by Alix James
“She did.”
Mr. Bingley waited, but it was apparent that Mr. Darcy intended no further response. “Ahem. Yes. I think I shall look in on Phipps to see if all is settled for the morning. Miss Elizabeth, shall I see you upstairs?”
“Thank you, but no, sir. I am perfectly comfortable.”
He nodded. “As you please. Darcy.” He rose from the table and we heard him calling for his hat and cape. A moment later, he, too, had gone out.
Mr. Darcy’s fingers stretched over the cover of his book, as if itching to open it again, but he let it rest. “I apologize if you were made to feel uncomfortable.”
“Curious is more apt, but I suspect you do not intend to relieve me of that sensation anytime soon.”
“You would be correct. Perhaps if I come to Netherfield, I might find an opportunity to enlighten you.” This he said with a hesitant look, a half-smile, as he kept repositioning his pencil. My Uncle Philips shared that habit—continually adjusting items on the table as if they had somehow rolled since the last time he touched them. I always fancied it was a bit of nervousness on his part, and perhaps it was no different with Mr. Darcy.
Heedless of the other patrons in the common room, I rested my hand over his, and was pleasantly diverted by the way he started, then warmed to my touch. “What is this?” I asked. “‘If’ you come to Netherfield? I am afraid, sir, that your word has already been given. I shall have to spread a dismal report of you if you withdraw now.”
His answering expression was as radiant as the sun. “Then we will speak more of Wickham after all is settled. You may count on it, Miss Elizabeth.”
15
Jane and I had just finished our toilette and were helping Mildred to pack all our things the next morning when a commotion in the hall drew our attention. Someone was knocking loudly on Mr. Darcy’s door, declaring that he was wanted by an express rider. I ought to have resumed my packing as if nothing were amiss, but I handed off the last few gowns to Mildred with a vague direction or two, then breezed downstairs after him.
Mr. Darcy looked furious. I could only hear half what he said, because most of his words were brusque and spoken directly to the rider. He kept looking in consternation to the freshly opened letter in his hand and then scowling with apparent disgust. “Wait a moment,” I heard him tell the rider. “I will give you a letter to take to the barracks.”
He turned for the stairs, his expression stormy. Any sensible girl would have slipped back to her room, but I remained there where he must pass by. He slowed fractionally, offered me a warm if perfunctory greeting, and then went on. I winced as I heard his thunderous footfalls on the stairs, and I decided I was very glad I was not Lieutenant George Wickham at that moment.
I heard no more of the incident. Within an hour, Uncle Gardiner and Mr. Bingley had the carriage at the front of the inn and our bags were being carried down. Mr. Darcy had broken his fast with us, but he lingered strangely. He did not join in our conversation, nor did he appear to be dressed for travel. His eyes followed my movements, and when I had an opportunity to ask him if aught was amiss, he looked conscious and remained silent.
I attended another moment until Mr. Bingley went to settle matters with the innkeeper and Uncle Gardiner started for the carriage. There was no need to ask—Mr. Darcy had been waiting to speak. “I do not depart today,” he said quietly. “I received the letter I was awaiting from London, and matters were worse than I had anticipated.”
He was not inclined to speak more, and I did not press. “Then I will hope for some satisfactory conclusion,” I replied. “We shall be looking for you in Meryton. Mr. Bingley has spoken of hosting a ball when we all return, just before the wedding.”
Mr. Darcy smiled at this. “In that case, I would ask for the first set, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Oh, no, I cannot possibly. Pray, speak for the supper set, so I may have someone interesting to talk to during the meal.”
“The supper set it is, then. Safe journey, Miss Elizabeth.” He lifted my gloved hand and kissed my fingers, just as Mama said all the finest suitors must do. What she had not told me was how I would feel his breath, even through the kid leather, or how the warmth of his hand and lips would rise to my throat and cheeks. I think I managed to properly bid my adieu, but it might have been more of a gasped farewell.
A few moments later, we were in the carriage, but I was gazing out the window at the gentleman outside the inn until he was out of sight. We had not gone a hundred paces before the entire city erupted around us.
