gossip. “Yes, thank you, Elizabeth. Tell your mother I asked after her, will you?”

“I will, Mrs Long.”

Elizabeth stepped into the storeroom and found her cousin leaning against a shelf, admiring the newest men’s fashion magazine from New York. His back was to her and he was oblivious to the world. She fisted her hand at her hip and deliberately knocked a bucket of nails on the floor with a metallic crash.

Billy jumped, dropped the magazine, and yelped, “I’m sorry, Mrs Gardiner!” He spun around to Elizabeth, who merely shook her head. “Oh, Lizzy, it’s only you. What a fright you gave me! Try not to be so clumsy, will you?”

“Or you could try working! Mrs Long is waiting for you to load her order. I suggest you do it before Aunt finishes with the account books and sees you standing here like a bump in the floor.”

He groaned and put away his magazine. Elizabeth turned, but paused at the door to look over her shoulder and smile sweetly. “Oh, and be sure to pick up the nails.”

Billy grumbled a colourful assortment of phrases not suited for an aspiring parson, but slowly set about his duties. It pained her to watch him, for he worked as if he were swimming in molasses. Such meticulous care over each movement might have been laudable if he had been restrained by precision or deep thought, but that was not Billy’s impediment. No, he dragged his feet because his head was somewhere else, and no place useful. And he was lazy.

Elizabeth watched long enough to ensure that he did not try to read his magazine while loading Mrs Long’s wagon. Afterwards, she returned to the front to dust the shelves behind the counter—it seemed Lydia had neglected to do so the previous day—and paid little mind when the side door of the shop jingled open. One by one, she lifted the colourful jars of candies, polishing every surface, until the back of her neck prickled.

She turned and found Jake Bryson leaning over the counter, staring at her.

He pushed up the brim of his hat with his thumb. “Mornin’, Miss Lizzy,” he drawled. “You’re lookin’ pretty today.”

“Good morning, Mr Bryson,” she answered with perfect civility. “Have you come to settle your account this month?”

“Well, not even a smile for me? Come on, Miss Lizzy, have you decided about the church social?”

“I have decided I will attend, but I must decline your invitation, Mr Bryson. My sister had counted upon my company, and I cannot disappoint her.”

“Oh, don’t be that way,” he protested. “Don’t you have enough other sisters she can ride with?”

Elizabeth busied herself organising the jars displayed on the counter, so she did not turn away from him fully, but was not required to look him in the eye. “Nevertheless, I have given her my promise.”

“But you’ll save the best dances for me, won’t you? I always said you were the sweetest gal in town.” As he spoke, he reached to help himself to a licorice from the jar on the counter, then bit off a chunk and chewed it with a leering smile.

Elizabeth pulled the jar away and made as if to refill it behind the counter. “If you have said it, it is not true, for everyone knows that Jane is the sweetest. She would not have charged you for that bit of licorice, but I will.”

Still grinning, and never looking away, he searched in his pocket and slapped three pennies down on the counter. Elizabeth waited until his hand had fully withdrawn before she took them and was relieved to hear the door jingling as she turned to deposit them in the register. Even if it was only Billy coming back in, at least she was no longer alone with Jake–

“Bryson!”

The clear, commanding tone rang out and caused both Elizabeth and her customer to jump. It was the colonel she had met yesterday—the officious one who thought she rode too recklessly. Even without the benefit of a horse, he was still tall, and very smartly turned out in his khaki uniform and polished boots. He strode towards Jake Bryson with the measured, intimidating steps of one used to command, and stopped at the counter.

“What are you doing in town, Bryson? I sent Lieutenant Barker and the rest of my men out to the corrals over an hour ago.”

Jake leaned his elbow on the counter, affecting nonchalance. “I might ask the same of you, Colonel. Thought you was all in a rush to try that lot today.”

The colonel slid his gaze towards Elizabeth, then his eyes narrowed in recognition. He offered a polite dip of his head, a deferential, “Madam,” then addressed Bryson again.

“I am still about town because it has come to my attention that the accounts have been neglected. I understand you were the party responsible to the feed mill and the general store when Colonel Marcus took his leave? I must now wonder what has become of the money that was sent.”

