Chapter 5 #2
By the time the Bennet party prepared to depart, Elizabeth’s opinion of Mr Darcy had been further solidified: he was a man whose exterior might inspire respect, but whose character, she was certain, would always repel affection.
And as the carriage began its journey back to Longbourn, Elizabeth’s thoughts lingered on the evening’s events, the mystery of Mr Darcy’s temper proving a subject she could neither dismiss nor yet fully understand.
***
Thomas Granger—or Tom, as he was more commonly called by those at Netherfield—was a junior coachman in Mr Bingley’s service.
He had begun his working life as a stable boy in Hertfordshire some years earlier, tending to the horses with diligence and care.
When Mr Bingley arrived in the county and sought to hire additional staff, a friend who had heard of the vacancy encouraged Tom to apply.
Fortune had favoured him, and he had secured the position, rising swiftly to a station of greater responsibility within two weeks.
That evening, after the ball had concluded and the last of the guests had departed, Tom trudged wearily into his small room within the servants’ quarters, heaving a sigh of relief.
It had been a most taxing night. Among his many duties, Mr Darcy had entrusted him with the care of his horse, a task Tom had performed countless times before.
He had tethered the animal with what he believed to be meticulous attention, yet to his dismay, the horse had somehow gone missing.
Discovering this, Tom had been compelled to report the matter directly to Mr Darcy.
The reprimand he received was sharp but not unexpected.
Mr Darcy had warned him previously to take his responsibilities seriously, and this incident had done little to impress the gentleman.
Still, the horse was soon found within the grounds, and the matter, it seemed, was resolved.
With the household preoccupied by the demands of the ball, and the stable boy having taken ill the day prior, the responsibility of the stables had fallen entirely upon Tom’s shoulders, leaving little room for oversight.
Closing the door of his modest room behind him, Tom unbuttoned his shirt and debated whether he ought to wash before seeking his rest. His limbs ached from the night’s exertions, assisting with the horses of returning guests proving far more strenuous than he had anticipated.
Such, he mused, were the burdens of promotion.
How could I forget how difficult it feels in such a short time.
As he began to undress, a faint aroma reached his nostrils, causing him to wrinkle his nose in mild distaste.
The scent was peculiar—sweet yet cloying, with an unpleasant undertone.
He glanced about the room, his gaze falling upon a half-eaten apple left atop the wooden stool near his bed.
Perhaps it was the fruit, he thought. Or perhaps the recently laundered bedding, infused with one of the overly fragrant soaps favoured by the housekeeper.
Deciding it was of no consequence, he turned his attention back to his shirt.
The faint scuffle of movement brought Tom to an abrupt halt.
His heart leapt to his throat as his eyes darted toward the sound.
It came again—a soft, deliberate shuffle, unmistakably from beneath his bed.
His breath quickened. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice catching but firm. Perhaps, it is a rat, he thought.
For a moment, all was still. Then, with unnerving deliberation, a figure began to slide out from the shadowed space beneath the bed.
Tom staggered back, his legs striking the stool behind him.
The man who emerged was unnervingly composed, brushing the dust from his sleeve as though the act of crawling from beneath furniture were the most natural thing in the world.
He was dressed finely, his evening coat unblemished, his cravat impeccably knotted—a figure far more suited to the grand assembly room than to this small, humble chamber.
Tom’s voice faltered, caught between disbelief and mounting fear. “What—” he began, but he was given no time to finish.
In a single, swift motion, the intruder closed the distance between them, a handkerchief clasped firmly in his gloved hand.
Tom raised his arms instinctively, but the man was quick, seizing his wrists with a grip that betrayed no hint of his refined appearance.
With a twist, Tom’s arms were rendered immobile, pinned beneath the intruder’s arm, leaving him defenceless.
The handkerchief was pressed against his face with unyielding force. A cloying scent—sweet and pungent, sickly yet overpowering—assailed his senses. Tom’s head reeled as he struggled, twisting his body and kicking his legs in a frantic attempt to free himself.
Panic surged within him. He writhed against the iron hold of his captor, but the man’s strength was unnervingly precise, as though every movement had been calculated in advance. The fumes from the handkerchief filled Tom’s nostrils, clouding his thoughts, dulling his senses.
His vision blurred, the edges darkening as his strength began to ebb.
His breath came in short, desperate gasps against the suffocating cloth.
Who is this man? Why is he here? What does he want?
What have I done to this man? The questions raced through Tom’s mind as his strength ebbed away.
His vision blurred, the edges darkening as if a curtain were being drawn over his consciousness.
His limbs grew heavy, his resistance faltering.
With one last desperate effort, Tom tried to wrench himself free, but it was no use. The darkness closed in, suffocating his thoughts. The last coherent question flickered through his mind before oblivion took him entirely: Why me?