Chapter Twenty-Eight
Netherfield Park
Elizabeth
Elizabeth found no rest. The mattress was amongst the finest she had ever lain upon, and the goose-down pillows were perfectly soft and yielding, yet whenever she closed her eyes, thoughts and images thronged her mind.
They came swiftly, tumbling one over another until they were an incomprehensible blur.
It had been years since she had struggled so.
Worry for Elinor pressed foremost amongst them—clearer than all the rest, and therefore the only one she could name.
After an hour of fruitless turning, Elizabeth threw back the covers in frustration.
Her borrowed cotton night gown was plain but serviceable; the same could be said of the dressing gown Mrs Hurst had lent her.
Suzanne and Jane would by now be asleep in their own chambers.
She slipped her feet into her slippers and reached for her shawl draped on a chair.
The warmth it afforded was welcome in the chill of the night.
Moving carefully lest she strike her toes, she crossed to the window.
The nearly full moon flooded the grounds with an ethereal light, pale and still.
From somewhere distant, came the low hoot of an owl, a solitary sound that stirred an ache within her breast.
Resigned to wakefulness, Elizabeth lit a candle and made a turn about the room in search of a book.
She found none—she had known she would not.
Netherfield had never possessed a generous library.
Her husband had valued the written word only as it might serve his schemes.
He had long ago removed every volume that had once offered her pleasure.
With a weary sigh, she wondered whether she ought to search the library next.
Another half hour of restless pacing decided her.
Perhaps Mr Bingley or one of his sisters had added to the collection during their brief tenancy.
It was improbable, but it was something to do besides mere wandering.
Shielding the candle’s flame with her hand, she opened the door and slipped into the passage, leaving it slightly ajar to guide her back.
The stair creaked underfoot, and she paused for a moment, listening.
Hearing nothing, she continued down the stairs until the soft carpet gave way to the cold marble of the lower floor, then turned towards the southern corridor.
Her slippers made little sound as she went.
The library was at the end—a room that caught the morning sun and retained its warmth through the winter months.
What comfort she sought there she could not have said—perhaps only the company of words to quiet the turmoil within.
Elizabeth eased the door open, grateful that its hinges made no sound.
Stepping softly within, she crossed to the shelf that had once held a few volumes of merit.
Holding the candle aloft, she traced the faded lettering with her gaze and murmured the titles under her breath.
Evelina and Belinda were there still. She had left them, for she already possessed copies of her own; yet these, too, bore the marks of fond usage.
She pulled them from their places, slid them into the pocket of her dressing gown, and turned to leave.
Her candle cast its wavering light towards the hearth—and there she halted. A man reclined in the armchair before the fire, his feet on a stool, his head resting against the side. Curiosity drew her closer. The flame flared a little, and its glow fell upon the features of Mr Darcy.
In repose he appeared wholly unlike himself—peaceful, unguarded, almost boyish. The dark curls that had escaped order lay across his brow, and for one unthinking instant she longed to brush them aside.
It had been years since she had seen any man, save her father, in so unstudied a state.
Mr Darcy's attire, too, spoke of ease: a burgundy-coloured silk banyan fell loosely about him; no cravat at his throat, no waistcoat to confine him, and no coat to be seen.
His shirt was untucked from his breeches, the open collar revealing the faintest glimpse of skin.
His arms were folded loosely across his chest, his breathing deep and even.
The fire’s warmth touched her where she stood. He could not be cold, she told herself, yet she fetched a light woollen rug from the settee and laid it gently over him. He stirred and sighed, then turned his head and muttered something indistinct before speaking more clearly.
“Elizabeth.”
She stilled, every thought arrested. Though she knew him to be dreaming, the sound of her name spoken so softly—so familiarly—sent a strange tremor through her.
It was not alarm; she had never truly feared Mr Darcy.
His behaviour had ever been honourable, his manner grave and composed.
She admired him greatly. Yet, to hear her own name upon his lips, uttered in sleep, awakened a confusion of feeling she could neither reason away nor acknowledge.
