“How old is Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. Mr. Darcy’s actions made him sound more a father than a brother.
“Sixteen, Miss,” the housekeeper replied.
More than ten years his junior, then. Mr. Darcy would make a very good father one day. Elizabeth loved her father, but Papa would more likely laugh at such an item. He would certainly never carry it on his person. “Very well,” Elizabeth said, rummaging through the basket. “Might you tell me whether there is anything here that is more urgent than the rest?”
“Given your indisposition, it might be easier to embroider,” Mrs. Spencer observed. She stood, shaking out her skirts, and moved to one side of the room, plucking up a wooden embroidery stand and bringing it back. “I thought you might have need of this.”
Elizabeth longed to be useful, but evidently, she was simply being given things to bide her time. It was a shame she could not explore the house. There had to be more surprises like the secret room in Mr. Darcy’s study. Once Mrs. Spencer had stretched the fabric taut and tightened the frame, she bade farewell to Elizabeth and returned to her duties.
Elizabeth stared at the practice cloth that Mrs. Spencer had fastened in the frame. One of Miss Darcy’s practice cloths. Did the woman think she required practice? After a moment, she sighed, and began to stitch. She worked for a few hours before the light grew dim. Not long after she had given up for the evening and settled near the fire, there was a scratching at the door and a quiet “Miss Elizabeth?”
Her heart leapt. Mr. Darcy had come to join her. “Enter,” she called, just loud enough for him to hear.
He opened the door and came inside, followed closely by a man who was carrying a laden dinner tray.
Mr. Darcy motioned to the servant. “This is Mr. Slipworth, my valet.”
Mr. Slipworth set the tray down on a little table near the settee.
“Thank you, Mr. Slipworth,” Elizabeth said, and he offered her a bow.
“Would you care to dine with me?” Mr. Darcy asked. He tugged at his cuffs and then once at his cravat. Elizabeth could not fathom what was making him so uncomfortable.
“Of course,” she replied pleasantly. “I would appreciate the company.” She was not used to being alone so much of the day. Longbourn could be rather loud and at times feel somewhat confined, but she longed for the chatter now that there was none to be had. “Where is the colonel?”
“He decided to have dinner at the club.”
“I see,” she replied.
Mr. Slipworth served the meal and then retreated to the far corner of the room. It was odd to have him there, but Elizabeth supposed he was serving as a chaperone of sorts. No stranger, she thought, than anything else that had occurred in the days since the Netherfield ball. It would be a week tomorrow. A week away from her family, with no word on what was happening or whether she might ever see them again.
As though he could hear her thoughts, Mr. Darcy poured a glass of wine and passed it to her. “I am afraid Mrs. Spencer would be missed.”
She lifted her shoulders.
“My cousin and I intend to make a trip to Longbourn to speak with your father,” Mr. Darcy announced.
“When?” Elizabeth asked, trying not to sound envious.
“Tomorrow. Should you wish to send him a message, I will be certain to put it in his hands.”
“Will you not be recognized?”
Mr. Darcy pulled a face. “Fitz will disguise me, he says.”
Elizabeth watched him expectantly, but he only picked up his fork and began to eat.
She waited for a time, growing more indignant as he ignored her. “Sir,” she began, and he lifted his eyes to hers. “Will you not tell me what you hope to accomplish?”
The tip of his fork rested on his plate. “To speak to your father,” he said again. His brows pinched together. “Did I not say?”
She released a short, surprised laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “You did, Mr. Darcy, but what you did not say could fill all the volumes in your library.”
“I would not wish to concern you, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her seriously. “I only intended to inform you why you are unlikely to see me tomorrow.”
Apparently, Mrs. Spencer was not the only one who believed her incompetent. It was as though Mr. Darcy had reached out to pat her on the head and offer her a sweet. A half-hour ago, she would have said she would miss sitting down with this man for dinner on the morrow. Now she believed a little distance might be for the best.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, disappointment making her words a little sharp, “whether you wish it or not, I am very closely concerned with the events prompting your return to Hertfordshire. Having known me only a short time, perhaps you are unaware that I wish to be informed about anything which might”—here she leaned in for emphasis—"alter the course of my life.”