by Jennifer Joy
He nodded, his eyebrows furrowed.
Since she had raised the subject, she might as well ask his opinion. “What do you suppose happened to make everyone so ill?” As much as she had warmed to the idea, she did not think Miss Bingley was responsible. The lady was fickle-minded, but she was not stupid. Nor was Elizabeth so fanciful she would cry poison when there could be another more reasonable explanation.
“It was most likely the preserves. Consuming improperly prepared food is no better than imbibing poison.”
“Really?” Poisoned preserves? Perhaps she should pay more attention to her initial impressions.
Mr. Darcy said impassively, “Most preserves purchased at the shops contain sulfate of copper. A gentleman interested in science has studied its effect on individuals after ingestion. He claims it is poisonous.”
“I wonder at your knowledge of poisons, sir.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He wrote a pamphlet on the subject, and I like to read,” he replied.
“As do I, but it has never occurred to me to read about poisons. Is that a common subject of study among gentlemen?”
He did not bat an eyelid. “An estate cannot run smoothly if the residents and animals are always sick.”
“A poisonous herb in the grass, I accept, but that does not explain how you could link poison to a jar of preserves.” Elizabeth realized how argumentative she sounded. Mr. Darcy could read whatever he chose. Who was she to question him?
He did not seem to take offense. Calmly, he explained, “Bingley and his household are not the first to suffer. I travel extensively and have met with several people who have been adversely affected by what appears to be a harmless delicacy. One elderly gentleman in particular, a Mr. Woodhouse from Highbury, refuses to serve them at his table. It was because of him I chose to read more on the subject to satisfy my curiosity.”
For the second time since her arrival at Netherfield, Elizabeth wished she had availed herself of her father’s medicinal books. She had not known what she was missing.
“What are you currently reading?” Mr. Darcy’s question was so unexpected, Elizabeth felt as if she had been knocked off balance.
He nodded at her hands. She still held the two books she had selected for Jane.
“Oh, just some poetry for Jane. I am reading the latest published work of Mr. John Pinkerton.” Taking a deep breath to recite the long title, she added, “A General Collection of the Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips twitched. “Impressive title. Are you enjoying it?”
“More than most, I suspect, not having been to any of the places he writes about. I find the author’s description of Derbyshire and the Peak District thorough enough to form a picture of it in my mind.” A picture she would have to wait a year to see in reality.
“You have not been to Derbyshire?”
She looked down at her hands. “I was supposed to travel there with my aunt and uncle this summer — my aunt grew up there — but the trip has been postponed.”
Mr. Darcy leaned forward. “Where did she grow up?”
“A village called Lambton. Do you know it?”
He smiled. “My estate is near Lambton, along the edge of the Peak District.”
Elizabeth’s heart raced. Questions she had reserved for her aunt tumbled off her tongue. “Is it as lovely as my aunt has described? As I read about in Mr. Pinkerton’s book? Is it true that England’s largest natural cave is there? Does it make the strange sounds Mr. Pinkerton claims? Are there caverns with a unique blue and yellow mineral they call Blue John and make jewelry with? Did they really export it to France before the war? Are the gritstones as coarse as I have read about at the escarpment at Stanage? Oh, how I would like to see it for myself!”
Mr. Darcy pulled the compass out of his waistcoat pocket, moving it around in his hand and rubbing his thumb over the casing as he spoke. “It is a place you will forever carry in your most pleasant memories. Sweeping dales tucked under a blanket of velvety green grass. Craggy hills the more adventurous can climb.” He nodded at her and continued, his voice softening as he spoke. “Peat-covered moorlands with henges cropping out of nowhere, as if they had been dropped from the sky. Limestone dales and wild woodlands, shimmering lakes and towering tors.” Mr. Darcy’s gaze fixed dreamily out of the window, his grip tightening around his compass. “And at its edge, proudly standing along the east bank of the River Derwent is Pemberley. Backed by dense woodland and rocky hills that rise to heather moorlands and surrounded by an immaculate parkland with terraces, ponds, and gardens, it is my vision of beauty and perfection. It is a place I am honored to call my home.”
Elizabeth did not realize she had closed her eyes until Mr. Darcy’s silence reminded her to open them. His vivid description had brought Mr. Pinkerton’s book to life, and the longing to see such wonders for herself burned within her. She recognized the same yearning in Mr. Darcy. “You miss it. How long have you been away?”
“Too long.” His reserve returned, his tone cold.
“Then, why are you here? Why do you not return to Pemberley?”
He winced. “I ought to see how Bingley is faring. Pray excuse me,” he said as he stood, and with a curt bow, he withdrew from the library without a book.
Darcy could have talked with Miss Elizabeth for hours, but he had already revealed too much of himself. She understood him well enough to question his motives, and the only explanation which would satisfy her — the truth — was forbidden.
He closed his eyes, the hint of her jasmine scent lingering in his senses.
