The Netherfield Affair

by Penelope Swan

  Elizabeth could not help feeling pity for the servant girl. Her own ire had subsided significantly since the morning and she felt charitable enough now to consider the maid’s request.

  “I do not intend to reveal your transgression,” said Elizabeth. “But what were you doing, Tilly? Who was that stranger and why were you leaving posies for him?”

  “Oh, do not ask me, miss!” cried Tilly, almost on the verge of tears. “I do not know myself! Would that I had never seen him!”

  Elizabeth felt moved by the maid’s distress. She laid her hand gently on Tilly’s arm. “Calm yourself, Tilly,” she said. “I am sure all can be resolved. Can you not tell me what your troubles are, so that I may help you?”

  Tilly shook her head violently. “You are too good, miss, but nobody can help me!”

  With a muffled sob, she turned and ran from the room. Elizabeth stared after her, but at the sound of the dinner bell, she re-collected herself and made a hasty finish to the hair arrangement that Tilly had started. She did not do as good a job as the maid, but she felt that it would pass muster. In any event, all attention would be on Jane this evening and she did not feel that her own appearance would merit much discussion.

  As Elizabeth had expected, Jane’s presence downstairs commanded all attention and she was pleased to retire and quietly watch Mr Bingley’s warm considerations for her sister. He scarcely took his eyes off her at dinner and broke with convention to follow the ladies to the drawing room straight after dinner. He gave hasty orders for the fire to be piled up even higher and removed Jane to the seat closer to the fireplace, away from the door. He then sat beside her and talked to none but her for the rest of the evening. Mr and Mrs Hurst occupied themselves at cards, whilst Darcy sat on the other side of the room by himself with a book.

  Elizabeth watched with amusement Caroline Bingley’s continual attempts to engage Mr Darcy’s attention—from commenting on his reading progress to hoping for his admiration as she took a turn about the room. Darcy remained steadfastly disinterested, however, and continued with his book. Elizabeth had wondered—after their encounter out on the grounds this afternoon—whether he would mark her with any attention, but after a brief glance when she first entered the room, he completely ignored her.

  Elizabeth felt a little piqued, though she could not understand why. She had never yearned for his attention and had received it sceptically whenever it was given. She had still not forgiven him for his slight at the Meryton assembly, but her feeling towards him were more mixed now. Her breast warmed with gratitude for his defence of her at breakfast this morning—though perhaps it had not been a deliberate defence, she reasoned. Perhaps Mr Darcy really had not seen her with the stranger? But this she could not believe. He had been at the best advantage to witness the encounter and it was unlikely that he had not seen it. She was intrigued that he had chosen to conceal the truth and protect her reputation. She found herself unable to suppress her curiosity over his actions.

  At length, Jane professed herself tiring and, accompanied by Bingley’s effusive wishes for her continued recovery, she returned to her room. Elizabeth took the opportunity of assisting her sister to beg for her own early withdrawal. After settling Jane for the night, she went back to her bedchamber and undressed, then applied herself to the volume of Goethe once more. Though the sinister stories were perhaps not the best choice for stimulating the mind so late at night, a period of solitary reading in her room was infinitely preferable to the indifferent company of the drawing room downstairs. She soon became engrossed in the stories and did not raise her head again until a persistent headache broke her concentration. She massaged her temples gingerly and glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was now close to midnight. She wondered if the rest of the company had already retired to bed.

  Elizabeth arose and stretched, wincing at the stiffness in her limbs. She went to the window and looked out into the night. Though the rain had not returned, the night was a wild one and the voice of the wind could be heard lamenting outside. She drew the curtains tightly shut, then turned, pulling her shawl tighter around her. The headache was increasing now with fervour and she shut her eyes for a moment against the pain.

  She thought wistfully of Tilly’s dried violet remedy which had worked so well to cure her headache the day before. If only she had more of that now!

  But why couldn’t she?

