Page 13 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

CHAPTER TWELVE

IN THE NICK OF TIME

“ G etting late,” Frost observed. “Don’t know as we’ll be able to see much at this hour.”

Darcy’s imperturbable coachman only spoke the truth and did it without any ill will, but Darcy was irritated, regardless.

He was aware of the lateness of the hour, the dampness of his greatcoat, the comfort of the bed awaiting him at the inn, the fatigue of his sturdy mount, the ineffectiveness of their sources of light.

But it had finally stopped raining, the moon was out providing some illumination, he had a lantern if he needed more, and most of all, he hated to give up, once again admitting failure to Elizabeth.

The look on her face when he had informed her of the other searchers’ decision to drag the river still haunted him.

His own fruitless day had been spent in the few neighbouring villages—he had not gone far, hoping the children would have been spotted had they been in a farmer’s wagon.

If a passing carriage had stopped for them—a notion he found highly unlikely, given the very few hours between when they must have set forth and the time they had been discovered missing, especially taking into account the rural nature of this area—well, he would travel farther tomorrow.

The weight of those tiny miniatures resting in his waistcoat pocket reminded him, relentlessly, of Elizabeth’s agony with every day of waiting.

“There is a folly, a miniature cottage-style folly at Netherfield, hidden from plain view—out of sight of the main house. It occurred to me earlier today that I mentioned nothing of it to the party who searched Netherfield.”

“Morris headed that search. He would have known of it,” replied Frost.

“Yes, he should have looked and probably did.” Darcy had not grilled Morris, however, when he had asked him for the keys that afternoon.

He had known, even then, that he must search himself, no matter the man’s answer.

“Still, what is to prevent the children from hiding from the searchers, and then returning to it? I always thought that any child would think it an ideal playhouse.”

“Not so ideal to live in.”

“Yes.” It would be cold and damp and practically uninhabitable. “Until several months ago, the children resided at this estate. They would know all its secrets, all its hiding places.”

“Then we’d best be quiet hereabouts. Don’t want to send them darting off into the woods.”

“Good point,” Darcy muttered. An excellent one, as a matter of fact.

He would lay money that those children knew every window or door in the place that did not shut tightly or would not lock properly.

All the more reason that the estate ought to be checked again, no matter how thoroughly it had been searched the first time.

He ought to have insisted on accompanying the party who had searched it.

The door of the folly was slightly ajar, but when Darcy entered, it was clear that it was unoccupied. The roof leaked, creating a wide puddle on the stone floor. Plainly, Bingley had not kept up the outbuildings very well…or at all.

“There is nothing to indicate they have ever been here. Let us check the house,” he told his companion.

He felt like a ghost, riding in moonlight towards a past he had tried so hard to forget.

The grounds, however, were startlingly familiar to him still, as if he had ridden here often in his dreams. Any moment now, he felt as though Bingley might come cantering out on a newly purchased steed, laughing, excited, full of his old, vivid enthusiasm.

He remembered now how much he had liked that about him.

When Hurst—a distant cousin—had first introduced them many years before, asking for Darcy’s assistance in guiding his wife’s brother in the purchase or lease of an estate, only dutiful courtesy had made him agree; steering a young pup—and any relation of Mrs Hurst’s—into the intricacies of land dealings was not his idea of amusement.

He had been surprised to find Bingley eager and willing to learn, and intelligent enough to do so.

They had both been keen, by the time he finally reached his majority, to set forth with finding an actual property to lease.

Perhaps, Darcy had even believed, the boy might be a good match for Georgiana someday, as she was so shy, and he so outgoing.

Disappointment for his sister’s sake had been his first emotion, with the realisation that Bingley was deeply infatuated with Miss Jane Bennet.

The boy had been more besotted than he had ever before seen him—which was saying something.

But he had told himself that Bingley was too young—much too young to marry, Darcy had been sure, falling so easily in and out of love as he had a dozen times before.

He cut off this train of thought, of this and everything that had come after.

It was unprofitable to dwell on the blunders of the past.

Still, as he made his careful way across this landscape of the past, on the estate he had always considered Bingley’s, he could not prevent nostalgia filling him, or the thin thread of a grief he could not quite suppress for the man he had once believed to be a dear friend.

They were nearly in sight of the house before he signalled to Frost that they would tether the horses and approach quietly on foot. He went around to the back, finding a servant’s entrance door that Morris had recommended he use, one which was not bolted from within.

It was unlocked.

It should not have been, of course. Had the searchers failed to lock up again once they departed? But no, one of those searchers was Morris himself, the land agent in charge of the property. He would not have forgotten. He looked at Frost, who nodded, obviously thinking the same as Darcy.

Someone was in the house.

They found themselves in the kitchen, a vast chamber with tall windows filtering in silvery moonlight amongst the shadows.

It was easy enough to find a tinderbox, using it to light the small lantern he had brought with him, not wanting to stumble around in the dark looking for candles and thus alerting any intruder.

The two moved silently through the lower floor, hearing nothing beyond the usual creaks and groans of the building and seeing nothing except the sparsely remaining furniture shrouded in holland covers, before ascending the stairs to the next floor.

They had nearly finished searching the space before they heard it—a child’s scream piercing the night.

They both looked up, and as one, raced towards the stairs.

They had no sooner reached the next landing when two children burst from a door leading to the attics, and nearly barrelled into them.

Frost grabbed for one and instinctively, Darcy clutched at the other, who struggled frantically to get free.

“Hold still!” he ordered, setting the lantern down before he dropped it. “We will not hurt you!”

Miss Cassandra Bingley stared back at him with tangled hair and wild eyes. “No! Let me go!”

But it was the boy, from within Frost’s grip, who called out, “Fire! Fire in the attic! We were fetching water!”

Darcy met Frost’s gaze. “Get them out of here!” he ordered, shoving Cassandra at the man before pounding up the stairs.

The attic was already filled with smoke, but he easily made out flames at one end of the chamber.

Not a large fire, not yet. He tripped and fell trying to reach it, his head colliding with the corner of one of the trunks blocking his progress.

Shaking off the injury, he scrambled again to his feet, shoving the detritus of years out of his way.

Tearing off his greatcoat, he threw it over what appeared to be a burning heap of bedding or curtains.

Coughing in the smoke, fumbling now in the darkness, he could only stomp on the coat-swathed pile, hoping that it had covered the flames adequately enough to extinguish them.

Minutes later, Frost came bursting in with a welcome lantern. It was only after they had ensured the fire was smothered completely, and the attic windows had been opened to air out the place, that he asked where the children were.

“They be waiting out front, in the drive.”

Darcy tried to contain his disappointment that Frost had left them unattended.

Wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve, he realised that his coat stank badly of smoke; it might not be salvageable.

My greatcoat certainly is not , he noted, lifting the remnants of scorched fabric high enough to examine it.

The heavy woollen fabric had been so wet, it had at least effectively quenched the flames, but it was likely not even fit for the rag pile now.

“They are probably long gone, those two slippery eels.”

“No. I had the boy swear not to move. The little girl won’t leave him, I reckon. Did ye know you’re bleeding like a stuck pig?”