Page 17 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)
D arcy strode down the length of Netherfield’s first floor for the third time, his boots clicking against the polished floor with barely restrained impatience as he peered into one empty room after another.
The rhythmic sound echoed through the hall, a staccato beat that matched the growing urgency in his chest. Bingley was already out of doors—he had left with the other gentlemen to clear debris from under the main bridge so the water could at last drain away.
Darcy had been on the verge of joining him when he discovered that Miss Elizabeth was nowhere to be found.
It should not concern him. She was not his responsibility.
He had no claim upon her time or her whereabouts, no right to expect an accounting of her movements.
And yet the thought of her alone in this great draughty house, or worse, braving the cold after her recent ordeal, awakened a disquiet that refused to be reasoned away.
She had not been herself at breakfast. She had carried herself more stiffly when Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst entered the room, the careful politeness that replaced her usual spirited discourse, the tightness about her eyes that spoke of a suppressed frustration.
Most telling of all were the faint lines of fatigue that marred her otherwise lively countenance, as though the effort to maintain civility in the face of constant provocation had drained her of her natural vivacity.
The change in her demeanour troubled him more than he cared to admit. Miss Elizabeth diminished was a sight that sat poorly with his conscience, particularly when he bore some responsibility for the circumstances that had brought her to this state.
He thought of the incident earlier, when Miss Bennet had stepped away to resume her work with the tenant children and he had seen a glimpse of Miss Elizabeth walking gingerly up the stairs in the direction of her chamber.
He could not help but overhear their hostesses' barbed commentary drifting through the partially open door to the family parlour.
“I cannot comprehend how some people fail to recognize when they have overstayed their welcome,” Miss Bingley was saying. “The river cannot be so very bad.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Hurst agreed languidly.
The casual cruelty in their voices had sent a surge of anger through him so sharp and immediate that he had found himself entering the room before conscious thought could intervene.
"Ladies," he had said, his voice edged with steel and cold disapproval. "You should be aware that your voices . . . carry."
Miss Bingley’s smirk had faltered, her fan freezing mid-flutter as she registered the ice in his tone. Mrs. Hurst, ever her sister's echo, had found sudden cause to study the intricate patterns of the carpet.
Miss Elizabeth was not in the drawing room, where the ladies typically gathered at this hour. She was absent from the smaller parlour where she had been wont to seek solitude when the company grew trying.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” he called quietly to the housekeeper. “Is Miss Elizabeth with her sister? ”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Nicholls replied. “I understood she would be resting in her chamber.”
But Darcy knew from a previous inquiry to her maid that Miss Elizabeth was not there either.
With her sister still tending the displaced children in the western wing—a duty that spoke to Miss Bennet's gentle character but left Miss Elizabeth without her natural ally—Darcy decided he would take it upon himself to find her.
He had already searched the library and the morning room. A consultation with the butler had yielded nothing more than a suggestion that perhaps Miss Elizabeth had stepped out to the gardens for air, despite the muddy ground.
The thought propelled him to the entrance hall and, ultimately, outside.
The grounds were sodden, the aftermath of recent rains leaving the earth soft and treacherous underfoot.
The air carried a sharp bite that spoke of winter's approaching dominion, and grey clouds gathered ominously overhead, promising further precipitation before the day was done.
Darcy drew his coat tighter about him, his breath forming small clouds in the chill air as he scanned the pale expanse of lawn that stretched away from Netherfield's imposing facade.
The gardens closest to the house were empty save for a few hardy gardeners attempting to salvage what they could from the storm-damaged plantings. Beyond them, the parkland rolled away in gentle swells, marked here and there by stands of oak and elm that stood like sentinels against the grey sky.
And then he saw her.
She was striding across the northern field with the purposeful gait of one who had a destination firmly in mind, her skirts lifted just enough to clear the wet grass, her bonnet tied firmly against the wind that tugged at her pelisse with increasing insistence.