Bryson shifted uneasily, but he continued leaning on the counter as before. “Dunno, Colonel. I never saw it.”
The colonel’s lips thinned. “Sir, we will speak of this in private. I will have you on a horse and bound for the corrals to set about your duties at once. I shall follow after I have attended to my remaining business.”

Elizabeth let go a tight breath as Jake Bryson grudgingly shuffled out, and purposefully looked in another direction when he tried to offer her one more rakish smile before he departed.

The colonel remained, and now looked to her with a softened expression. “I must apologise, madam. I had not intended to disrupt your business with my own.”

“Think nothing of it, Colonel. You have sent away one whose companionship is not dear to me, and I am now in hopes that your ‘business’ might result in his account being settled. So, as you can see, I can have no cause to regret your rather unceremonious entry.”

His lips parted, displaying even white teeth and an easy charm. He put out his hand. “Perhaps I might introduce myself, as we have met twice now, and I still have not the pleasure of your name. Mine is Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”

“Elizabeth Bennet.” She found she quite liked the way he grasped her whole hand—not merely touching her fingers as if she were made of glass, nor limply cradling her hand like a cold fish. His grip was firm and respectful, as if he was meeting an equal.

“Bennet?” His brow furrowed as he released her hand. “You are not some relation to that curious blacksmith out at the corrals?”

“He is my father. You would do well to heed when he speaks, for my father is more poet than blacksmith.”

“He is certainly more ‘something,’ although, I confess, the word ‘poet’ is not the one that leapt to mind. May I ask, Miss Bennet, do you often ride out as if the devil were on your tail, or was I merely fortunate to encounter you yesterday?”

“I shall ask you a question first. For a lady who enjoys the out of doors and solitude, would you—a gentleman whose duty it is to protect others—recommend walking over riding?”

He laughed. “No, indeed. If you must seek your moments of privacy and reflection, by all means, stay mounted. At least on horseback, you are a match for any who might trouble you—and more than a match, if what I witnessed yesterday was any indication. But may I offer one word of advice?”

She tilted her head and arched a teasing brow.

He leaned a little closer to the counter. “If you wind your horse, or he stumbles and falls, you will have no mount at all. As you seem to have a fondness for riding off the main road, I am left to wonder who might discover you if you needed help, and what their intentions might be.”

“A dreadful state of affairs! You may be assured, Colonel, I take additional precautions.”

“I hope this extra measure of care you speak of is made of iron and lead. Apart from a horse, nothing else will put you on such equal footing if trouble should call.”

She looked down, arranging the jars on the counter and puckering her lips in thought. “I shall simply say that my father ensured that I knew how to look after myself.”

He straightened with a smile. “Then my sense of duty is satisfied. And now, I believe I have an account to settle.”

The colonel was gone only a few minutes later, but Elizabeth’s efficiency seemed to have left with him. She puttered about the counter, needlessly dusting and straightening items on display. Her mind, it must be confessed, was rather agreeably engaged in contemplating the rare pleasure of a gentleman of manners and intelligence.

“Lizzy?”

Elizabeth shook off her reverie. “Hmm? Aunt, did you say something?”

Mrs Gardiner stood before her, shaking her head. “I spoke your name three times. Is something amiss, Lizzy? It is not like you to be so distracted.”

“Oh! No, I am certain it was nothing, Aunt. Nothing at all.”

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Dear Darcy,

How are you keeping, old chap? I hope Georgiana has settled in well after coming home from school. Tell her I was sorry to miss her, and that dear Cousin Richard will be sure to bring her something from America. Do you suppose she would like an eagle feather? I found one only yesterday. Or perhaps a beaded bracelet would be just the thing. There is an old tribal woman living near here who creates the most remarkable jewellery. I have never seen the like before.

Darcy, I believe if you saw this country, you could not help but admire it as I do. Oh, perhaps it would shock you—there are certainly not the conveniences we have at home, but the sheer amount of empty air is astonishing. For miles and miles by train, as far as the eye can see, there is only open ground. I fancy you could seek all the solitude your heart could desire and then some, for the people are scattered rather thinly over this territory. Pardon me, I suppose Wyoming is a state now, as of only nine years ago. I wonder if someone did not tamper with the numbers, for I do not see how there can be enough people here for it to qualify as a state—sixty thousand was the requirement, and I think there are more people living in Grosvenor Square alone than this whole region.