  She knew that Tilly kept her stores up in the attic. It would be the work of a few moments to venture up there and help herself to some more of the restorative. She knew what the mixture looked like and she was sure she could find it easily amongst the cordials and tinctures that Tilly had made.

  Then she remembered Lydia’s tales about the ghost at Netherfield Park and Jane telling her that none of the servants dared sleep in the attic anymore. Elizabeth pushed the thought impatiently away. She did not believe in ghosts and ghouls and she refused to let such melodramatic speculation convince her otherwise. She had always prided herself on her staunch sense of courage—indeed, her courage always rose with any attempt to intimidate her and she felt a determination now to challenge these wild tales of fear.

  Making a decision, Elizabeth picked up the candle and moved towards the door. Opening it a crack, she peered out into the hallway. The house appeared quiet, except for the creaks and groans of so aged a building. Elizabeth stepped out and glanced at the last door beyond her room—the one which opened to the staircase leading up to the attic. It made her bedroom the least desirable guest chamber in the house, to be situated next to a service staircase. With a wry smile, she reflected that Caroline Bingley must have had a hand in putting her in such inferior lodgings. No matter. It gave her the advantage now of approaching to the attic staircase with ease from her own doorway.

  Elizabeth turned the knob of the plain little door and beheld a staircase which led up into darkness. A cold draught wafted out and stirred her hair, bringing a chill of goosebumps to her flesh and making her candle flame flicker alarmingly. She hesitated, then gripping the candle holder tighter, Elizabeth began ascending the stairs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The stairs creaked beneath each step, almost like the notes of an unearthly pianoforte. As Elizabeth rounded the landing and prepared to tackle the second flight, another gust of wind blew down from the top of the house and threatened to extinguish her candle flame. The descent of sudden darkness almost made her question the wisdom of her actions, but in a moment, her candle sprang back to life and she continued her purpose. At least the steps were clean, she assured herself, with no sign of cobwebs, blood, or the other gory trappings of Gothic novels.

  She arrived at the top to find herself facing a long narrow corridor with several doors along the walls on either side—no doubt these led to the small rooms which would have served as the servants’ bedchambers. All were closed at present, save for one—the one nearest the staircase.

  Elizabeth stepped towards this and paused outside the open doorway. She held her candle aloft and peered into the shadows. The flickering light of the flame seemed to reveal a room cluttered with chests, shelves, and bottles. An Argand lamp stood on the wooden table in the centre of the room. Elizabeth was about to step forward and light the lamp when she felt the strong grip of a hand on her shoulder.

  She spun around and it took all of her considerable willpower not to let loose with a scream.

  “Mr Darcy!” she exclaimed.

  “Forgive me, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy, his tall figure filling the narrow hallway.

  “You make a habit, sir, of startling me,” said Elizabeth, holding her hand to her rapidly beating heart.

  “I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to cause you distress,” said Darcy with a small bow. “I was entering my room and, when I glanced down the hallway, I happened to see a figure disappear up the attic stairway. I felt it incumbent upon me to investigate and I followed your progress up the stairs. I am as surprised as you, madam, to discover your presence here.”
r />   They were speaking in whispers and their lowered voices lent a certain intimacy to the situation. Elizabeth became suddenly aware of the fact that she was wearing nothing more than her night shift and a shawl around her shoulders—the most improper attire for meeting a gentleman—and her hair was loose and streaming down her back. And though Mr Darcy kept his eyes courteously averted from her person, she knew that he had noticed her dishabillé. She felt herself colouring and hastily pulled her shawl tighter around her.

  He said gravely, “May I inquire as to why you are up here?”

  “I… I came to find a remedy for my headache,” said Elizabeth. “One of the maids, Tilly, provided me with a wonderful restorative yesterday and I know she keeps a store of supplies up here. With the late hour and the servants asleep, I thought I would try and find it myself.”

  “Indeed?” Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Have you no concern for your own safety?”