There had been so much more he wanted to tell her. How the agent disguised as Bingley’s footman had helped him determine the source of the household’s malady. That Darcy had not endangered his friends to Sir William’s retaliation as he had feared. That the reason he had been dressed down to his shirt the night before was because he had found a cat with its face stuffed inside the empty jar, licking the residue from the corners and covering its coat with the poisonous preserves. In typical cat fashion, the feline showed its appreciation for Darcy’s extrication by vomiting all over his waistcoat and cravat. Not wishing to subject Wilson to the loathsome task, Darcy had chucked the offending items in the kitchen fire. His mistake had been to meet Miss Elizabeth in the hall when he ought to have stayed in his bedchamber. He had crossed his arms over his chest more out of a desire to hide the scent of cat vomit than a sense of modesty.
Darcy wanted to tell her not to call at the Lucases, but he had no right to make demands when he could give no explanation. And Miss Elizabeth would require one. Rightly so.
He wanted to keep his distance as he had done all morning. Miss Elizabeth’s conversation, so honest and open and refreshing, had charmed him wholly. He had been wise to be cautious. Her rapid fire questions about Derbyshire, her slender fingers gripping the arms of her chair, her dark lashes splayed over her flushed cheeks, her lips parted in concentration on his every word, and the sparkle in her eager eyes as she listened to him describe the place he most loved — his home — were memories from which he had no inclination to part … when that was precisely what he must do.
Chapter 12
After a difficult afternoon, Jane slept soundly through the night. Whatever evil had afflicted her had finally abated, leaving her weak and in need of rest.
Having stayed up with Jane so that Emily might sleep, Elizabeth, too, was tired. More than that, though, she was restless.
So, when the following morning dawned and Emily took over as nurse, Elizabeth donned her riding habit (for the warmth, nothing more) and slipped away from Netherfield Park for some much needed fresh air and a dose of Charlotte’s good sense. She would look at the horses. That was all.
Unless her father had decided not to speak with Sir William after all…
Since the assembly, Elizabeth had been afraid to ask Papa directly lest he forbid her from riding again. She had not had the opportunity to as
k Sir William. She could have asked George or Charlotte, but Elizabeth had not wanted them to know anything was untoward. They would have felt guilty when she had been the one who had assumed nobody would be at the top of the knoll.
Elizabeth grasped at justifications as though they were straw, convincing herself that her father had not meant what he had said.
It took Elizabeth longer to reach Lucas Lodge from Netherfield Park than it did to walk from Longbourn, but she arrived at the usual time for her and Charlotte’s ride. Only, this morning, there was no one to greet her when she arrived at the stables.
She had not come for five days. Had that been too long? Had Charlotte already left? Or was she riding later in the morning? Had she quit riding altogether? Had she quit out of undeserved guilt because Papa had spoken with Sir William? Each suggestion alarming her more, Elizabeth tapped her fingernail nervously against her brooch and waited outside of the building until Joe walked past.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” the stable boy said, looking nervously over his shoulder.
“Good morning, Joe. Is Miss Lucas well?”
George stepped out from the shadows, and the boy scurried off. “Miss Elizabeth, I am surprised to see you here. Did you not receive Charlotte’s message?”
Elizabeth’s heartbeat pulsed in her ears. “She is well, I pray?”
“She is. She only had some news to share with you.”
News? Good or bad? Clutching her hands together, Elizabeth said, “Jane took ill at Netherfield, and I have been caring for her. She is improved this morning, and I have been trapped indoors for too long. I had hoped to join Charlotte for a few minutes before returning to the sickroom.” If her father had spoken with Sir William, she would find out now. She held her breath, hoping.
George nudged a piece of straw with the toe of his boot. “I am sorry to hear of Miss Bennet’s illness, but I am pleased to hear she is out of danger.” He ran his hand through his hair and kicked a clod of dirt. “I hate to add to your troubles when you have been caring for your sister, but since you did not get Charlotte’s message yesterday, I will have to tell you.”
Dread twisted Elizabeth’s stomach. Her father had meant his threat. “It is bad news.”
“It is for you, though I hope you will be happy for Charlotte. Father engaged a dancing master, and Charlotte has decided to give her full attention to her lessons rather than riding in the morning.”
No sooner had hope sparked within Elizabeth than confusion damped it. She shook her head.
Charlotte loved to ride. She would not ignore her favored activity in lieu of dancing unless there was much more to the story than what George implied — something that had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s father. “Charlotte decided this?” she asked.
“Yes. As you must know, she did not make the decision easily, and it was with great regret she penned the message for you yesterday.”
Surely, it was only temporary. “How long?”
George kicked at the straw again. “Indefinitely, if our father has anything to do with it. Charlotte is to continue with music and language lessons after this.”
Elizabeth could not think of a worse punishment. A horrible explanation arose in Elizabeth’s mind. “She is not in trouble because of me, is she? My father said he intended to speak with Sir William about my accident, but Charlotte was not at fault. Not in the least—”
George held up his hand, shaking his head. “No. This has nothing to do with you, Miss Elizabeth. I would be the first to know if Mr. Bennet forbade your visits to our stables, and I would be quick to comply with his wishes.”
Her father must have reconsidered!
Elizabeth’s joy was short-lived. George continued, “Charlotte is not being punished. Our father merely wishes for her to add to her accomplishments so that she might… Well, you know.”
