by Alix James
I shook my head as my eyes fixed, unblinking, on his.
“A sharp mind such as yours. A cheerful spirit, an iron will, and a soft heart. A woman who could both match me and fulfill all that I lacked. I saw all these and more in one flash of your remarkable eyes. Like Archimedes, I nearly cried Eureka! when I took to the street that night. Instead, I removed to the same inn where you slept, just so I would have the pleasure of seeing you again in the morning… to verify, or rather to revel in, what I already knew as an unassailable fact.”
I was biting my lower lip and I could feel a furious blush heating my cheeks. “You speak too soon, sir. Such a… a notion as you profess must be tested, to see if it be sound.”
He tightened his grip on my fingers, but otherwise did not stir. Still, I could feel the energy radiating from him when he said, “Then test me, Miss Elizabeth.”
I pouted in thought, tipping my head playfully as he waited. “Mr. Darcy, I believe we have work to do.”
12
“The work has stopped? What is it, a strike?”
I heard Uncle Gardiner’s voice in the hall as I was dressing the following morning, and I raised my hand for Mildred to hold off with that last button. Jane had heard it as well, and we both hurried to press our ears to the door.
Mr. Bingley’s voice answered my uncle. “No, not precisely. The Luddites are causing a stir, and half my workers were too nervous to come in. The others were so unsettled that Phipps sent them home—no sense paying them when every noise makes them drop their task and run to the windows.”
“I see!” my uncle cried. “Why, what is to be done? Is there nothing I can do to help?”
“No,” Mr. Bingley replied in a somewhat muffled voice. “It is a matter for the regiment. But just to be safe, would you keep Jane and Miss Elizabeth here at the inn? Darcy and I mean to speak with the colonel. Fear not, these disturbances are not uncommon, but are gradually becoming less frequent. I trust that by tomorrow, all will be settled.”
We heard their feet shuffling as their voices continued down the hall, and I returned to Mildred to finish my dress. “Come, Jane,” I urged. “Let us go down and learn more.”
We were quick enough to catch all three gentlemen still in the common room. My uncle was speaking quietly with the innkeeper and Jane naturally went to Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy made no move to beckon me, but his expression warmed markedly when I looked at him. By the time I had reached his side, his entire posture and bearing were tuned to me.
“Are you well today?” he asked.
“Perfectly, but what is the trouble?”
He inclined his head toward the street outside. “Machine breakers. Luddites. They destroyed several looms at Thompson Mills this morning. The regiment was called, but the crowd dispersed on their own—albeit reluctantly.”
My hand fell on his sleeve—perhaps it was unconsciously done, but we both allowed it to remain there. “No one was hurt?”
“No,” he answered, his tone soft. “But the troublemakers are not yet caught, and I understand many are still restless.” He paused, and the look he bestowed on me made me shiver, in the most delicious and agreeable fashion. “Miss Elizabeth, I trust you will not go out into the streets today?”
I offered him a pert smile. “Simply because you are asking?”
He dipped his chin. “Because you are too intelligent to take foolish risks.”
“And what of you?”
“Looking to Bingley’s interests, of course. Luddites do not limit themselves only to the factories with which they have their grievances.”
“Or the men?”
His mouth tightened. “So far, they have done no violence to persons. Not willfully, at least, but two ladies were very nearly trampled by the crowd this morning.” He raised a brow. “I know you have no intentions of obliging me merely because I ask, but perhaps considering Miss Bennet’s safety and peace of mind will be sufficient to keep you within doors.”
“Why, Mr. Darcy!” I laughed. “You seem to comprehend me a little too well.”
“Well enough to know that your sense of curiosity is often stronger than your sense of self-preservation. Do heed, for the machine breakers are not interested in protecting any gently born ladies.”
I frowned. “I have never understood all that fuss. What do they hope to gain? Why destroy property? Do they not comprehend the cost of one of those looms?”
He leaned a little lower, his voice dropping to a more private tone. “It would not matter if they did. Their way of life is changing, you know. I have seen enough young farmers leaving the countryside in search of factory work. Men like Bingley, who rose from such stock a generation ago, are now the wealthy enemy forcing them to live in cities and feed machines, rather than practicing their arts at their own hearths. I do not blame them for their frustration, but the destruction and the violence will solve nothing.”
“I am sorry for it,” I murmured. “It must be a dreadful predicament—I had not thought of it in that way. But the factories are here now, and we cannot go back to what was. They must see that, mustn’t they?”
“Eventually,” he sighed. “We have both gained something of magnificent potential and lost something of priceless worth, all at the same time. Some discontentment is to be expected.”
“You will be cautious, will you not?”
He glanced down at my hand, still resting on his sleeve, and smiled. “If you are planning to welcome me when we return for tea, I will be sure to arrive safely and as early as possible. I might even concede to be made your errand boy, if you can name anything you particularly desire in town.”
I pursed my lips. “I believe I have everything I require. Just look after Mr. Bingley so Jane will not fret over his welfare.”
“I will do that.” He stepped back with a chivalrous squeeze to my fingers, preparing to join his friend as they departed for the door.
