E lizabeth’s splendid gown was hanging in her wardrobe.
Her hair had been taken down and wound into a plait.
She would have been abed an hour past, but for the incensed fairy godmother pacing the length of her chamber.
Mildread’s deep violet and Pomona green gown billowed behind her as though it, too, was participating in the fairy’s almost deranged agitation.
“I can assure you,” Mildread huffed at last, puncturing the air with her heavy wand, “you do not lose much by not suiting his fancy. Disagreeable man! Not handsome enough to dance with!”
This was, nearly verbatim, the tirade Elizabeth’s mother had released when the Bennet women arrived home.
At least Mamma had not resorted to cant.
Elizabeth had flushed red to the roots of her hair at Mildread’s invective at the assembly, and she was sure it had been noticed by the disagreeable man himself.
Papa had whispered in her ear, “Was Mildread as affronted as your mother?”
Elizabeth had sighed. “More so.”
He had chuckled. “Oh dear. I shall have to make myself more available for social calls while he is in the neighbourhood. This is sure to be excellent sport.”
“Papa,” she had protested in a whisper of her own, “the man is allowed not to find me to his taste. If he is blind as well as conceited, what is it to us? If Mildread works her magic on him, there will be a great deal of talk.”
“Come now, Lizzy,” he had replied with an abundance of good humour. Rather too much for her liking. “Mildread may humble him a bit, but she will not hurt him.” He patted her shoulder. “All will be well.”
Elizabeth watched warily as Mildread strode across the room to the wall, turned, and strode across the room to the other wall. The fairy flapped her wings angrily, knocking several books from a table and onto the floor.
Papa had no idea.
She might have been more irate herself had she not Mildread to take offense for her. Ought she not be allowed the pleasure of nursing the grudge herself? The insult had been to her , after all, even if she had not heard it directly.
Elizabeth smiled, imagining the fun she should have had sharpening her wit on Mr. Darcy.
Instead, she would have to defend him. She felt rather determined to do it, too.
Despite her anger and yes, disappointment at his remarks, she had been on the receiving end of Mildread’s irritation herself in the past. As a result, Elizabeth pitied the man rather than despising him.
He deserved a set-down, but he truly had no idea the power or capricious nature of the enemy he had made.
His remarks had been unkind. Still, it would cause all sorts of difficulties were his hair to suddenly grow six feet in length, or he were to shrink to half his size, or he developed large, pointed ears.
Oh, how she had hated those ears.
Elizabeth shuddered. She had learned her lessons quickly.
But then, she could see Mildread and knew what was happening.
Mr. Darcy was not a Bennet, so he could not.
And he did not strike her as the sort of man who indulged his fancy with tales of magical beings.
Almost everything about him was sombre, from his dark clothing to his sceptical gaze. This was not a man prone to whimsy.
This all presumed, of course, that Mr. Darcy would remain at Netherfield despite his clear dislike for the area and its inhabitants. If he knew what was good for him, Mr. Darcy would quit Netherfield House at once.
Unfortunately, Elizabeth did not credit the man with that much sense.
There was something the matter with his mattress.
Darcy stretched and rolled on his side to avoid the hard spot in the centre of the bed, but it seemed to shift with him.
He flopped back, tossing his arms out wide.
No, there it was again. He shoved a hand beneath his back to feel for whatever it was that was paining him.
He rolled to the other side. Still there. He sat up in the bed and pushed himself to his feet before flipping the mattress up. He felt along the bottom of the bedding, on the frame, but could find nothing. He lowered it and felt along the top. No hard spot.
Something small and light hit the floor.
Had it not been so quiet, he would not have heard it.
Darcy bent to pick it up. It was the shape of a small stone but weighed almost nothing.
He rolled it between his thumb and finger.
It rather had the size, shape, and feel of a dried pea.
Where had such a thing come from? They were nowhere near the kitchens.
He placed it on the small table near the bed.
He lay back in bed again but there was no relief.
His back ached, almost exactly in the centre of his spine.
“Damnation,” he muttered, reaching around to rub at the soreness.
“I will never get any sleep on this ridiculous bed.” He dragged the coverlet and a quilt with him and sat in a chair close to the fire.
Though it was still uncomfortable attempting to slumber sitting up, it was better than the bed.
Darcy sighed. It was nearly dawn. He would simply have to make do.
He remembered the pea the next morning, but it was no longer on the table.
After several days with very little sleep, Darcy could feel the servants’ stares and predict their whispers.
He had changed rooms every morning in search of a decent mattress, and he knew full well what he would have thought about a guest who did the same.
Miss Bingley’s assurances were growing thin, and she began to act as though he was making a joke at her expense.
Cartwright, his valet, had even offered his own bed, saying that he knew it was very fine and quite restful.
It was a sign of his desperation for rest that he did not quibble over taking Cartwright’s bed before agreeing.
Yet the moment Darcy reclined, there was that spot again.
If it were not for the dark bruise Cartwright could see on his back when he helped Darcy dress in the mornings, they might both believe that Darcy was imagining the entire thing.
At least Cartwright could stem the tide of the servants’ gossip by relaying that bit of information.
As much as Darcy detested being an object of anyone’s conversation, in this case, he understood the necessity.
“Sir?” Cartwright asked in the morning. “It is rather small, but might this be the problem?” He held out a pea. “The maid found it when she made the bed.”
It was the same pea as before. Darcy said nothing, simply took the pea and placed it on the bed table. Before he left the room, he glanced back. The little pea was still there.
When he returned for the evening, it had vanished.
It took several cups of coffee each afternoon for him to make his way through the engagements Bingley had agreed to attend, but he was determined to assist his friend.
Bingley was quite taken with the eldest Bennet daughter, though Darcy suspected it would come to nothing as it had several times before.
In the end, he was not certain how much he had assisted Bingley, who spoke and danced and played cards almost exclusively with Miss Bennet.
He had wished to fulfil at least one of Bingley’s requests.
His friend had taken him to task for saying what he had about Miss Elizabeth at the assembly.
Though Darcy stood by his original opinion of the woman, it had been impolitic to state it.
He hoped to apologise and perhaps observe her more closely.
He had made the attempt, but it always took him a moment to gather his thoughts, and Miss Elizabeth had simply rushed into any conversational pause with her rapid, endless chatter.
Darcy could not help but note that she was only that way with him.
He made her nervous, and that made him nervous.
She could not fancy herself in love with him after so short an acquaintance, could she?
It was surely only the anxiety produced by being in company with a gentleman from a position in society so superior to her own. Yes, that must be it.
After the third such meeting, where he had heard more than he could bear about the seasons in Meryton, the novel her youngest sisters were reading, and the charms of Oakham Mount, wherever that was, he simply gave up and returned to another sleepless night at Netherfield.
Each morning he placed the pea on the table.
Each night it was gone. Until he felt it in the middle of his back.
The seventh room on the seventh night was the charm.
With a happy moan, Darcy sank into the soft bed and slept deeply through the night.
The following day, Cartwright told everyone that his master had taken ill from the injury to his back but was now on the mend.
This explanation was accepted without much additional comment, for which Darcy was grateful.
He was not pleased that he had disrupted Bingley’s household in such a way, but his friend, as always, would hear nothing about it.
“You have had a difficult time this past week,” Bingley said warmly. “I am sorry for it.”
Leave it to Bingley to offer apologies for something that had nothing to do with him. He truly was a good friend.