Page 56 of A Matter of Murder
“It’s all right,” Bingley said. “We’ll be there in a minute, thank you.”
The groom urged the horses forward to park closer to the entrance, and Bingley turned to Darcy. “Are you all right? You’re awfully jumpy today.”
“I slept terribly,” Darcy said, which wasn’t a lie—it just wasn’t the reason for his jumpiness.
“Is there anything—”
Darcy shook his head. “Just my own thoughts keeping me awake.”
“The case?”
Darcy nodded, but it wasn’t quite the truth.
Something Darcy had never admitted to anyone, not even Lizzie, was that Lady Catherinescaredhim. It wasn’t just that she was a criminal—although that was the major concern—but that she’d proven herself willing to go to extreme lengths. And she had tracked them here, to Netherfield, which suggested she was not far off. With the chaos of preparations for the ball underway, who was to say she couldn’t just slip into Netherfield Park and find Lizzie? And then what? Maybe she wouldn’t kill Lizzie... but what sort of havoc would she wreak in pursuit of what she wanted?
Bingley attempted a change of subject. “Have you discovered anything useful in the registers yet?”
“No,” Darcy said, feeling the weight of that word. “Not yet, anyway. But we’ve only had a few hours with them, and there’s still plenty more to read. Mr. Thomas was right—Dr. Fellowes used shorthand indiscriminately. There’s a great deal to decipher still.”
“I have faith in you,” Bingley said.
The two rounded the corner toward the front of the manor where the carriages sat waiting, one of the horses stomping very irritably. Lizzie, Charlotte, and Caroline were already outside while Mr. Bennet stood in the doorway, calling, “We mustn’tbe late, dears!” to the Bennet women still somewhere within the house.
Sally stood not too far from the assembled party, Guy’s leash in hand. Darcy gave her a small nod, which she returned stoically. Darcy wasn’t quite sure what to make of her—was she so stern because she was looking out for her grandparents? Or was she keeping secrets, as Lizzie suspected?
He went to stand next to Lizzie, who was wearing a navy blue dress that looked overly warm for the beautiful summer weather. “You look lovely,” he said in a low voice.
“Thank you,” she said, smoothing her hand across the skirt. “Jane lent it to me. I am afraid I didn’t bring anything appropriate for a funeral. It’s not black, though.”
“No one will fault you for that,” he said.
“I suppose,” Lizzie said. “Even so, it feels disrespectful somehow...”
Darcy suddenly felt a flurry of tiny sharp pains on his head and face. As he looked at Lizzie, a handful of small stones bounced off the shoulder of her navy dress. He looked up to see where they were coming from, and some base instinct took over. He shoved Lizzie aside, and just in time, too—he’d no sooner jumped back himself when a large, heavy object whooshed through the air, slamming into the gravel where he’d been standing only moments earlier.
Everyone cried out, and the horses spooked. The impatient one—Arrow—bolted against his harness, causing the three others to shriek in surprise. The carriage lurched ominously as thegroom struggled to gain control of the animals. Mrs. Bennet, who’d been inside, came rushing out. “What’s going on?”
Darcy found Lizzie first, standing only a stone’s throw away, her expression white and shocked. Charlotte clutched her arm, and they both looked down at the object that had very nearly smashed into Darcy’s skull: a large hunk of masonry that appeared to have fallen from the house. The stone was crumbling and well-worn, and it would have been about the size of Darcy’s head, if it were still intact. But the impact had broken it into three larger pieces and many smaller chunks, which now lay strewn about the gravel at their feet and left no doubt as to what it might have done to their own heads, if not for Darcy’s quick action.
“Is everyone all right?” Bingley asked, rushing forward, panic in his eyes. “Is anyone hurt?”
“No,” Darcy said, feeling rather faint nonetheless. “We moved just in time.”
“The curse,” a voice said. They turned to find a footman, pale as a sheet, standing in front of the open door of one of the carriages. He was staring at the hunk of stone. “It’s the curse.”
“Don’t be absurd, James,” Mr. Grigson said, striding forward to take charge. “It’s an accident, nothing more. We shall clean this up, sir.”
Mr. Grigson leaned forward, and Darcy could tell he was whispering a scolding in the footman’s ear. The young man didn’t seem to care—he looked frightened.
“Mr. Bingley, are you sure my daughter is safe here?”
Lizzie hastened to answer before Bingley. “The curse is only for people who try to leave, Mama. We aren’t going anywhere—just to the church.”
Mrs. Bennet stared at the chunk of masonry, and uncertainty seemed to waver on her face. But then Mr. Bennet came up from behind her and said, “Old houses need repair. Now, we mustn’t be late.”
“Don’t tell me you’re believing in curses now,” Darcy said to Lizzie, coming to take her arm. There was no reason for him to do so, except that he needed to touch her, feel the warmth of her skin and remind himself that she was alive and unharmed.
Lizzie tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow, and he wished they could go one step further and he could wrap her up in his arms and never let go. “Of course not. But...”