“And do not let them smash that new lathe!” I called after him.
I was the only one to hear him laugh.
13
No more machines were destroyed that day. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley even returned early from their talk with the colonel of the regiment, assured that all would be well for the morrow.
We tried to settle at our customary place in the inn’s one common room, but the other guests, who had not wished to take their chances on the streets any more than we did, crowded the lower floor of the inn in search of board and pint. This proved too much even for the love-struck couple—I mean Jane and Mr. Bingley—to endure, and so my uncle proposed that we adjourn to our separate rooms for a few hours.
Jane laid down and promptly fell asleep. I paced the length of our small chamber, wishing someone had the foresight to at least install a window. Finally, the air grew too stifling, and I thought to speak with my uncle about our travel arrangements back to London.
Except that Uncle Gardiner’s door was the third one down, not the second. I recognized my error when my knock produced even, precise footsteps from the other side. Only one man could sound so perfectly coordinated and controlled when merely crossing his bedchamber. I groaned as I began to step back, just before he opened the door.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy greeted me warmly, wearing only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He cast a furtive glance up and down the hall, then fixed me with a look that was very nearly mischievous. “Come to talk about buttons?”
I tried to stop staring at him… at his… buttons. “Ahem. Horsepower, if you must know.”
“Indeed! I have the formula to calculate that very thing, if you wish to come in.”
I leveled him my best stern expression. “Mr. Darcy, if I thought you were serious, I would be obliged to slap your cheek.”
“And if I thought you were the sort of woman who intentionally knocked on the doors of single gentlemen, I would never have asked. Were you seeking Mr. Gardiner?”
I nodded. “I was, to ask what plans we had for travel. But in truth… I was more bored than curiou
s.”
He held up a finger. “Wait a moment.” He turned back into the room, and when he came back, he wore his coat and carried his usual book and a hand-wrapped pencil. “I know just the place.”
Where a party of five had found difficulty in securing seating, two could more easily shift—particularly when one of those two dropped several coins to persuade other patrons to clear a small table in the room’s corner. Mr. Darcy held a chair for me, then seated himself and wasted no time in spreading out his book of drawings. It dazzled the eye—filled with symbols and numbers I had never seen, with calculations that made no sense. He flipped a page over, and there I found something I recognized.
“You were drawing my idea for a slipping gear?”
“Close, but not precisely. This is a flywheel, invented by James Watt, which performs the task you were speaking of. When the velocity from the steam engine is inconstant, the wheel carries steady momentum to keep the main belt spinning smoothly.”
“Why, then, that is it!” I cried. “Does not Mr. Bingley’s factory have one?”
“It does. Every engine is equipped with one, but after you spoke of your notion for a compensating gear, I tried to inspect Bingley’s flywheel. Unfortunately, I have not the proper tools, and Mr. Phipps said that none of the factory workers know how to repair or maintain it when necessary.”
“Oh. Then, I suppose Mr. Bingley must bring in that Murdoch person he spoke of, and that is the end of it.”
“You sound disappointed.” Mr. Darcy had a… a very charming smile. When he chose to employ it, which he was doing now.
I rested my elbow on the table and propped my chin on my fist. “Of course. I had every intention of wielding the great sword of my wit and solving the problem with a few hairpins and a bit of candle wax.”
“But the laurel of success would clash rather awkwardly with your morning gown.”
“Do you think? I could not set it on my bonnet? I think it might look rather fetching.”
He laughed. “You have never told me what drove your interest into such things. Your uncle, was it?”
“Mostly. Mama was absolutely determined that I would be the son she meant to bear, and it was she who asked my uncle to procure toys suited to a boy, even before my birth. My father has a rather caustic sense of humor and I suspect it was he who made certain that the toys kept finding their way into the nursery as I grew older, just to perturb my mother. I played with them, though—I expect that was the beginning.”
“But not the whole of it,” he mused. “Many lads are given such toys and never develop the same aptitude.”
“Perhaps. I just saw things, I suppose. How to put things together, how to improve them. I cannot account for it. Uncle Gardiner noticed my interest when I was very young and secretly indulged my hunger for more. Papa is indifferent enough that he did not prevent me, and Mama was typically satisfied so long as I presented myself well in public. But what of you?”
He picked up his pencil again and turned the page in his book to reveal more drawings. “The heir of an ancestral estate and an ancient name is not encouraged to pursue engineering studies.”
“Ah.” I watched as his pencil slowly underlined a small drawing—it was the same arch shape he had been tracing on the table some days earlier. “Did you conceive this?”
He lifted his hands away with a sigh. “I did, but nothing will ever come of it. It is an improvement on the current piston shaft design, but without the means or the opportunity to build it, to test it, I cannot bring it about. I had thought of sending it to Soho Foundry, with no expectation of credit or patent, but they would not be interested in the whimsical sketches of a man with no practical experience.”
“Did not Mr. Bingley say that you lectured at Cambridge? Surely, you have some credibility.”
“There is a vast difference between a landed gentleman discussing trends in wool and cotton production in academia and a man with callouses on his hands and years of real work to his credit.”
