Page 16

Netherfield, Road to Meryton, Near the Stone Bridge, Darcy

D arcy rode along the muddy road toward the stone bridge, the early afternoon sun doing little to warm the chill November air.

He had spent the morning trapped in polite conversation with Mrs Bennet and her younger daughters, maintaining rigid composure while they exclaimed over the accident.

Only now had he found an excuse to escape, claiming a need to check on the road clearing efforts.

The chaise still lay on its side, though Bingley’s men had been working since dawn to clear the fallen oak that had caused such destruction.

The massive tree stretched across half the road, its roots torn from the sodden earth by yesterday’s storm.

The workers paused in their labour as he approached, touching their caps in greeting.

He dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the mud as he approached the wreckage.

In the stark afternoon light, the chaise’s elegant frame looked even more grotesquely twisted than it had during last night’s rescue.

The window they had cleared to free Elizabeth gaped like an accusatory eye, its edges still bearing fragments of glass that caught the winter sunlight.

His gloved hand traced the splintered wood where the door had been wrenched in its frame.

How long had she been trapped here, listening to water drip through the seams, before they thought to search?

The memory of her fevered murmuring about being trapped made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

He could almost hear her voice in that wreckage, trembling and half-conscious, calling his name into the dark.

The sound of hooves approaching made him turn. Bingley rode up, looking unusually serious as he surveyed the scene.

“The men think they will have the tree cleared by nightfall,” Bingley said, dismounting to join him. “Though the chaise itself… Miss Bingley will not be pleased about that.”

“No,” Darcy agreed shortly, his eyes still on the window frame. In this clear light, he could see how narrow the opening had been. Elizabeth’s courage in that moment, injured and terrified of heights yet trusting him enough to help her through…

“Jones says Miss Elizabeth is sleeping more deeply now,” Bingley continued carefully. “Though she’s still to awake.” He watched Darcy’s reaction carefully

Darcy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The afternoon sun revealed dark stains on the leather cushions visible through the window - blood from where she had bitten her lip in pain or fear. His fingers tightened on his riding crop.

“You know,” Bingley said after a moment, his tone deliberately casual, “I have never seen you give up your rooms before.”

“It was a matter of pride,” Darcy replied coolly. “What gentleman would insist on his own comfort while a lady suffered?” His tone suggested the question answered itself - no man of proper breeding would do otherwise.

Bingley nodded, though something in his expression suggested he was not entirely convinced by this perfectly proper explanation.

Darcy mounted his horse in a single fluid motion. “We should return. Your sister will expect us for dinner.”

But as they rode back toward Netherfield, his mind kept returning to Elizabeth’s pale face, to the trust in her eyes as he helped her from the wreckage.

No amount of rigid self-control could fully suppress the truth he had acknowledged during his sleepless night of how important Elizabeth Bennet had become to him.

The real question was what he intended to do about it.

* * *

Netherfield - Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Elizabeth

Elizabeth had managed to stay awake through most of the afternoon, though she still felt oddly disconnected from her surroundings.

Jane sat beside her, reading aloud from one of the books she’d found on the bedside table.

Elizabeth found herself studying the room’s details rather than following the story - the precise arrangement of everything, the quality of the furnishings, the rows of leather-bound volumes that spoke of their owner’s scholarly tastes.

The door opened to admit Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, who swept in with elaborate concern. Mrs Hurst settled herself elegantly on the chair near the window while Miss Bingley moved closer to the bed.

“Dear Jane, dear Miss Eliza!” Miss Bingley exclaimed. “How fortunate to find you both awake. Though Jane, you really should be resting yourself. ”

“Indeed,” Mrs Hurst agreed, arranging her skirts. “You’re looking quite pale, Jane dear.”

“I am quite well,” Jane assured them, marking their place in the book. “And Lizzy is much improved today.”

“And how are you feeling, dear Miss Eliza?” Miss Bingley’s solicitous tone did not quite match her sharp assessment of Elizabeth’s dishevelled appearance against the fine linens.

Mrs Hurst’s gaze travelled around the room, taking in every detail with marked interest. “Better, I trust? Mr Jones was most encouraging about moving you to more… suitable quarters once you have recovered sufficient strength.”

“Your concern is most kind,” Elizabeth replied. “Though I understand from Jane that I am not to be moved just yet.”

