Chapter 9
When Elizabeth woke, the sun was already high in the sky, and she knew that the colonel and Mr. Darcy must be nearly to Meryton. She ate breakfast, read, finished her embroidery, released the cloth to cut it into four handkerchiefs, and set to hemming them. It was more difficult without the frame, but she managed. When that was finished, she stood to pace the room.
Where were they now? Had they spoken to Sir William? What had they said? Would they see Mr. Bingley? Would they visit Longbourn? She longed to be doing something to help end their predicament in a positive way. Instead, she sewed. Would that she could sew her way to freedom.
Elizabeth sighed and admitted, if only to herself, that she would miss Mr. Darcy terribly when this nightmare was over. He would be free to return to his calm and well-ordered life, and she wanted that for him, but when their immediate situation was resolved, she would have to leave and never see him again. She placed a hand over her aching heart, determined not to regret a man she had so recently hated, though she thought very differently now. Love was a luxury she could no longer afford.
She paused. Could she really love Mr. Darcy? He could be terribly stubborn, and his unyielding sense of pride sometimes fueled an unbecoming arrogance. Yet he was also intelligent and funny and gentle. Handsome, particularly when he smiled. And he liked her. He must, to put up with her own stubbornness, her scolding, her teasing. He had begun to tease her back. Had he not cared for her when she was ill? She felt her cheeks warm. Perhaps it would be better not to recall. Elizabeth closed her eyes.
Yes. She could love Mr. Darcy. Perhaps she already did.
She removed another large cloth from the basket and struggled to secure it in the frame, but with one hand’s movement restricted, she could not stretch the fabric tightly enough. Finally, in frustration, Elizabeth removed the splint. Her arm was tender and there was yellow and green bruising between her elbow and wrist, but it was beginning to fade around the edges. She wiggled her fingers and felt only a slight twinge. Gingerly, she worked the material into the frame. Once it was taut, she began again, focusing all her thoughts on the fine fabric and beautiful colored threads.
She worked for several hours before she wandered to the window. How much longer would she be confined to a single room? She could not bear it, even in a home as lovely as this.
Mr. Slipworth returned to remove the dishes. “I waited until Mrs. Spencer gave me permission,” he said, his skin crinkling at the corner of his eyes. “She is quite fierce in your defense, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth offered her thanks, and Mr. Slipworth left her to her idleness. She moved back to the window. Mr. Darcy’s home was a few streets away from a large park. She knew this because her window had a small glimpse of the trees over the other buildings. The treetops were either bare or brown now, but they would be gloriously green in the spring.
What would Mr. Darcy’s townhouse be like in the spring? Would it be like Longbourn, bustling with family and friends and morning calls? Mr. Darcy was so quiet a man that the thought greatly amused her. Perhaps he would not be at home to anyone. She laughed softly. More likely he would be home to those he could not avoid and gruff even with them. She could not deny that the man was proud, but the thought did not bother her as it once had. There was so much consideration and compassion—even humility—beneath that haughty façade. She would always be glad to have witnessed it.
Her ruminations were interrupted by a crash that sliced painfully through the quiet. Elizabeth started and placed a hand over her pounding heart, then stood and turned towards the front of the house. Outside, voices cried out in fear and anger. She dared not leave her room to cross the hall and look out a front-facing window, but she feared something terrible had happened.
For no better reason than needing something to do, Elizabeth moved the sewing frame back into the corner of her room and put away the workbasket and thread. She straightened the bedclothes before glancing around the room. Despite assurances that she was safe, she still feared detection, so she was continually putting things away. With no maid and no wish to demand much of Mrs. Spencer’s time, she was simply dressed. Her few borrowed gowns were hanging neatly in the wardrobe. The items for her toilette that Mrs. Spencer had left for her were soon tucked away as well.