“Good heavens,” cried Mr. Bingley. “They’ve set Larkin’s Mill on fire!”
My uncle was wedging himself in the door of the carriage, as if he might keep the Luddites from harassing us. “I thought the colonel assured you there would be no more trouble!”
Mr. Bingley glanced helplessly to Jane. “It appears he was wrong. Thomas!” He knocked on the roof of the carriage and put his head close to the window to speak to his driver. “Put up a good pace, man, and take us from the streets!”
“We canna’ move, sir,” protested the driver. “They’ve blocked the street with carts. There be no’but the canal.”
“But we must go somewhere,” Uncle Gardiner insisted. “We cannot have the ladies here on the street.”
Mr. Bingley’s expression looked desperate as he reached for Jane’s hand. “I will not permit any harm to come to you,” he promised her, but I believe even she could see that he had no idea how to keep his word.
At that moment, the door to the carriage jerked open. My uncle, nearest the door, moved to block the intruder, but it was Mr. Darcy. “Hurry!” he barked. “They have not yet filled the Lower Mill Street. There is still a chance, before they are brave enough to accost the carriage.”
“Surely they would not,” Mr. Bingley answered in a shaken voice. “They have never done harm to persons.”
“Are you willing to risk Miss Bennet’s safety on that hope?” Mr. Darcy demanded. Without waiting for Mr. Bingley’s answer, Mr. Darcy reached beyond my uncle to take my hand. “Miss Elizabeth, we must go.”
I looked to my uncle’s startled face, the way his eyes widened when I clasped Mr. Darcy’s hand. “Come, Uncle,” I pleaded with him. “I mean to follow Mr. Darcy.”
There was little room for proper steps and I had no intention of releasing Mr. Darcy’s hand, so I fairly tumbled from the carriage into his waiting arms. The others followed, and in another breath, we were speeding along the cobblestones at a most indecorous pace. Mr. Darcy still held my hand close to his breast pocket, and for a moment, I could have fancied that we were lovers stealing away for a bit of frolic… until the first stone struck Mr. Bingley behind us.
“Egad!” he cried out as poor Jane shrieked in terror beside him. “Darcy, we must shelter somewhere!”
Mr. Darcy stopped and looked back as a flood of red-coated officers began to give chase to the rioters on the cross street. “There, that will buy us a moment. They will empty the mills now and return to their homes.”
“Then let us lock ourselves into my factory until the fuss is over! It is just on the next street.”
Mr. Darcy looked at me, and when I nodded, he tucked my hand close under his arm once more. “Lead the way, Bingley.”
16
The factory was abandoned when we arrived, just as Mr. Darcy had expected. The doors even stood open, and Mr. Phipps was nowhere about. Mr. Bingley swung closed the great front door, and then we rushed to the window to look out on the street. When our faces appeared, the rioters saw us. One brash youth stooped for a rock, and I felt Mr. Darcy pulling me to his chest, away from the window, just before the glass shattered.
“That was very nearly Lizzy’s head!” my uncle cried. “Mr. Bingley, I thought your workers had no real grievances with you.”
“It is not the masters, but the machines themselves they wish to break,” Mr. Bingley answered in a pained voice.
“And the masters own the machines,” Mr. Darcy clipped. “We ha
d best move to the rear of the building, and hopefully no one will note our presence.”
The others turned and fled, but Mr. Darcy restrained me. “Elizabeth, do you hear anything peculiar?”
I rounded on him, my eyes wide. Peculiar was the way he said my name so intimately. Peculiar was the rising warmth in my breast, the way I wished to step into his embrace.
Peculiar… was the arrhythmical sound from the steam engine.
“What is that?” I asked, but there was no need. Someone had tampered with the boiler.
“We must call the others back. Bingley! Mr. Gardiner!”
Their voices had already vanished from our hearing—either out into the safety of the gated yard, or up to the second floor. I took up the call and kept listening for them as Mr. Darcy swept close to the window and chanced a look through the glass. Evidently, what he saw persuaded him to try the door, and I stood close behind him as he lifted the bar.