“May I?” I let my hand hover over the page, and he shifted his book for me to examine it. “One thing is clear, Mr. Darcy.”
“What is that, Miss Elizabeth?”
I grinned. “Your penmanship is neater than Mr. Bingley’s.”
“Would you care to see more of it?” Regarding me cautiously, he turned another page. Here, I felt my heart pulse to a stop, then jump.
It was another of his sketches; this one was of a lathe, but the machine itself was rendered lightly, and unfinished. In the foreground, a more clearly defined figure bent over it, and the face… was my own.
I looked swiftly to him and found him wincing in apology. “I did not mean to add you—please know that I have no improper intentions. You just appeared… as if you were always meant to be there.” He studied me, watching for displeasure, I assume, but I could only stare at the sketch in wonder.
“I do not think… no, it is quite safe to say that no one has ever seen me that way before,” I managed in uneven tones.
“Do you mean that no one has seen you engaging in machine repair?”
I swallowed. “No—seen me with that sort of… magic.”
“Magic?” He tilted his head as he looked at the sketch again. “No, Miss Elizabeth. Magic is irrational. You—you make sense to me.”
I stared in shivering awe, my skin tingling and all my senses firing. Mr. Darcy was watching me doubtfully. After a moment, he took hold of the corner of the page, and I could see that his intent was to tear out the offending drawing and offer it to me, or to consign it to destruction, but I clasped my hand over his. He stopped, one brow raised in question.
“It is a fine drawing,” I told him in a raspy voice. “Perhaps one day you will finish it, sir.”
His smile returned. “I hope so.”
14
We were still lingering when the others eventually came below. Mr. Bingley found us first. Though his countenance registered surprise, he said nothing about the novelty of discovering us seated on the same side of the small round table with nothing but Mr. Darcy’s book between us. He found a chair for himself and drew it up opposite.
“So, Darcy, I expect you are for Pemberley in the morning?” Mr. Bingley asked without preamble.
Mr. Darcy closed his book. “My plans are not fixed. I am waiting on an important letter to arrive from my steward at Pemberley, and another from my solicitor in London. After I attend to them, I am at liberty.”
“Entirely at liberty?” Mr. Bingley asked with interest. “I trust Miss Darcy’s health has improved?”
“She is quite well.”
“Then perhaps she would not object to you coming to Hertfordshire soon? I should dearly like for you to see Netherfield.”
Both gentlemen glanced at me, neither making any effort to conceal their intent.
“I had planned to come, if I am welcome,” Mr. Darcy replied slowly.
“Welcome? Of course you are, you know that.”
Mr. Darcy was still gazing at me with a question in his eyes.
“You cannot refuse such hospitality,” I informed him. “Not without slighting Mr. Bingley here and making the neighbors in Meryton think meanly of him, as his own friends will not come be his guests.”
“Well,” Mr. Darcy decided, “as the lady has put it so succinctly, I believe I shall accept your offer.”
“And I shall accept yours, Darcy,” echoed a new voice nearby. We all turned, and I sensed Mr. Darcy stiffening beside me. It was that silky voice, that smart red uniform. It was Mr.…
“Wickham.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was stern, tight, and entirely displeased.
“Afternoon, Darcy,” he answered cheerfully. “Bingley, a pleasure to see you again, and Miss Elizabeth—” He swept off his hat and bowed low. “Charmed, as always.”
“Charm, Mr. Wickham?” I asked. “A word which, by definition, implies a flashing appearance without substance or worth. I dearly hope such a word does not accurately describe me.”
Mr. Bing
ley chuckled aloud and Mr. Darcy was brushing a finger over his mouth to conceal a smile. Mr. Wickham, however, seemed to sober. “Forgive the slight, for such was not my intent, Miss Elizabeth. I beg your pardon, but I was hoping to have a word with Darcy.”
“There is no word to be had,” Mr. Darcy replied. “You may speak freely before our friends, as you have claimed my companions for your own.”
Mr. Wickham’s gaze flitted between Mr. Darcy and myself, and I saw his cheek flinch. “Are you certain, Darcy?”
“Naturally. It is not as if you could possibly have anything to say that a lady such as Miss Elizabeth might not hear. You are, as you say, a gentleman by merit of your rank, and will comport yourself thus.”
Mr. Wickham said nothing to this, but I detected a faint flaring of his nostrils. His smile looked forced as he took each of us in. “I see that it is a bit crowded today, so I’ll not trouble you to make room for me at your table. By the by, the streets are safe now. The rioters have all quietened—which, naturally, is how I could spare a moment on my way back to my quarters for a friendly greeting. I suspect that any post riders would find no difficulty in delivering their letters now.”
Mr. Darcy tilted his head with a faintly amused look. “How strange that you should be concerned with the post. You must be anxiously awaiting that letter from your mother. I trust she is well?”
Mr. Wickham offered one more tight smile. “Indeed. Good afternoon, Darcy. Perhaps I shall see you again on the morrow.” He clapped his cocked hat to his chest in farewell and left the inn.
Mr. Bingley’s brow creased. “Darcy, I thought Wickham’s mother died when we were at Eaton.”