Page 11 of Chasing Shadows

Dinner at Netherfield was a large party that evening. Only Jane was absent, too feverish to rise, which left Elizabeth alone to meet the household’s guest: Miss Darcy.

The young lady sat opposite her brother, her posture delicate, her eyes lowered more often than raised.

At first glance she was almost forbiddingly shy; but when Colonel Fitzwilliam drew her into conversation, she revealed a gentleness that softened her reserve.

Elizabeth, curious, watched her closely, for she could not help but wonder why Darcy had chosen this moment to bring his sister to Hertfordshire.

After inquiries about Jane's health, introductions were made with due civility. However, it was not until the second course that Georgiana addressed Elizabeth directly, quite startling her.

“You are Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” she asked, her voice low but steady.

Elizabeth inclined her head, a smile curving her lips. “I am.”

Georgiana’s gaze brightened. “My brother spoke of you in his letters.”

Elizabeth stilled, her fork arrested midway to her plate. “Indeed?” she managed.

Her eyes flickered at once to Mr. Darcy, who sat straight-backed, his expression unreadable, though his hand tightened faintly about the stem of his glass.

Letters. What letters? What had he told her?

That she had once defied him at Lucas Lodge?

That he had ridden to Longbourn in haste to warn her family, then stayed under their roof in the shadow of danger?

Did he speak of her with censure, or with—something else?

Elizabeth recovered herself with an effort, smiling once more at Georgiana. “I hope he wrote nothing but what was favourable.”

Georgiana coloured and lowered her gaze, as though uncertain how to reply. Darcy’s countenance betrayed nothing.

The conversation turned then to lighter topics, Colonel Fitzwilliam carrying much of it with his easy manners, Bingley supporting him with cheerful enthusiasm.

Caroline Bingley, however, directed many of her remarks toward Georgiana, her sweetness so exaggerated that Elizabeth could scarcely keep from smiling at the artifice.

After the meal, Elizabeth excused herself to look in upon Jane. She found her sister asleep, her cheeks still flushed but her breathing less troubled. Relieved, she returned downstairs to the drawing room, where the company was gathering around a card table.

“Come, Miss Elizabeth,” cried Miss Bingley with a practised smile. “Will you not join us?”

Elizabeth declared she would rather watch than play.

“Or perhaps you prefer your books to such trifles? Jane has often said how devoted you are to them,” Miss Bingley added, her eyes flicking toward Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth’s own gaze followed, to see Darcy seated apart with a volume of philosophy in his hand. She laughed lightly, realising the barb Miss Bingley intended. “I do read, it is true. But Mary is the great student of our family. My accomplishments are far less diligent.”

Darcy looked up, closing the book upon his finger. “That is unusual. Most young ladies, I believe, read only the gossip bulletins, if they read at all.”

“I can only speak for myself, sir,” Elizabeth replied.

“Pray tell, what do you read?” he asked.

“Everything that catches my fancy, sir.” She moved closer to glance at the title in his hand. It was a treatise she recognised. “For example, I have read the book you now hold.”

Darcy’s brows rose. “You do not say.”

“If you would query me on any point, I will prove it.”

Darcy, with an expression half dubious, half intrigued, asked her several questions from the text. Elizabeth answered each with ease, her wit and clarity leaving no doubt of her knowledge.

“Very impressive indeed.” Darcy said, “I look forward to hearing more of the books you’ve read.”

A faint smile touched Elizabeth’s lips, but it was Georgiana who leaned forward, her voice tentative yet curious. “And what else gives you pleasure, Miss Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth’s expression softened. “The pianoforte. I play a little, though never as often as I might wish.”

“We have that in common,” Georgiana said, her eyes warming.

Darcy added, “Georgiana plays quite impressively, if I may say so. Perhaps, one day soon, I may hear you play together.”

Elizabeth was taken aback by the suggestion, though Georgiana’s face brightened a fraction before her natural shyness veiled it again.

“The pianoforte in the music room has been gathering dust since we came to Netherfield,” Bingley said eagerly. “Surely you both must play tomorrow.”

Caroline Bingley stiffened visibly, her fingers clenching about her cards. “You will not find Georgiana’s talents equalled anywhere. Her playing has been praised by the finest masters in London. I daresay it will put any country performance into the shade.”

“Indeed, no comparison could possibly be made.” Mrs. Hurst nodded in firm agreement.

