The wheels spun rapidly, their spokes creating the illusion of backward movement as their rims bit into the light snow. One pair followed the other in perfect alignment, creating two single tracks that snaked along the ground behind the carriage.
Something small and round fell and rolled to the side of the path.
The symmetry ended. The left rear wheel wobbled. It gripped the axle at an angle and held for what seemed an impossibly long time. Stop! she wanted to cry. Stop the carriage!
But the driver could not hear her silent plea. The barouche sped on. The wheel flew off. The horses snorted and whinnied in panic. The vehicle tumbled—
Elizabeth jerked awake. Her heart raced as if she’d been running. Her breathing came in short, labored gasps. She lay still a moment, every muscle tensed, until she recognized the dimly lit room as her chamber at Netherfield.
She inhaled a deep breath and slowly released it. Beside her, Darcy slept peacefully, unaware of her disturbed slumber or the howling wind outside. The waning firelight played across his sinewy body, but her mind was too unsettled to take pleasure in studying him.
For the third time tonight, she’d woken from the same nightmare. Vivid images of Jane and Bingley’s accident repeated themselves in eerie detail. Though she hadn’t witnessed the event in person, she’d seen more than enough of it in her dreams. For some reason, however, she never saw the victims, only the vehicle. Considering the driver’s fate, she was grateful for the censorship.
Somewhere in the house, a clock struck two. She rolled to her side and closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. The dream had left her body too restless, her mind too anxious. The accident was over, her sister and brother-in-law were safely recovering, yet a vague sense of dread suffused her.
Something was wrong. Was it Jane? Had her sister suffered worse injuries than Mr. Jones realized? Was she in pain right now?
Elizabeth rose and found her dressing gown. She could not rest until she checked on Jane and assured herself that she was all right. Barefoot, she padded to the door, swung it open silently, and slipped out.
The hallway was deserted; even the servants had long since gone to bed. Most of the wall sconces had been extinguished, leaving just enough light to safely negotiate the passage. She contemplated returning to her room for a candle but decided against it. Best make this a quick errand and return to bed.
She had barely started down the hall when the creak of a door stopped her. She thought at first her own door had been caught by a draft caused by the strong winds outside, but then recalled that it had opened soundlessly for her. No, someone else was up and about. Could it be Jane, seeking something to relieve her own or Bingley’s discomfort?
The noise had seemed to come from downstairs, although the weather made her uncertain. The snow had changed to sleet, which now pelted the windows in an angry barrage. She shivered and pulled her dressing gown about her more tightly as she headed down the staircase.
A faint light crept out of the library, and along with it, the wood-against-wood sound of drawers sliding open. Her fellow nocturnal wanderer must be Bingley, though she wondered what business couldn’t wait until morning. Perhaps he, like herself, suffered a sleepless night and sought to make use of the time.
She would ask him if he left Jane resting comfortably. But as she neared the doorway, she realized Bingley wasn’t in the room at all. Lawrence Kendall sat behind the desk rifling through a pile of papers and ledgers.
She caught the gasp that nearly escaped her and stepped into the shadows. She could still see Kendall, but was, she hoped, hidden from his view.
Unlike her, Kendall was dressed save a neckcloth and coat. His attire suggested to her that this was no impromptu snooping sortie, but a deliberate, planned invasion. He scanned the papers quickly, casting each aside after a few moments’ perusal. The ledgers he also flipped through rapidly, skimming a few pages in front, middle, back. The more records he went through, the more deeply he frowned. “Where is it?” he grumbled. “Where the bloody hell is it?”
He stuffed the papers into their portfolio and shoved it, along with the ledgers, back into one of the desk drawers. He then tried to open another drawer but met resistance. He tugged and rattled the drawer around in its housing, but his efforts yielded only noise. “Damn you, Bingley,” he muttered. “Where’s the key?”
His gaze lit upon a letter opener, which he attempted to use as a lock pick without success. Finally, he pushed himself away from the desk in disgust.