Then she waited for someone to come explain to her what had happened. Mrs. Spencer and Mr. Slipworth had been discreet and solicitous of her; perhaps they were investigating and one of them would come to her when there was more information. She opened a book but could not focus.
Muffled voices and scraping sounds still made their way up from the street, and Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She tucked the book into a drawer and opened her door just far enough to peek down the hallway. There were five rooms on this side of the hall, including her own and the library. These rooms overlooked the back garden which she found lovely even in December. Opposite them were four rooms on the front side of the house overlooking the street. The largest one, judging from the spacing of the doors, was the third from the servants’ stairs. It would likely have more windows and the best view of whatever was happening.
The corridor was empty, and Elizabeth dashed across it to the largest room. It was clearly a parlor for the bedchambers on this floor. She moved directly to one of the two large windows and lifted the curtain just far enough from the window that she could see a coal wagon tipped over. A mound of the dark black fuel had spilled all the way over the coal hole and piled up against the servants’ entrance. The horses had been unhitched and removed a bit from the scene. Someone held the reins and the animals appeared calm.
Elizabeth could make out a few men, servants and passersby, helping the coal men right the wagon. Two others were using wide, flat shovels to clear the coal hole so that the spilled coal could be loaded in. A long line of carriages, obstructed by the accident, snaked slowly past. Elizabeth hoped no one had been hurt.
She carefully replaced the curtain, meaning to return to her chambers, but when she opened the door just a tiny bit to check the hall, she saw the entrance to the servants’ stairs open and a male figure emerge. Her heart flew into her mouth. It was not Mr. Slipworth; it was certainly not Mr. Darcy or Colonel Fitzwilliam. It was a man with a shock of very blond hair, so blond it was nearly white. A shiver ran down her spine. She had only seen hair that color once before.
She dared not move as he strode to the room closest to him, glanced around the hall, and then stepped inside. The door clicked closed behind him.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. She waited for two or three minutes before the man exited the room and moved to the next on the same side of the hall, where the library and her chambers were located. He was being methodical, she thought. He would check all the rooms on that side of the hall before he moved to this one. Instinctively, she stepped into the hall, closed the door behind her, and entered the next room, intending to move closer to the servants’ stairway. She waited, one hand on the knob and an ear to the door, for the sounds of someone moving in the hall and the click of a door opening and shutting. When she heard it, she peered out, then moved silently into the final room at the end of the corridor and waited again. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them together angrily. This was no time to give in to fear.
When she again heard him open a door, she waited. Please, she thought, move down the hall. She had not heard him enter the library, which should be next. What was he waiting for? She pressed her ear to the door and strained to hear him. There was a sort of huffing sound before she heard what she wanted—another click.
Elizabeth peeked through the keyhole, the brass cold against her cheek. Nothing. She peered cautiously into the hall. Empty. She paused to be certain he would stay in the room, but then realized he might already be finishing his search. She opened her door and closed it behind her. She stepped quietly towards the end of the hall, glancing over her shoulder. It was silent, but then she heard it.
A knob rattled. She whirled around, her gaze drawn directly to it.
It began to turn.
Elizabeth tore her eyes away and nearly leapt through the entrance to the servants’ stairs.
She hit something—someone—hard. A bolt of pain traveled up her left forearm, but she freed her right arm and formed a fist. She swung, connecting with something soft. She heard a grunt before a strong hand grasped her wrist and she struggled wildly to free herself.
“Miss Bennet!” a man hissed. “Why are you out of your chambers?”
“Mr. Slipworth?” she whispered. The relief was exquisite, and she slumped against the wall. “I am so very sorry, sir.” He released her arm, and Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet. Mr. Slipworth bent to retrieve a key that had fallen on the steps.
“I was coming to relock the door,” he said, “I forgot to bring the key when—"
“One of the men who took me is here, looking through the rooms,” Elizabeth said breathlessly, interrupting him. Mr. Slipworth stared at her, bemused. “Who took me from Longbourn,” she added.