Three militia men were charging by, and one of them stopped—one who was all too familiar.
“Wickham!” Mr. Darcy called. “The boiler here is set to blow. Help me get everyone to safety!”
Mr. Wickham’s face hardened. “Safety, is it? I should say it’s the first you knew of real danger, Darcy. Serve you right, you who would threaten a man with debtor’s prison instead of helping him.”
“Locking you in prison would be the best help to be had!” Mr. Darcy retorted. “Five thousand pounds in debt? At least then you would not be defrauding honest shopkeepers and defiling their daughters.”
Mr. Wickham looked to his left and a strange smile grew. “I still have Georgiana’s letters, you know.”
“And with so much debt to your name, everyone would count you a fraud. Good heavens, man, this boiler is about to explode! Call for help and clear the area!”
Mr. Wickham did turn and did raise his voice… the only trouble was that he called the rioters. “Look here! This is another of those who brought these machines you hate. He would design more if he could!”
His words had the desired effect. A dozen or so outraged workers stormed toward us with angry shouts as Mr. Wickham stepped away with a smirk. “Adieu, Darcy.”
We needed no words—we both reached for the door and I leaned against it while Mr. Darcy dropped the bar. “Hopefully if they cannot get to us, they will depart on our own,” he growled. However, the shouting outside did not die away.
“How do we escape? My uncle and Jane—did they go out through the yard?”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “I believe so. They would have heard us otherwise.”
“But we must be certain!”
His expression froze and his eyes drifted upward in thought. “Elizabeth, go out to the yard. Do not look for anyone! Get to safety—go now!”
“And what will you do?”
He set his teeth and his fists clenched. “Prevent an explosion.”
He started away, but I dragged at his hand. “You will be killed! Come, let us find the others and get to safety!”
“The building is surrounded, Elizabeth. Not only are we in danger, but so is everyone outside. If the yard gates are still locked, you will be safe there.” He looked for one lingering second, then pulled me to his chest.
“Please listen to me, you glorious, headstrong woman. Just this once, if never again.” He leaned down and grazed his lips over mine, his caress sweet and warm. He cupped my cheeks in his hands and I tipped my chin up, longing for just another taste. He brushed his thumb over my lip and drew back. “I will kiss you after this is over, Elizabeth. Go!” He turned and rushed toward the boiler room.
Curse my stubborn head. I followed him.
I could see the problem at once. One of them, anyway. Mr. Darcy stood before the firebox, his hands spread helplessly as he evaluated matters. There was an ominous popping noise from the boiler itself, and the firebox below roared in irregular bellowings and groanings. Someone knew just how to destroy it, and it would not be long…
Mr. Darcy reached for a water bucket to refill the nearly empty boiler, but I leapt on his shoulders from behind. “No! You will only hasten the explosion!”
“Elizabeth!” He turned to look over his shoulder. “I told you to get to safety.”
“And it is a very good thing I did not! It would be like a boiling kettle—you cannot add more water when the crown sheet is overheated. Look to the fire box!”
I could see that he wished to send me away, to blow off some steam of his own in response to my defiance, but he pulled on the engineer’s gloves. “The damper has been blocked. Hear the bursting? I fear if I open the door, the rush of air will set off another kind of explosion.”
I looked over my head above the tank. The governor valve! Without a word, I hastened up a ladder built for inspection. The valve assembly was a pair of round weights, affixed to a rotating spindle. The more steam pressure from below, the faster the weights spun, which, in turn, opened the valve to reduce the pressure. The entire system was designed to keep the pressure consistent, if it was adjusted properly.
“Mr. Darcy!” I cried from the ladder. “I found out why the lathes are skipping!”
He had the door to the firebox cracked open and was cautiously allowing a little airflow. “Not now, Elizabeth!”
“But do you not see? Someone tampered with it long ago, allowing too much pressure to build before the valve would open properly. When it did, it all came in a rush and the pressure would drop too quickly. And today with the firebox—”
“Can you open it?”