Elizabeth, her heart suddenly pounding, backed away from the library door. Where to go? She couldn’t possibly make it up the stairs before Kendall came out. Her gaze darted about the hall until she spotted the drawing room door standing open.
Grateful for the impulse that had led her to undertake this foolish mission barefoot, she scurried into the drawing room and pressed herself against the wall. Seconds later, Kendall emerged from the library. She held her breath as he mounted the stairs. Not until she heard his footsteps recede into the guest wing did she dare move.
The wind moaned. She wanted to do the same. Should she wake Darcy and tell him what she’d just seen? Would Kendall return tonight with better break-in tools to find what he wanted? Before she proceeded any further, she looked to the top of the staircase to make sure Kendall was indeed gone.
Caroline Parrish met her gaze.
Clad in a gauzy white shift and flickering shadows, she gripped the balcony balustrade as she looked down into the entry hall. Though Elizabeth thought they had made eye contact, Mrs. Parrish seemed insensible to Elizabeth’s presence. She rocked slightly, alternately pushing away from the rail and pulling herself toward it. The weak candlelight prevented Elizabeth from reading her expression closely, but she presented a haunted mien.
Caroline shook her head repeatedly, muttering something. Elizabeth could not discern the words with accuracy from this distance, but she thought she heard “no” more than once.
Was Mrs. Parrish sleepwalking again? Still worse to contemplate, might she finish the act she’d attempted in London by hurling herself onto the marble below?
“Caroline?” Elizabeth stepped forward.
Caroline’s rocking ceased immediately as she caught sight of Elizabeth. She backed away from the rail, wringing her hands.
“Mrs. Parrish, let me take you to your room.” Elizabeth ascended the stairs, but stopped midway when Caroline shook her head. “Caroline,” she said gently. “It’s only me, Mrs. Darcy. Let me help you.”
Caroline stared at Elizabeth a long moment. She slowly raised her left hand, cupped, palm toward herself, as if to beckon. Elizabeth advanced. But then Caroline turned suddenly and fled down the corridor. Her rapid footfalls made no sound.
Elizabeth hurried up the remaining stairs, arriving at the top just in time to see Mrs. Parrish’s door close. She blinked, unsure what to make of the incident. Was encountering Caroline in the corridors to become a nightly ritual? She shuddered as a draft caught the back of her neck. A gust of wind beat against the windows.
She scanned for signs that Lawrence Kendall yet moved about, but saw no one else as she returned to her chamber. With great relief, she closed the door behind her and sagged against it.
“I was about to come looking for you.”
Her hand flew to her chest until she realized the hushed voice beside her belonged to Darcy. She slumped against the door once more and released her breath.
He took her fingers in his and led her back to the bed. The sheets still held his warmth. “I apologize,” he whispered. “I did not mean to startle you. But what errand called you out of our room at this hour? Have you followed Caroline Parrish’s lead and taken up nocturnal wandering?”
“More than you know. I just saw her in the hall.” She nestled against him and described her recent adventure. As she spoke, her muscles relaxed. Mr. Kendall seemed less menacing in the safety of her husband’s embrace.
Darcy, in contrast, tensed as she related the tale. At its c
onclusion, he left her side and slipped into his breeches.
“Where do you go?”
“That man cannot be trusted until morning. I know where Bingley keeps his key. I am going to move the documents in that drawer to a safer location until he can attend to them. Someplace Kendall won’t think to look.”
“Where?”
He kissed her. “Under our mattress.”
Sixteen
“Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself.”
Mrs. Gardiner, writing to Elizabeth,
Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 52
It seemed she had just settled back into slumber when Darcy’s urgent voice penetrated her consciousness. “Elizabeth!”
She burrowed further into the bedclothes.
“Elizabeth!”
This had better be important. “What?” she whispered without opening her eyes.
No response. She rolled to face him and forced her lids open. He lay fast asleep.
She held perfectly still, listening for the voice again. Had she only imagined it? Had Darcy uttered her name in his sleep? Had someone called from the hall? She would have testified under oath that a voice had come from within their chamber—indeed, from right beside her. An unsettling thought gripped her: Was someone else in the room?