What people are here are a curious lot. They are as rugged as the mountains and range they call home—I suppose they must be, to have carved out a living here. Their manners are largely wanting. Finishing school would not go amiss for many, but for all their coarseness, the people in town are a generally good-hearted, cheerful sort. It is rather like rubbing elbows with your tenants, as well as a hefty sprinkling of industrial labourers. How shocked Mother would be, but I tell you, I have quickly come to respect them. There is a spirit among them, an assertive independence and confidence that I cannot help but hold in some reverence.

Perhaps I shall describe one such person, so you will understand. There is a young woman here by the name of Elizabeth Bennet. I encounter her often, because she works in the local dry goods mercantile with her aunt. Additionally, her father is the blacksmith at the corrals, and among all her sisters (there are four others) she is the only one I have seen calling on him at his work. He rarely comes to town, and I gather there must be some reason, but I am not privy to it.

The first time I met Miss Elizabeth, she was flying across the countryside as if the hounds of Hades rode after her. I thought her in some distress and tried to come to her aid, but as I quickly discovered, the lady can look after herself. I have seen her frequently since, and she walks about with her head held high and no fear of anyone. There is one chap who regularly delights in pestering her. A detestable, uncouth fellow he is, and he causes me daily headaches of my own, I assure you. But even when I step in to attempt to shield her, as a gentleman should, I find my efforts less than necessary.

Now, you might think such a creature would prove a wild ruffian, incapable of a clever thought or a polished word. Instead, I find her to be quite the opposite. She frequently quotes lines of poetry (it seems a passion she shares with her father) and though her actions may not appear refined, her comportment is entirely ladylike. I daresay a number of London ladies could learn something of gracious manners from her, though she probably has no notion how to serve a proper cup of tea.

So, you see, I am not quite among savages here. Did I not feel myself remiss in my duties to my men, I would count this experience as something of a holiday. As I write this evening, I am watching the clouds descend upon the mountain peaks in the distance, all lit up by streaks of red fire from the sunset. A hawk is crying somewhere, and the grass has all gone dry. I imagine a prairie fire here would be a fearsome thing, but for now, I am simply admiring the golden waves as it ripples in the fading sun.

I am enclosing letters for Mother and Father with yours, to save on the postage. I know you will not mind a visit to Matlock at this time of year, if you can be got away from your duties in London. Go back to the country, Darcy! Ah, yes, I am a devious soul, for I expect you shall see Anne there, too. Give her my greetings and let me know if you decide to come to the point at last. I hope I shall be at liberty to stand up with you after my current assignment is complete.

Yours,
RF

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Pemberley
July 1900

Darcy blew out a frustrated huff as he cast aside Richard’s only letter from his time in Wyoming. How many times had he read it now? But each time, he acquired new information from it. This time, as on several previous occasions, he was dwelling most principally on Richard’s observations regarding the former Miss Bennet. What sort of regard was present in the author as he made his remarks? Was Richard merely selecting her to illustrate his general opinions, as he had once presumed, or was his cousin already smitten with the lady even then? And how, precisely, did a woman go about in that great wild? Richard made it sound as if she were seldom escorted and frequently reckless.

And rudely irreverent.

He tapped his knuckles in agitation on his desk as he scowled at the window. He was under no illusions that no one had ever mocked him before, but certainly it was never done in his hearing. And by a woman who ought, by right, to feel every proper notion of gratitude to him for his pains on her behalf! But this American seemed to hold nothing sacred. Worse, she clearly misunderstood every intention of his, as well as the norms of society. Newly self-conscious about his moustache, he smoothed and straightened it as he pondered what to do.

He could not very well ask her to leave. Even had she somewhere else to go, it would be an absurd over-reaction to a few hasty words. Best to pretend the whole affair had never taken place—that he had not overheard her mournful desire to condole with Lady Matlock, that he did not perceive the ache in her voice when she spoke of a wish for some purpose to her days… that she was not dashedly handsome when she laughed, even if it was at him. No, better to greet her at dinner just as if nothing at all were amiss.

That, however, she refused to permit. As he was leaving his study, she accosted him in the hall—still in her outdoor dress—with the urgent timing of one who had been waiting for him.

“Mr Darcy, I beg you would permit me to apologise.”