Suddenly aware he might wake and find her in the very act of studying his person, Elizabeth withdrew at once, moving with all the haste she dared towards the door, her hand cupped about the candle lest the flame be extinguished. It would never do to seek her bedchamber in darkness.
The books struck softly against her side as she climbed the stairs, but she paid them no heed, hands too occupied with the candle to steady them.
Entering her chamber, she closed and secured it, then leant a moment against the panels, drawing a weary breath.
The chair by the hearth beckoned, and she went to it, resolved to quiet her mind with the written word.
Unfortunately, neither volume held her interest for long.
Her thoughts were too unsettled; more than once she found herself reading the same page thrice, the very reflections that had denied her sleep now flitting restlessly through her mind.
At length, she abandoned the attempt, set both books aside and returned to her bed.
If I cannot sleep, she reasoned, I shall at least rest my body. Morning would come soon enough, and with it she hoped the chance to return to Longbourn. I shall walk across the fields if I must, she told herself. Elinor needs me.
The next coherent thought that reached her was a vague complaint against the brightness of the room.
She sat up, blinking, and glanced towards the clock on the mantel—nearly ten.
A small gasp escaped her. Never had she slept so late—not since her husband’s death.
She rang for the maid and crossed to the washstand to begin her ablutions.
Her gown hung freshly pressed behind the screen.
Milly, one of Netherfield’s permanent maids, soon entered to assist her.
When Elizabeth was dressed, the girl dropped a curtsey and announced that breakfast awaited in the morning room.
Throwing a shawl about her shoulders, Elizabeth descended the stairs, following the same passage she had taken in the night.
The gentlemen rose as she entered. Suzanne and Jane were already at table; Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst had not yet come down. Perhaps the ladies preferred a tray in their chambers.
“Good morning, Mrs Fiennes.” Mr Bingley greeted her with his usual good humour. “I trust you slept well?”
Elizabeth returned his smile, though with some embarrassment. “Too well, it appears. I am quite ashamed to have lain abed so late; I am usually an early riser.”
From across the table, Suzanne and Jane exchanged a glance touched with… Are they laughing at me? Elizabeth’s smile faded a little, and unwilling to interpret their amusement, she turned towards the sideboard and began filling her plate.
“I suspected you would be walking first thing, Elizabeth, but when I enquired, was told you were still abed. I could not believe it!”
Mr Hurst spoke without raising his head. “Perhaps the bed did not suit Mrs Fiennes.” She was certain he said it without malice; indeed, the man was entirely focused on his plate.
Mr Bingley looked stricken. “Pray, do not say so! Was your assurance merely polite? I should be quite mortified if you were uncomfortable.”
Elizabeth rushed to reassure him. “Not in the least, sir. Once I fell asleep, I rested exceedingly well. My concern for my daughter kept me wakeful at first, so I sought a little distraction in the library.”
A sudden clatter of silver broke the gentle murmur round the table. Only then did Elizabeth recall that Mr Darcy was present—and that she had found him there in the early morning hours.
Mr Bingley laughed. “You and Darcy both. He, too, went searching amongst our barren shelves for something to quiet his mind. I dare say he succeeded—the maids discovered him there this morning.”
Elizabeth faced the table with her now-laden plate.
She did not lift her eyes, yet she felt the weight of his gaze as she moved to take a seat beside Suzanne.
Attempting to disguise her disquiet, she said with a hint of playfulness, “Then the chairs in the library must be vastly superior to the beds, if they could induce a gentleman to sleep amongst the books.”
General laughter followed, save from Mr Darcy, who continued to watch her in silence. Elizabeth bent over her plate as she strove to ignore him, affecting ease while her pulse betrayed her. Suzanne soon asked what book she had found, and Elizabeth answered with as much calm as she could command.
“Both usually hold my attention, yet last night they did me no good. I read for a time before returning to my bed, and that must account for my late rising. I shall walk the gardens after breakfast to atone for such indolence.” She turned to Mr Bingley with a composed smile.
“Have you had word of the roads? I wish to return to Longbourn. Your hospitality has been most kind, but my daughter will be missing me.”