She held her breath and peered wide-eyed into the shadows. The wan firelight revealed no other person. Only the sound of sleet yet pelting against the glass disturbed the night.
The voice must have come in a dream. She sighed and curled into a ball, wondering what time it was and whether she was destined to get any rest before dawn. At this rate, she’d appear a sorry sight in the morning. The wind howled, mocking her sleeplessness.
Despite the heavy counterpane and her husband’s proximity, a shiver seized her. The fire sputtered. She lay in bed, the knowledge that she should add a log to the hearth battling reluctance to leave her cocoon to do so.
She forced herself from beneath the blankets. To delay would only permit the room to grow colder. The floor chilled her toes as she neared the fireplace. For a dying flame, the smell of smoke hung strong.
A basket of extra wood stood beside the hearth. As she reached for a log, she blinked back the sleepy haze that clouded her vision. Or at least she tried. But she could not clear her gaze.
Because the smog wasn’t in her head. Nor, a glance revealed, did it come from the fireplace.
Smoky tendrils snaked in beneath the door.
She dropped the log. “Darcy!”
She rushed to the door, tested its panels for heat. Mercifully, her touch met cool wood. “Darcy! I think the house is on fire!”
He was at her side before she finished the words. She tried to yank the door open but he restrained her panicked movements. “Slowly!” Though his command suggested composure, his tone revealed alarm that matched her own.
Together, they cautiously opened the door. Smoke swirled in the hallway. It seemed to come from the room across the hall. Jane and Bingley’s room.
Elizabeth started forward. Darcy stopped her. “Rouse the others and the servants. Send someone to help me but do not follow me in there yourself. Get out of the house.”
Every instinct urged her to run straight to Jane. But she realized it would take stronger arms than hers to help Darcy get the couple to safety, and many hands to keep the blaze from engulfing the house.
She sprinted down the hall and pounded on the next door. “Fire! Wake up! Fire!” Mr. Hurst answered with greater speed than she would ever have thought he possessed.
“Quickly! Go to Bingley’s room and help Darcy!” Without waiting for a response, she crossed to Parrish’s door.
The American answered before she even knocked. “I heard your cry. But I can’t find Caroline—she’s not in our chamber!”
Elizabeth glanced toward the staircase where she’d so recently seen the elusive Mrs. Parrish. There was no sign of Caroline, but she saw that Darcy had already dragged Jane into the hall and gone back for Bingley. Jane wasn’t moving. Dear God, let it be only the laudanum. Hurst slung her over his shoulder while Louisa fluttered around uselessly.
With the door to Bingley’s chamber open, the hallway was rapidly filling with smoke. In just a few minutes more they wouldn’t be able to see a thing. “Ring for the servants while I wake the others,” she said. “Then I will help you look.”
She left the family quarters and dashed up the side staircase. She had no idea who occupied which guest suite, and so just pounded on each door in succession. “Fire! Help!”
Randolph came into the corridor immediately. “What can I do?”
“Go downstairs. See whether Darcy has gotten Jane and Bingley to safety. Then help Mr. Parrish find his wife.”
Lawrence Kendall made no offer of aid, just fled down the steps as fast as his boots could carry him. Mr. Jones had the presence of mind to grab his medical bag. “I have a feeling I’ll be needing this,” he said as they descended the stairs.
When they reached the landing, so much smoke filled the air that she could barely discern the servants who had formed a bucket brigade and already worked to douse the flames. Had Darcy gotten Bingley out yet? And Caroline—where was she? She headed toward the mayhem, but Mr. Jones caught her arm. “Where are you going?”
“I promised Mr. Parrish I’d help him look for his wife.”
“He has probably long since found her. Doubtless, they wait with the others outside. Where you should be.”
“But Darcy—”
“Will vivisect me if I allow you to remain in this house a moment longer. If you must help someone, come with me to attend your sister.”
She did not need further prompting to seek out Jane. Her lungs burned as she and Mr. Jones groped their way down the final flight and across the entry hall. Coughs wracked her, slowing their pace.