He put his hands stiffly behind his back. “It is not necessary, Mrs Fitzwilliam.”

“I am afraid it is. I spoke wrongly. You have been terribly kind to me, and I repaid you with cruelty.”

“Cruelty? Hardly, Mrs Fitzwilliam. Perhaps I ought to be relieved that you do not know what true cruelty is.”

That chin tipped up in her usual sign of obstinacy. “You might be surprised, sir,” she answered in a husky voice.

“Nevertheless, it is best forgotten, madam.”

She caught the tip of her glove with her other hand and looked uncomfortably to the side. “I thank you, sir.”

Some bit of his indignation eroded as he regarded her profile. She truly was young, probably not much older than Georgiana. Displaced from all she knew, robbed of the man for whom she had consented to change her life, and thrust into a house entirely foreign where her usual sources of occupation or comfort were denied her, it was a wonder that her agitation and grief had not already overcome her.

“Mrs Fitzwilliam, would you speak privately for a moment?” He gestured back towards his study.

A guarded look filled her eyes, but then she firmed her lips and nodded.

She followed him, and he offered her a seat. “Shall I call for tea?”

She looked swiftly up to him, and a hesitant chuckle formed. “No, thank you, but it was kind of you to offer… both times.”

He smiled a little to himself as he took a seat nearby. “Perhaps you will permit me an apology of my own. I quite recognise that you have been thrust into an uncomfortable position. Please know that if it were entirely within my power to grant your wishes, I would be honour-bound to do whatever I could for my cousin’s wife.”

She drew a long breath, her eyes cautiously fixed on the floor, though her chin was still tipped high. “It is noble of you to say so much. I appreciate the thought, sir.”

“But you are still discontented, and not without cause.”

She fell to silent thought for a few seconds, then addressed him with a firmness to her tone that surprised him. “Mr Darcy, I told you once before that I am not formed for ill humour. I should rather laugh through tears than to wallow in self-pity and depression. That does not mean I do not suffer my moments of melancholy and worry. I am afraid I have no present sources of distraction to take my mind from those fears I can do nothing about.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Richard said you were an accomplished horsewoman. Perhaps I ought to have said as much before, but you may always take refuge in the stables. I find riding useful for clearing my own head, and I cannot think you do not miss it. I will speak to the coachman.”

A sort of peace claimed her face at this, and a bit of colour returned to her cheeks that he had not even noticed had been absent. “Thank you, sir. Although, I doubt I shall be suffered to tear up the countryside quite as I did at home.”

“I would prefer if you did not cripple any of my horses.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, and she blinked rapidly, finally succumbing to a snort of laughter which she was obliged to hide behind her hand. “I am sorry! I do not mean to be irreverent. It only reminds me of what my father used to say to me, and… something I said to someone else.”

Darcy watched the way her rapid humour gave way almost immediately to a pinched brow. The way she looked down at her hands. “You said that to Richard.”

The line of her forehead deepened. “Yes.”

Darcy sighed and fidgeted with a few items on his desk for a moment. “It seems, Mrs Fitzwilliam, that we have little understood each other.”

“Agreed, sir.”

“I should like to change that. As you are no doubt aware, Richard is dear to me. Were the situation different—were he here to introduce us—we would be often in company, and no doubt come to know one another well. I would have hoped for good relations between us.”

“Then are we to make an attempt at friendship, sir?”

He watched her carefully—the forced lightness, the playful impulses simmering just under the surface of an abashed front. “Let us at least call a cease-fire.”

She straightened her shoulders and arched her back, resting folded hands upon her skirts and facing him as if prepared for a test. “Very well. How does one begin a civil conversation in polite company? It appears I am woefully ill-informed.”

“You are not alone. There are many who would accuse me of the same. I am not… practised at conversing easily with new acquaintances.”

“Then we are doomed to failure, for I am incurably impertinent and you are mulishly reticent. I fear we are destined to constantly give one another offence!”

This time, he truly did laugh, and her own lighter tones joined his. “Perhaps we might try another activity as a diversion. Something besides bland conversation?”

Her mouth contracted thoughtfully; one brow quirked, and her eyes slid to a table on the far side of the room. “Chess?”

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Well, there you have it! I’m mean enough to let you simmer in curiosity about that chess game until release time.  Enjoy!

-NC