Elizabeth met their looks with calm composure. “Then I shall be humbled to hear her.”

Conversation faltered for a moment, until Caroline, as if to reclaim the thread, said with feigned solemnity, “This house has seen hardly any excitement of late. One wonders if the neighbourhood will ever recover from these horrid murders that have caused this.”

The ill-timed remark drew a hush over the room. Georgiana started visibly, and Darcy set his book aside at once, his expression hardening. Even Mr. Hurst stirred, clearing his throat with marked significance, as though to suggest such a topic was quite out of place in company.

Colonel Fitzwilliam answered her directly.

“There is little new to report. We pursue every line of inquiry, yet the killer remains at large. Honestly, I wish I could say that he had left the county. But no. He is here still, waiting. Men who strike as he has done do not vanish without finishing their purpose. He has an agenda, and he is likely planning his next move even now.”

Elizabeth felt the hairs at her nape stir, though she forced her countenance to remain calm. Her eyes flickered to Darcy, who had turned at once to his sister.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly but firmly, “that is enough talk of murder for one evening.”

Mr. Hurst, roused at last from his seat, declared with unusual vigour, “Aye, let us stick to our cards. Cards are better company than corpses, I say.”

A ripple of nervous chuckles passed round the table, and the play resumed. Yet Elizabeth saw Georgiana bend her head, her hand twisting lightly in her lap. There was something in her manner—more than simple delicacy. A moodiness, a heaviness Elizabeth could not at once explain.

Cards continued with false cheer, but Elizabeth sat apart, her thoughts restless. She observed Darcy’s measured calm, Georgiana’s unease, and every other person at the table. All the while, the unspoken weight of the murders lingered, casting a pall over even the brightest candlelight.

At length, the hour grew late, and they parted for the night. Elizabeth ascended the stairs with her mind still full as ever, though one thought rose above the rest: Darcy’s sister had known her name from his letters. And that, more than anything, unsettled her than the killer at large.

***

Darcy lay upon his bed, the quiet of his chamber pressing heavy around him. The day had been long, but the hardest part by far had been the duty of receiving Georgiana into Hertfordshire and breaking to her the truth of Wickham’s end.

It had been as he feared. She had wept bitterly at the news, though Wickham had never shown her true regard nor dealt with her honestly.

Georgiana’s heart was too gentle not to grieve for him still, and when she learned he had been murdered, her sobs had deepened.

Darcy had done what he could—he had answered her questions with as much candour as he dared, sparing her the darker particulars, soothing her with assurances that she was safe, and that she need fear nothing while he was near.

Yet even as he comforted her, he wondered whether he had erred in bringing her here at all.

Had he not, in truth, brought her into the very circle of danger?

Was he not pointing the arrow toward her by keeping her so close to himself?

He had no answer, only the conviction that to leave her in London, beyond his protection, would have been worse.

Here, at least, he could watch over her.

Here, if the villain struck, it would be against him first.

The thought, however, brought little peace. He turned upon the coverlet and forced his mind away from that shadow. He tried to find some glimmer of contentment in the day, some small thing to lighten the heaviness in his chest.

And then he thought of Elizabeth Bennet.

He had not expected to see her at Netherfield, and when she entered the dining-room that evening, he had frozen as though the breath had left him.

His mind drifted to their conversation at the card table, her spirited replies, the quickness of her mind when she spoke of books, the steady way she met every remark, never faltering.

In that moment, he had been struck by the likeness between them.

She was strong-minded, unafraid to speak her thoughts, inquisitive—and she read with real purpose, not from idle vanity.

He could not recall meeting any lady quite like her.

Nor could he forget her devotion to her sister. The mere fact that she was there to tend to Jane struck him anew. Was it not the very same impulse that had brought him to bring Georgiana here, to watch over her himself? In Elizabeth, he had glimpsed a spirit that matched his own.

And then there were her eyes. Those fine, dark eyes that discomposed his reason and would not let him look at her without being caught by them.

Even with the shadow of a murderer looming over them all, those eyes unsettled him most of all.

They drew him, troubled him, lingered with him long after he had turned away.

He exhaled slowly, closing his own eyes.

The killer was still abroad, still free, and he must be found.

That thought, grim and unrelenting, pressed itself upon him even as he felt sleep pulling near.

Yet when slumber came at last, it was not danger that filled his mind, but Elizabeth.

Her eyes followed him into the dark, the last image before the night carried him under.