  Elizabeth lifted her chin defiantly. “What could befall me in a place such as this, sir? I am in a house, amongst friends. There can be no danger to me here.”

  “That is a rare sentiment to be expressed by a young lady,” said Darcy dryly. “I cannot think of many who would be willing to come and explore such a lonely place alone.”

  “If you speak of the conjecture on the supernatural evils of this house, I do not believe such tales,” said Elizabeth. “It is not in my nature to be cowed by such poor rumours.”

  “Is it in your nature to wilfully disregard warnings for your own safety?” said Darcy impatiently. “You heard Bingley warn of the dangers of walking the grounds alone and yet you persisted in taking a solitary stroll this afternoon.”

  Elizabeth bristled. “I thank you for your concern for my welfare,” she said. “But I believe that I am well able to take care of myself. I do not consider myself lacking in courage.”

  “There is a certain conceit in the appearance of courage,” said Darcy. “It is often nothing more than an obstinacy of temperament and a refusal to admit the reality of danger.”

  Elizabeth flushed with anger. “And you own yourself to have no defect, Mr Darcy?”

  “No, indeed,” said Darcy. “I have made no such pretensions. I have faults enough, but I hope they are not of a foolhardy persuasion. I would certainly not excuse rashness of behaviour by presenting it as admirable courage.”

  “You accuse me of improper pride in my own courage?” said Elizabeth.

  “Pride is never a weakness if it is properly placed,” said Darcy. “But in this instance, I see no superiority to merit such pride, simply a vanity that leads to a weakness.”

  “Pray, tell me, sir, if you do not believe yourself to have a similar weakness, what defect would you admit to?” asked Elizabeth acidly.

  Darcy hesitated, then said, “My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

  Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. She had not expected him to admit to any defects whatsoever. His criticism of her behaviour still rankled, but she had to admit to herself that there might have been a grain of truth in Mr Darcy’s words. Her own parents had often commented about the streak of obstinacy in her temperament.

  “You are right—in every disposition, there is a tendency to some particular evil,” said Elizabeth grudgingly. “If you can admit to such a defect, then I would be obliged to admit mine as well.”

  “I’m glad we have reached an understanding, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy. “Will you permit me to escort you back to your room?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “Well, sir, I had hoped to examine this room further, for I believe that I may find the remedy easily enough.”

  “Then allow me to accompany you,” said Darcy, striding into the room and reaching for the Argand lamp.

  Soft yellow light burst from the lamp and filled the room, illuminating the dark corners. Elizabeth placed her own candle on the table as well and looked around with interest. The place resembled a still room, with dried herbs and flowers secured in bunches and hanging from a rail affixed to the wall. Small chests and boxes lined the sides of the room, together with shelves that held a collection of jars and bottles filled with cordials and infusions. In the centre of the room stood a scrubbed wooden table, which held a mortar and pestle, several lengths of twine, a pair of sharp garden scissors, a weighing scale, and an assortment of empty glass jars and bottles.

  “’Tis a veritable apothecary,” remarked Darcy, looking around.

  Elizabeth scanned the shelves eagerly, looking for the familiar mixture of dried violet flowers that Tilly had given her yesterday, but to her disappointment she found nothing resembling the remedy. Turning, she checked the boxes and chests closest to her, but still had no success. She moved towards the small window at the far end of the room. A closed chest stood beneath it and strewn across the top of it—so thick it almost formed a covering—was a profusion of orange and yellow begonia blooms. The flowers, with their pretty, ruffled petals, looked beautiful in the dim light and Elizabeth could not resist reaching out to run her fingers through them.

  “Oh!” A sudden sharp pain caused her to exclaim and draw her hand back sharply.

  “Miss Bennet!” said Darcy in tones of great concern, hurrying to her side.

  He grasped her injured hand, holding it up to the light. A spurt of blood showed on her finger and bright red drops fell onto the white folds of her night shift. He hurriedly untied his cravat, then draped the soft fabric over her finger, binding it tightly.