Every line of her figure spoke of determination.
The sight of her sent alarm coursing through him. She was heading away from Netherfield, away from warmth and shelter, into the storm-tossed countryside. Surely she could not mean to . . . but even as the thought formed, he was already moving, his long strides eating up the distance between them.
"Miss Elizabeth!" he called, his voice carrying clearly across the field despite the wind. "Miss Elizabeth, stop at once!" The command escaped him with more force than he had intended, driven by a rising panic at the thought of her disappearing into the grey landscape.
She halted as though she had been struck, her spine stiffening in a way that suggested his summons was far from welcome.
For a moment she stood perfectly still, and he feared she might bolt like a startled doe.
But then, with what appeared to be considerable effort, she turned to face him.
Even across the distance that separated them, he could see her eyes flashing with that familiar fire.
"Mr. Darcy," she said flatly.
"You intend to leave the grounds?" His voice rose in incredulity as he drew closer, close enough now to see the determined set of her jaw, the heightened colour in her cheeks that spoke of both the cold and strong emotion. "In this weather? Where?"
"I am going to the northern bridge." Her chin lifted in that gesture he had come to recognise as a prelude to battle. "I believe it is passable, and once across, I will send back a groom with a horse for my sister."
The simplicity of her plan only served to underscore its fundamental madness. "You mean to walk ten miles in the cold and damp?" The words escaped him in a tone that bordered on the explosive. "Miss Elizabeth, what the devil are you thinking? "
Her eyebrows rose at his language, but she did not retreat.
Instead, she seemed to draw herself up to her full height.
"I am thinking, " she returned evenly, her voice carrying a calm that was somehow more alarming than any show of temper might have been, "that I am equal to the task.
And better I undertake such exertion than to remain under a roof where I am daily insulted by my hostess. "
The words fell between them like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of shock and dismay through him.
His brow furrowed as he studied her face, noting details he had missed from a distance, the slight pallor beneath the wind-induced colour, the careful, pained way she moved, the faint tremor in her hands that might have been cold but which he suspected had deeper roots. "Surely you exaggerate."
He knew that she would not, but he could contrive of nothing else to say.
"Do I?" Her lips curved in an expression that bore only the bitterest relationship to a smile.
"I am forever reminded that I am an intruder. It is slyly implied that I cannot possibly be accomplished, for I have not had the benefit of a London master for the pianoforte or the harp, and that I speak only French and not Italian. I am told that my clothing is inferior and my family an embarrassment.” She paused to meet his eye.
“Mr. Darcy, you may share Miss Bingley’s disdain for the Bennets, but my mother would never speak to any guest in such a way. "
Darcy’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The litany of small cruelties she listed painted a picture that had fury and mortification warring within his breast. That Miss Elizabeth should be subjected to such treatment under any roof was unconscionable; that it should happen while she was a guest, while she was still recovering, made it infinitely worse .
"This is intolerable," he said at last, his voice low and carrying a dangerous edge that would have warned anyone who knew him well to proceed with caution.
"Indeed," she agreed, and he caught the slight lift of her chin that suggested she was fighting back emotions that went deeper than mere annoyance.
"Your friends have made it very clear that I should leave, and so I shall give them what they most desire.
I hope that you will find the remainder of your time at Netherfield more bearable in my absence. "
"They are not my friends,” he hurried to assure her. “Only their brother.”
“That is not what they believe. Are you certain?”
“More certain than I can express.”
Her shoulders fell as she exhaled, and she winced a little.
“You are weary," he said. She was still sore from her time in the water, he could see that as well.
Neither was a great revelation. He could see it in every line of her posture, the way she held herself too carefully, as though relaxation might lead to complete collapse.
"You have not fully recovered from your ordeal, you are exhausted from tending others, and yet you will not rest, because they have made you believe you are unwelcome. "
"Are they wrong?" The question was delivered with characteristic directness, but he heard the underlying vulnerability that she could not quite conceal.