“I see,” Elizabeth mumbled. Now that her own concern had cleared her mind, she understood fully. Charlotte felt the pressure to marry well, and Sir William was doing what he could to raise her chance of making a better match.
Elizabeth’s heart rebelled for her friend. Charlotte deserved so much better. Elizabeth herself could never be presumed upon to marry a gentleman who only saw her as a decoration who would reflect well on him through her superb display of talents. Why could a gentleman not simply admire a lady for herself — for her inner qualities? Must she also perform like a puppet, controlled by a society who cared nothing for her? Could she have nothing of her own to inspire passion and fuel her curiosities? Must she endure a lifetime of suppression and ennui?
Perhaps Charlotte could. Many ladies did. But Elizabeth could not stomach it. How grateful she was that her father, despite the limits he imposed, loved her enough to reconsider taking away the one freedom that fed her soul. She could still ride. Charlotte would want her to as would Mercer, who had difficulty ensuring that all of his charges received the exercise they required for their health.
“I do not suppose any of your horses require some exercise? I would be happy to help,” she offered. It was too early to call on Charlotte, but she resolved to do so as soon as she could steal away from Jane’s side during calling hours.
George’s gaze had been fixed on the ground, but he finally looked up. Such sadness radiated from him, Elizabeth’s eyes prickled and burned. She understood, then, that George had more bad news to deliver. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around her waist, lifting one hand to run her fingers over the familiar stones on her brooch and waiting for him to speak.
“I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth. Our father does not wish to receive visitors at the stables any more. Please understand it is nothing against you. He has hired a new trainer and does not wish for any disturbances among the horses.”
Elizabeth had braced herself for disappointment, but her heart ached all the same.
“I see,” she muttered, her tongue thick and her voice a weak whisper.
“I am sorry. Charlotte enjoyed your company, and Mercer will miss seeing you. We all will. I wish you could have read Charlotte’s note instead of hearing about this from me. She would have known better how to tell you.”
This truly was goodbye. No more horses. No more riding. No more freedom.
Elizabeth needed to leave, but her feet refused to budge.
“Mercer is still here?” she asked, blinking furiously so she would not make George feel worse than he already must by witnessing her cry.
“Yes. The new trainer is here to help him, not replace him. Mr. Robson trains racehorses.”
“Mr. Robson?” Elizabeth felt foolish for repeating George, but once she left she would have no more reason for ever coming back to the stables unless Charlotte invited her … and it seemed that Sir William had his reasons for keeping her away.
“Mr. Robert Robson. You have probably read his name in the papers,” George said with a confusing mixture of pride and concern.
What was going on at Lucas Lodge stables? Elizabeth felt like her world had been tossed on its head, and when she finally dismissed herself to walk away, she was not certain which direction she should go. The path blurred no matter how many times she rubbed her eyes.
As much as Darcy enjoyed Miss Elizabeth’s company in his dreams, he was more determined than before to ensure that was where their acquaintance remained. In the confines of his dreams, in the safety of his thoughts.
Such was Darcy’s plan until he heard steps in the hall. He did not need to peek outside his bedchamber to know it was her. She had a light, rhythmic step he would recognize anywhere.
He listened until her footsteps faded, trying to determine her direction, trying to convince himself it was nothing. But when he heard the front door creak to a close, and he confirmed with a glance out of the window that she was walking unattended, Darcy felt obliged to ensure her safety. Did she not know these were dangerous times? What if she called at the Lucases? What if she endangered her life when he could have prevented it?
Darcy’s irritation at Miss
Elizabeth’s carelessness increased as he mounted his horse and rode in search of her. She could not have gone too far.
What was she thinking walking without company for protection? Was she so complacent, she believed herself immune to the evils of the world?
He found her near Lucas Lodge, but if she meant to return to Netherfield Park or to Longbourn, she was walking in the wrong direction.
Gritting his teeth in agitation, Darcy closed the distance between them until a sound stopped him cold. Miss Elizabeth wept.
His gut knotted. Troublesome storm clouds did not belong near her when she was the sunshine.
Slipping down from his saddle, his anger forgotten, he reached her just as her foot caught against the ground and she lurched forward.
“Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed, twisting in his arms to wipe her eyes and hide her face.
An overwhelming desire to pull Miss Elizabeth closer, to cradle her in his arms until her tears subsided, startled Darcy to his senses. Releasing his hold on her, he pushed his handkerchief into her hand, unsure what to say but wanting to make it better.
“…something in my eye…” she mumbled.
“I suspected as much,” he agreed.
She made quick work of drying her face. When she finally turned to face him, she handed his handkerchief back with a weak smile.
Her self-possession filled Darcy with something he could not define nor adequately describe. It stirred him, and more than anything, he wished to restore her humor. There was little harm in that. Right? His mind argued that he was playing with fire, but his heart insisted he was behaving as a gentleman ought. He prided himself in acting like a gentleman. His heart won.
Darcy returned her smile. “The fields are dusty. You may need it again.”
She folded the handkerchief back into a square and held it out to him, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, but I am better now.”