“Indeed,” Miss Bingley said, her lips tightening slightly. “Mr Jones was most particular about that point, though I am sure the current arrangements are most… inconvenient for some parties.”

Mrs Hurst’s eyes lingered meaningfully on the writing desk with its neat stacks of correspondence. “Such a pleasant room,” she observed. “Though rather more… private than our usual guest rooms.”

“The fire draws particularly well,” Jane said softly, her gentle tone carrying a hint of reproach at their visitors’ barely veiled suggestions.

Elizabeth glanced between them, sensing some undercurrent to the conversation that she was too tired to fully grasp.

She was still too weak to properly fence with Miss Bingley’s particular brand of subtle warfare, but she could not help wondering why Miss Bingley seemed so agitated about this specific room.

“Oh!” Mrs Hurst exclaimed suddenly, her attention caught by something on the writing desk. “Caroline, is that not the same edition we admired at Pemberley last summer?”

“Indeed,” Miss Bingley replied, moving to examine the volume in question. “Such elegant binding. Though I would hardly expect anything less. ”

Elizabeth followed their gazes to the leather-bound book, wondering at their particular interest in such a common item. Everything in the room spoke of refined taste and careful organisation, but surely that was true of all Netherfield’s rooms?

“And such interesting choices of reading material,” Miss Bingley continued, lifting another volume from beside Elizabeth’s bed. “Though perhaps a bit… advanced for casual readers.”

“I was finding it quite engaging,” Elizabeth said, unable to resist the implied slight to her understanding. “The commentary on Tacitus is particularly astute.”

Miss Bingley’s expression flickered slightly. “You have been reading the Latin passages?”

“Lizzy has always enjoyed the classics,” Jane interjected smoothly. “Though perhaps we might continue our reading later, when she’s stronger.”

“Of course,” Mrs Hurst agreed, rising gracefully. “We should not tire you. Though it must be… interesting to have such insight into someone’s private library.”

Elizabeth frowned slightly at the peculiar emphasis, but fatigue was already making her thoughts fuzzy again. She watched as the sisters made their elegant exit, still puzzling over their odd behaviour.

Once the door closed behind their visitors, Elizabeth sank deeper into her pillows. “Jane, why do I feel as though I am missing something important about this room?”

“You should rest, Lizzy,” Jane replied, carefully avoiding the question as she smoothed the blankets. “You’re still recovering.”

“Yes, but-” Elizabeth broke off as exhaustion swept over her again. The morning’s short conversation had drained what little energy she had regained. Still, something about Miss Bingley’s behaviour nagged at her thoughts.

“Sleep now,” Jane said softly, retrieving their abandoned book. “We can talk more later.”

Elizabeth meant to protest, to demand answers about Miss Bingley’s strange emphasis on the room’s private nature, but her eyelids were already growing heavy.

As she drifted off, her gaze fell on the neat stack of correspondence on the writing desk, wondering what secrets it might hold about the room’s occupant.

There was something quietly exacting in the hand-not familiar, but somehow…

fitting. Perhaps, when she was stronger, she would make sense of it.

She was asleep before she could pursue the thought further.

* * *

Netherfield - Dining Room - Darcy

The dinner hour passed with excruciating slowness. Darcy maintained his usual reserve, though he found himself straining to hear any movement from the floor above. Miss Bingley, fresh from her visit to the sickroom, seemed determined to draw him into conversation.

“I trust you are not too inconvenienced by the current arrangements, Mr Darcy?” she inquired, her tone carrying just the right note of sympathetic concern.

“Though I must say,” Miss Bingley said with a brittle smile, “if one must give up one’s private rooms, it might as well be for someone so…

thoroughly immersed in Tacitus. Perhaps fever lends enthusiasm to even the driest prose. ”

Darcy’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on his wine glass. So Elizabeth had been reading his books. The thought of her examining his private collection, forming opinions about his taste in literature…

“I have always found Miss Elizabeth’s understanding of the classics to be quite profound,” he replied coolly, then immediately regretted engaging with Miss Bingley’s obvious attempt to provoke him.

“Indeed?” Mrs Hurst exchanged a meaningful look with her sister. “How… fortunate that her current situation allows such intimate knowledge of your literary tastes.”