Page 40 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)
E lizabeth had expected to find the sitting room empty.
She had come in search of a book she had neglected to bring upstairs the night before. This part of the house was oddly quiet. Even the servants seemed to be engaged elsewhere.
Which was why the sight of Miss Bingley alone, cloaked in silk the colour of autumn leaves and sipping something hot from a delicate porcelain cup was so unexpected that Elizabeth stopped short on the threshold.
The afternoon light cast everything in soft relief.
Miss Bingley sat with her back to the tall windows, yet even in silhouette, her posture spoke of careful arrangement.
Not a fold of her gown was out of place, not a curl had escaped her elaborate coiffure.
She was a portrait of elegance, save for the way her fingers gripped the cup's handle with unnecessary firmness.
"Miss Eliza," Miss Bingley said with brittle brightness, setting down her cup with the faintest click against the saucer. "How industrious you are."
Elizabeth offered a mild smile and stepped inside. "I came for my book."
A smile that did not reach Miss Bingley’s eyes spread across her features. “You are a great reader, despite your protests. ”
"The weather has recently made other pursuits difficult." Elizabeth crossed to the book she had left on a side table on the other side of the room. The other woman's composure was immaculate, but her posture was almost rigid.
Behind her, she could hear the gentle clink of porcelain.
Miss Bingley was drinking with deliberate, measured sips, as though the very act required her full concentration.
When Elizabeth glanced again at the reflection, she caught sight of Miss Bingley's profile turned away from her and was surprised to find it drawn with what appeared to be genuine weariness.
There was silence but for the clock ticking on the mantel, its steady rhythm marking time in the quiet room. A log settled in the fireplace with a soft hiss, sending up a small shower of sparks that glowed briefly before dying.
Elizabeth picked up her book and turned to face Miss Bingley properly.
"I shall leave you now," she said with a polite dip of the head.
"Do enjoy your novel," Miss Bingley returned, though her gaze did not quite meet Elizabeth's.
She paused at the doorway, struck by an odd impulse to say something more, though she could not think what.
Miss Bingley had resumed her careful sipping, her attention apparently fixed on some point beyond the windows.
The light from the windows revealed the fine lines of strain around her eyes that powder could not quite conceal.
But the moment passed without further discourse, and Elizabeth took her leave.
Elizabeth had never been one to hide from unpleasant company, but as the afternoon shadows lengthened across Netherfield's polished floors, she found herself entertaining the notion of a prudent retreat.
The morning's triumph over Miss Bingley had been satisfying, but now she was uneasily awaiting her hostess's next move.
For Miss Bingley had proven herself unwilling to yield.
Elizabeth was very, very anxious for the bridge to be repaired.
Mr. Bingley had disappeared into the study with Mr. Linton, who was supervising the repairs, and the thought of returning to the drawing room, where Miss Bingley was certain to engage in some fresh offence disguised as genteel conversation, held little appeal.
Nor did she care to sit in the morning parlour which Mr. Hurst had claimed as his own, playing some solitary game with his cards and what appeared to be the better part of a cold ham.
The man's recent reconciliation with his wife had apparently strengthened both his appetite and his enthusiasm for games of chance, though his table manners remained as questionable as ever.
Jane had retired to their chambers to rest before dinner, and Elizabeth knew that she ought to do the same, but she remained too restless to sleep.
And she had no idea where Mr. Darcy had gone. Perhaps he was with Mr. Bingley.
Which left Elizabeth herself at loose ends, wandering through the more neglected corners of Netherfield's public rooms. The house was larger than Longbourn by half, with passages that seemed to stretch in directions she had not previously explored.
As she turned a corner, she could hear raised voices.
One was Miss Bingley's, sharp and accusing, and the other, a softer one that quavered in reply.
Elizabeth paused for a moment before she quickened her step and came upon the scene.
Miss Bingley stood in the doorway of a small anteroom, a maid standing before her looking pale and wretched .
"I shall not have excuses, Susan," Miss Bingley declared with a note of triumph. "My ivory fan is missing, and no one else had cause to be in my chamber this morning. You had better confess at once."