At last they reached the door and burst into the night. Icy pellets stung her, rapidly drenching the thin shift she wore. The stone steps froze her bare feet.
The lawn was pandemonium. Servants raced about everywhere. Some of them carried buckets toward the house, while others carried valuables out. She saw no sign of Darcy or the Bingley family.
“Mrs. Darcy, thank heaven!” Her lady’s maid appeared at her side and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, rescuing her from both the elements and indecency. She handed another to Mr. Jones, who also wore only nightclothes. “I’ve been waiting here for you, just a-praying you’d come out soon!” She bent down and slipped a pair of unfamiliar shoes onto Elizabeth’s feet. “I hope these fit—they’re mine. I couldn’t get to your chamber for any of your things.”
“Lucy, I can’t take your shoes from you!” The servant probably had just the one pair.
“Oh, not to worry, madam. One of the men brought me a pair of Wellingtons from the barn. I’m sorry I don’t have a pair for you, too, sir, but there are more boots and blankets in the carriage house. That’s where Mrs. Bingley and the others are gathered.”
Elizabeth gratefully pulled the blanket about her more tightly. “Lucy, you are a godsend. Is Jane all right? What of her husband?”
“I think they’re fine, ma’am. But they sure will be glad to see Mr. Jones.”
The trio made their way to the carriage house with as much haste as the weather allowed. Elizabeth felt sorry for Mr. Jones having to walk through the slush with no shoes, but the apothecary uttered not a single complaint. He did, however, immediately procure some boots when they reached shelter.
To her overwhelming relief, she found Jane and Bingley both conscious. They spoke groggily, the effects of the drug and the accident and fatigue still evident. Coughing spasms seized them as smoke worked its way out of their lungs. But they were alive and safe once more. Mr. Jones moved one of the lanterns to a nearby crate and began to examine his patients for the second time that day.
The Hursts sat on the back of their coach, huddled beneath separate blankets. Mr. Hurst wore a pair of borrowed fishing waders beneath his nightc
lothes, lending him an absurd appearance that Elizabeth wished she were in a better mood to appreciate. Ever the lady, at least in her own mind, Louisa had taken the time to don her dressing gown and a pair of now-soaked slippers before fleeing the house.
“Where is everyone else?” Elizabeth asked. “Where’s Mr. Darcy?”
Mrs. Hurst sneezed and looked about for a handkerchief. Spotting none, nor an appropriate substitute, she self-consciously dabbed at her nose with the corner of the blanket. “After we got Jane and Charles here, he left. I think perhaps he’s helping Mr. Parrish look for Caroline.”
“And Professor Randolph?”
“Also looking for Caroline.”
“Mr. Kendall?”
“Right here, Mrs. Darcy,” boomed a voice from within Kendall’s coach. The gentleman had drawn the curtain across the window. “Thank you for the enquiry. I didn’t know you cared.”
Odious man.
Elizabeth took her sister’s hand. “Dear Jane, what a wretched day you’ve had. First the carriage accident and now this! Have you any idea what happened?”
“No.” A coughing spasm seized her. “I was sleeping so soundly,” she continued when she could speak once more, “that I didn’t even know we were in danger until I woke up and found Mr. Hurst carrying me outside.”
“And I woke up beside her—slung over Darcy’s shoulder,” Bingley said. “Slept right through a fire in my room, but this weather sure is rousing.”
As if in confirmation, Louisa sneezed again. Mr. Jones nodded toward the assorted footwear someone had piled in the corner. “I suggest you trade your slippers for something dry.”
She cast him a look colder than the draft that threatened to extinguish the lanterns. “Servants’ boots? No, thank you.” She shuffled to the doorway, where, with great exertion, she slid one of the doors partly open. Darkness still gripped the sky.
“Does anyone happen to know the time?”
“I think it’s about five, ma’am,” Lucy answered. “Perhaps half-past. Mrs. Nicholls says she was already awake when the bell rung.”
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