I grimaced and tested the adjustment bolt with my fingers. It was tight, but not as tight as it should have been, and I had not spent so many tedious hours at my embroidery for nothing. Slowly, I was able to loosen the bolt. The spinning weights snapped the sliding cuff up, the valve opened, and steam began venting out.
Mr. Darcy had the fire door fully open now, and a shovel in his hand with which he was trying to dump some of the burning coal into a fire bucket. “Elizabeth, it is not enough. We must go!” he called.
I leaped down behind the great wheel of the engine and he dropped the shovel to wrap an arm behind me. “Run,” he commanded in my ear.
The back door loomed, the yard beyond promising safety—if we could reach it. Mr. Darcy pushed me ahead of himself, and then we dashed behind an outcropping of the brick wall, only to find there was nowhere else to go. He had just enough time to throw his body over mine before the roof of the factory exploded.
17
“Darcy? Darcy! Thank God, man. Are you both well?”
Mr. Darcy’s weight stirred above me when we heard Mr. Bingley’s voice from the far end of the yard, but I, somewhat dazed and entirely languorous, drew him back for another kiss. And another. I even tangled my fingers in his hair, covered in dust and bits of mortar. We were both showered in debris, but whole, alive, and unscathed. Except for my heart, which was engulfed in flames and a hopeless loss.
“Lizzy!” Uncle Gardiner cried in relief. “Thank heavens you are… Lizzy! What the devil is going on here?”
I sighed and permitted my partner to raise himself. Mr. Darcy straightened, his countenance quite red, and he helped me to my feet.
Mr. Bingley was laughing. “Darcy, I believe you will have to accept my invitation to Hertfordshire now. Mr. Bennet will want to meet you.” Jane giggled behind her hand, her cheeks as pink as mine must have been.
Mr. Darcy looked to me with a roguish expression. “That was some kiss,” he murmured. “Sorry about your factory, Bingley.”
“It was a jolly good thing no one was inside. We thought you were just behind us. What in blazes made you turn back?”
I cleared my throat. “We found something.”
My uncle arched a brow. “Found something?”
Mr. Darcy caught my hand. “The thing I had been searching for all along.”
Lieutenant George Wickham left Birmingham the next day in shackles. “I expect he will be quartered on a prison hulk until his court martial,”
Mr. Darcy said when he returned from speaking with the colonel.
“Serve him right!” Mr. Bingley exclaimed. “He would have got all those rioters killed in the blast, had you not closed the door in time. You must have delayed the explosion some minutes—long enough for everyone to move from the area.”
“What of your factory?” my uncle asked. “’Tis a shame to let it go to ruin.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Bingley sighed. “The building and the works were insured, so I shall see no loss there. I am sorry for the lost jobs, but no one was killed, and there is plenty of work elsewhere. Anyway, I have been wondering if I would not prefer instead to purchase an estate instead of rebuilding. I could offer work for farmers just as easily as factory lads.”
“There is a fine estate for sale in Derbyshire,” Mr. Darcy suggested. “I believe Miss Bennet would approve of the region.”
“It would also boast the advantage of being near her sister,” my uncle added with a sly wink.
Mr. Darcy grinned.
And so, it was settled. Three and a half weeks later, Jane and I each took one of my father’s arms and walked down the long aisle. William, as I had learned to call him, stood waiting, and within a few moments, his name was inked beside mine in the pages of eternity. As soon as we signed the register, Mama declared loudly, “Thank goodness that is done. I feared Lizzy would open her mouth and run him off in search of a more biddable girl!”
When we retired to our own carriage, however, my William leaned close and kissed my ear. “More biddable, your mother says. Does she not know why I fell in love with you?”
“Why did you fall in love with me, William?”
He pulled back and drew out a book that had been tucked beside the cushions. Opening the page, his finger fell on a familiar sketch—completed and embellished now with loving detail. “There. Do you see this woman? She is the only woman in the world who would smear grease on her cheek and tinker with things she ought to leave alone. Who else would gaze at me with those fine eyes and argue with me over engineering schematics? What other woman would charge up to a doomed steam engine and risk herself to save another? That is why I fell in love with you. But I am more curious why you fell for me.”