  “Apply pressure to the wound. That should stop the bleeding,” he said tersely.

  Elizabeth was surprised by his solicitude. She did as he requested, pressing her other hand tightly over the soft muslin of his cravat.

  “It appears that you have sprung a booby-trap,” said Darcy, glancing at the chest. Elizabeth followed his gaze. Now she could see that nestled just out of sight beneath the begonia blooms was a sharp implement attached to a spring mechanism.

  “’Tis naught but a malicious joke,” said Darcy angrily. “You say this room belongs to a maid? I shall speak to Bingley to have her reprimanded. Perhaps she should even be dismissed. Such dangerous practices should not be condoned.”

  “No, I beg you, sir, to reconsider,” said Elizabeth quickly. “I am sure Tilly meant no malice and it was my own carelessness that led to my downfall. I fancy that many a still room contains mixtures and potions which may be deemed poisonous. Perhaps they are held in that chest and it is understandable that measures should be put in place to ward off wandering hands.”

  “Perhaps.” Darcy did not look convinced.

  “Truly, sir, I would beg you not to concern yourself on my account. I will speak to Tilly myself.”

  He looked down at her. “Does the injury still cause you pain?”

  “No…” murmured Elizabeth, conscious of the fact that his hand was still holding hers and she could feel the warm strength of his fingers. A blush tinged her cheeks as she was reminded, once again, of the intimacy of their situation. She was here alone with him, her hand in his, their bodies so close that she felt the heat of his presence. For some reason she could not fathom, such thoughts made her heart beat faster, her breath come quicker.

  “I believe it is well now, Mr Darcy,” said Elizabeth awkwardly at last.

  Her words seemed to rouse him to an awareness of their relative positions and he released her hand hurriedly.

  Elizabeth felt her colour rise even more. “I… I believe I will return to my room now.”

  He did not reply, but simply escorted her down the stairs and back to the door of her bedchamber. He bade her good night in quiet tones, then strode towards his own chamber down the hallway. Elizabeth crawled into bed and pulled the covers close around her. Her headache had gone of its own accord and she shut her eyes, determined that nothing should prevent her from sleep now. But it was a long time before she could pull her mind away from that moment alone in the attic, with her hand in Mr Darcy’s.

  CHAPTER
TWELVE

  Jane was well enough the next morning to join the others at breakfast and Elizabeth was relieved to have her sister’s company. She had not been looking forward to another interview such as the one she had to endure the morning previously. However, when the two sisters presented themselves in the breakfast parlour, they were surprised to note that the party had a decidedly sober air. Once they were settled and the breakfast dishes had been offered from the sideboard, Bingley told them the alarming news.

  “There has been another theft,” he said.

  “Another theft?” cried Elizabeth. Her eyes wandered involuntarily to Miss Bingley, but it was not the lady who answered her silent question. It was the tall gentleman sitting at the other end of the table.

  “Yes,” said Darcy. “A fob watch of mine has been stolen.”

  Jane gasped. “I am exceedingly sorry to hear that, Mr Darcy. Was it very valuable?”

  Darcy inclined his head. “It was given to me by my excellent father and has been in the Darcy family for many generations, so I am particularly disturbed by its loss.”

  “It is not to be borne!” cried Caroline Bingley. “First my brooch and now this. We cannot have objects of value continue to disappear in this way. There must be some explanation.”

  “I intend to find the explanation.” Darcy’s tone was ominous. His eyes met Elizabeth’s and though she knew not why, she felt a flicker of guilt.

  “But what is to be done?” said Bingley, springing up from his place beside Jane and pacing about the room. “Should I send immediately for the local magistrate?”

  Miss Bingley sneered. “Charles, do not depend upon some village constable to bring about the necessary justice. I believe this case to be well beyond their simple means.”

  “I believe you’re right, Miss Bingley,” said Darcy. “That is why I have taken it upon myself to call for the services of a thief taker.”