Chapter Seventeen #2
Darcy’s eyes followed Miss Bennet as she turned back toward the house, her steps quick and light. She slipped through the side entrance, disappearing into the warmth and safety of Hollydale without looking back.
He turned back towards his bed, such as it was. Thompson emerged from the shadows a few moments later, unaware of what had just transpired but seeing him awake. “All clear, Mr. Darcy?” he asked, his voice low.
Darcy nodded, masking his unease with a calm expression. “Nothing unusual,” he replied, keeping his voice steady. He could not bring himself to call attention to what he had just witnessed. Not yet.
Thompson yawned and stretched his arms. “Good. You best catch some sleep while you can.”
Darcy’s mind remained on Elizabeth even as he curled up under his meagre blanket.
What was she doing sneaking about in the dead of night?
What had been in that sack? The thought gnawed at him, but he knew he could not accuse her without more information.
He would have to watch her closely, bide his time, and wait for her to reveal her secrets on her own.
Eventually, his eyes drifted shut, but sleep remained elusive.
When dawn broke, Darcy stretched out his aching back, grimacing, and silently vowed that he would never again complain about an inn's inferior accommodations.
He was greeted by Thatcher, Freedman, and Thompson who were making every attempt to appear stoic.
Darcy grunted. “You may as well say it before you injure yourselves holding it in.”
They all laughed.
“Good morning, greenhorn,” Thatcher teased.
“Did you not bring your feather pillow?” Freedman chimed in.
“Perhaps he is used to a cup of warm milk before bed.” Thompson added, casting a look at his employer, and barely containing his laughter.
Darcy rolled his eyes but could not suppress a wry smile. “Gentlemen, the hardness of the ground is irrelevant when your snoring could wake the dead.”
The laugh had done them all good. Thatcher nodded. “Let's get to work, boys. Mr. Darcy, we thought this evening we’d leave a window ajar, try to tempt him. What is your opinion?”
“Not a bad idea. Though you will need more than that to fool him, I think. A window ajar in the winter might alert him to a trap. However, if he saw most of you watching that window, he would know it was a trap.”
Thatcher’s smile was sly. “So he would think we were all there waiting, while we send one or two men to watch the other entrances?”
Darcy nodded. “Precisely.”
That night, they did just that. While the other men pretended to hide but in fact made themselves obvious, Darcy sat on the side of the woodshed, his knees pulled up to his chest as he peered into the inky blackness. Hours ticked by, and he rubbed the back of his gloved hand over his tired eyes.
He was awaiting his replacement near midnight when a shadow moved near the house.
Darcy tensed. Just as they had planned, the figure did not approach the window they had intentionally left ajar as a trap.
Instead, it moved towards the kitchen door.
Darcy was not worried—the door was locked, and he could sneak up behind the man to ensure he did not run off.
His heart was racing as he silently rose from his position.
The shadow paused at the kitchen door. A faint scraping sound indicated that the intruder was picking the lock.
Darcy crept forward more quickly, every sense on high alert.
The door creaked open, and the shadow slipped inside.
Darcy hesitated, torn between raising the alarm and maintaining the element of surprise.
Then he moved quickly towards the house.
But before he had covered more than a few yards, a shrill, piercing shriek was followed by a resounding crash.
His heart stopped. That was Mrs. Bennet.
Before he knew what was happening, he was off, feet pounding against the earth. In five long strides, he reached the door and threw it open, nearly taking it off its hinges.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the kitchen in an eerie glow as Darcy skidded to an inelegant halt.
At his feet was sprawled a man, flat on his back, groaning and clutching his head.
Above him, like an avenging angel, stood Mrs. Bennet, her nightcap askew and her eyes blazing with fear and triumph.
In her hand, she wielded a large copper pot like a weapon, ready to strike again if necessary.
“Mrs. Bennet!” Darcy exclaimed, hovering between admiration and concern. “Are you well?”
She looked up at him, her chest heaving with exertion and what he presumed was fright. “Mr. Darcy,” she managed between breaths, “I thought you were asked to leave.”
Without missing a beat, Darcy strode forward, took the pot from Mrs. Bennet’s hands, and set it down, his eyes still fixed on the prone intruder. “I will explain later, madam. For now, allow me to deal with this matter.”
In one fluid motion, he grabbed the man’s arm, flipped him over on his stomach, and then kneeled on his shoulders. The intruder yelped, but Darcy held firm, his muscles straining as he held the struggling miscreant in place. “Thompson!” he shouted. “Some of that rope, if you please!”
The rest of the men must have been running towards the scream, for they were already spilling into the kitchen behind him.
Thompson cut his rope in two pieces and handed one to Darcy.
As Darcy expertly bound the intruder's hands and Thompson secured the man’s feet, the sound of running footsteps from inside the house grew closer and closer.
All at once, Miss Bennet burst into the kitchen.
Her dark hair was tied back in a long braid, and her dressing gown, hastily tied, hinted at a trim figure beneath.
From where he crouched on the floor, he had a perfect view of her bare ankles.
He had never seen her dishevelled before, even when she was falling, and his mouth dried at the thought of .
. . He forced himself to close his gaping mouth and move his eyes up to her face.
She looked radiant even now, and the unexpected intimacy of the moment made his heart race.
Several half-dressed servants moved around her and into the room, clutching everything from a fire poker to a broom as weapons, but Darcy's attention remained fixed on Miss Bennet.
“Why, Morris Fitch!” Mr. Riggs exclaimed, holding up a candle to the man’s face. “Mr. Ellis was quite clear when he told you never to return. Whatever are you doing here?”
“Mamma!” Miss Bennet cried, taking in the scene before her. “Are you well?” Her gaze darted from her mother to Mr. Darcy, who was now hauling the man to his feet and handing him over to Thatcher and Freedman.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy greeted her, his voice tight with exertion. “Your mother has acted quite heroically this evening. Might you see to her while I deal with your unwelcome guest?”
Miss Bennet nodded, uncharacteristically speechless—but just as she reached her mother’s side, Mrs. Bennet let out a small cry. “Lizzy! Good gracious, you are in a dressing gown. Come with me, you must leave at once!” She shooed Miss Bennet out of the kitchen.
As Miss Bennet reached the doorway, she placed one hand on the jamb and turned her head to give Darcy one last look, her expression a mix of apprehension, curiosity, and happiness.
He met her gaze and smiled, but just then, the man he still had pinned to the floor cursed and tried to push himself up. When Darcy was free to look again, Miss Bennet was gone.