The young woman stammered a denial, her hands twisting together.
Elizabeth recognized Susan immediately—the girl was from Meryton, daughter to the baker's widow, and had worked briefly at Longbourn before seeking better wages in service elsewhere.
Elizabeth remembered her as industrious and scrupulously honest, qualities that had made her departure a genuine loss to the Bennet household.
"Miss Bingley," Elizabeth said firmly, "might I have a word?"
Miss Bingley's head turned and when she saw who had interrupted, her brows drew together. Propriety, however, demanded she acquiesce. "Remain where you are, Susan," she commanded, though her tone grew marginally less severe. "This matter is far from settled."
She stepped aside with Elizabeth, her chin lifted. "Yes, Miss Eliza?”
“I wished to speak to you about Susan.”
Miss Bingley frowned. “I trust you do not mean to interfere in the management of my servants?"
"I would not presume to do so," Elizabeth replied.
"I merely wish to observe that I have known her for several years.
Her family are respectable people of Meryton.
Her mother is a woman of unimpeachable character who raised her children to value honesty.
Surely such a serious accusation ought not rest upon suspicion alone? "
Miss Bingley's expression tightened. "One must protect one's property, and when a valuable item disappears, it is hardly unreasonable to suspect—"
"Reasonable suspicion must rest on evidence," Elizabeth interrupted, her voice calm but unwavering.
"In this case, your fan may have been mislaid, is that not so?
I have known Susan and her family for years.
I would stake my own reputation on her honesty, for I have never known her to take so much as a candle stub without permission.
I will not believe her guilty of such an offence. "
Miss Bingley, forced to mask her pique beneath a brittle smile, inclined her head regally. "Well. I suppose that if you are willing to hazard your own reputation upon her honesty, then I must let the matter rest . . . for now."
Elizabeth felt the ominous weight of those final words but was grateful to have spared Susan from being turned out.
As Miss Bingley released Susan and swept away, Elizabeth found herself desperately longing for the sanctuary of Longbourn's familiar chambers. She needed to be where she was beyond the reach of Miss Bingley's malicious attentions.
It was this need to disappear, more than any particular plan, that led her to push open a tall, glass-paned door at the end of a hall she had not previously traversed. The door opened onto what was unmistakably a conservatory, and Elizabeth stepped inside.
What a treasure it was.
The heat wrapped around her, dispelling the lingering chill from the house.
The air was filled with the heady perfume of orange and lemon blossoms. Overhead, sunlight streamed through the high glass panes, casting dappled patterns across the tiled floor and the glossy leaves of carefully tended plants.
Elizabeth let the door fall shut behind her and stood for a moment in the stillness, suspended between the familiar world she had left behind and the unexpected one she had just discovered.
The conservatory was a long rectangle at the back of the house that jutted out from the main building.
There were windows on three sides, and the interior was clearly maintained with care, though it possessed the slightly overgrown quality of a space that was tended rather than strictly managed.
Orange and lemon trees grew in large ceramic pots placed on small, wheeled platforms, their branches heavy with fruit.
Herbs sprawled cheerfully from their containers, filling the air with the sharp sweetness of lavender and rosemary.
In one corner, someone had cultivated a small kitchen garden, complete with trailing vines and leafy vegetables.
A collection of watering vessels sat arranged on a wooden bench in the corner, copper cans gleaming dully in the filtered light.
A vine of ambitious proportions had taken enthusiastic possession of a stack of empty pots, its vigorous growth transforming what had once been an orderly arrangement into something resembling a verdant sculpture.
The vine was heavy with clusters of small, green grapes, its success outgrowing the slender support of the stacked pots beneath.
The wind had picked up again, though there was no rain accompanying it.
It moaned against the glass overhead and made the iron frame shudder.
The tower of pots was listing to one side at the top, and Elizabeth could see it was only a matter of time before the whole arrangement came tumbling down.
At Longbourn, their kitchen garden was maintained with great care under Jane and Cook’s watchful eyes, every plant relegated to its proper place. Here there was a vine that had clearly never received such instruction, and Elizabeth found herself oddly charmed by it.