Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth sat on one end of the sofa, her father on the other with his new book in his lap.
They listened as Mr. Darcy described what they’d discovered in Miss Bingley’s room.
As Mr. Darcy spoke, Elizabeth clearly comprehended his words, but they made no sense to her.
Why would Miss Bingley intercept letters to Elizabeth from Lady Catherine?
Why send a forged letter to Mrs. Clegg? Elizabeth and Miss Bingley didn’t get on well, but that was true for Miss Bingley and many people.
Why had she adopted such a strong dislike for Elizabeth?
“Miss Bingley is going to London with the Hursts,” Mr. Darcy concluded. “Mr. Hurst said he wouldn’t mind living quietly for a time, wishing to save money. Miss Bingley will not be allowed to leave their home for at least a month.”
“Should I write to your aunt, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.
“If you like, but I took the liberty of doing so before coming here.”
“Thank you,” she replied, mind too swirled by the morning’s events to think of anything more to say.
Elizabeth’s father cast her a worried look. “I suppose a month of confinement is all the punishment we can expect or should ask for.”
“Do you wish to pursue retribution?” Mr. Darcy sounded supportive of the idea, much to Elizabeth’s surprise.
“Not at this time.” Her father cast her another look. “Perhaps later, if Elizabeth’s hand is worse than she’s led me to believe.”
“Your hand?” Mr. Darcy asked in quick concern.
Elizabeth looked down, where she cradled her hand in her lap. It had already begun to swell and discolor. “She had something hard in that sack.”
Mr. Darcy’s frown deepened. “What sort of something?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I think I left it in the kitchen, but wouldn’t it be wrong to go through her possessions?”
“She hit you with that sack and ran away. I believe you would be justified in looking inside.”
“I agree,” Elizabeth’s father said. “But if you do not mind, I won’t join you.” He tapped the book. “I’ve been waiting for this book to arrive for some time and should like to take this opportunity to enjoy it while Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth’s sisters are away.”
Elizabeth smiled slightly. The book had arrived while they were out.
The moment her father took the package from Edward, he’d all but forgotten the attack on her or her injured hand.
Aware of how he missed reading works of his own choosing, rather than those borrowed from neighbors, and of how valuable silence in the parlor was, she’d quickly reassured him she was well so he could begin reading.
Mr. Darcy turned back to her. “If you do not mind, Miss Bennet, I would like to see what’s inside that sack.”
Elizabeth nodded, standing. “We’ll be in the kitchen, Papa. Call if you require anything.”
Her father murmured in the affirmative, his attention already back on his book.
Elizabeth led Mr. Darcy to the newly finished kitchen, excitement sparking in her despite her throbbing hand. He hadn’t seen the room since the start of the project, weeks ago. Smiling, she pushed the door open and led the way in.
Mr. Darcy halted, and she turned back to see him looking about with an assessing gaze. “They do fine work.”
“They certainly do, and they’re quick and pleasant to have underfoot, as well. You have quite the asset in them.”
He nodded. “Why so much open shelving? They’re very good cabinetmakers.”
“My mother wanted open shelves and Papa said that it’s her kitchen, so she should choose.” Elizabeth studied Mr. Darcy for telltale signs of dismay at that, as most people didn’t consider her mother’s decision-making sound, but saw none.
“My cook told me that cabinets keep the dust off, but with so few dishes, I suspect most are used daily.” He dropped his gaze to the lower cabinets, then crossed to the door to pluck the sack from where Elizabeth had dropped it. He held it over the kitchen table. “May I?”
“Let me put out a towel.” They hadn’t many kitchen towels, but there was no way to know what was inside the sack and if they wanted it on their table. Mrs. Clegg had seemed so unhinged, Elizabeth had no notion what to expect.
She spread out a towel and Mr. Darcy carefully dumped the contents of the sack onto it. Elizabeth studied the heap. A quarter loaf of stale bread, some dried apples, walnuts, and moldy cheese. A scrap of paper also rested atop the towel, along with a fist sized rock.
Elizabeth touched the rock. “It’s not valuable, or even pretty.”
“No,” Mr. Darcy said, voice harsh. “It is not. It’s a weapon.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, understanding his anger. “Meant for me?”
He shrugged. “Probably.” He sounded as angry as if he were certain, his voice holding more emotion that Elizabeth had ever heard there.
With her uninjured hand, she plucked up the bit of paper. “The location of the church.” The scrap could have come from any shop in any of a number of places. Everyone for miles had known about the wedding.
Long fingers loosely encircled the wrist of her injured hand. “This is swelling. Can you move all of your fingers?” Mr. Darcy gently stroked his thumb over the back of her hand.
Elizabeth stared at his hand on her wrist, seeking words. His hand felt so strong, reassuring and warm. “I, ah, let me try.” She flexed each finger, finding both her pinky and her ring finger sore. She had blocked the bag with the side of her hand. “Yes. They all move, but the two hurt.”
He placed her hand back on the table. “I’m glad nothing worse befell you.”
Elizabeth mustered a smile. “So am I.” She looked down at the table and grimaced. “I think I’ll put the lot of that in the slop bucket, for the pigs.”
“Except the rock and the paper.”
“Except the rock. Pigs will eat paper. Especially if it’s been touching moldy cheese. But it’s more useful as tinder.”
She said it to ease some of the tension in him, but he continued to study her with a worried look.
Elizabeth put the scrap of paper in with the tinder for the kitchen stove, set aside the rock and used the kitchen towel to transfer Mrs. Clegg’s meal to the slop bucket.
The sack, so wretched as to be almost useless, she put with the kindling, then she folded the towel.
With nothing left to do, she mustered her courage and turned to the table to stare at the rock.
“I’d toss it out the kitchen door,” she said after a moment, “but I don’t ever want to encounter it again. I would just as soon not find it when I’m in the garden.”
Mr. Darcy scooped up the rock and went to the kitchen door.
He opened it, letting in a gust of December wind.
Elizabeth went around the table to follow as he stepped out into the back garden.
A few paces beyond the bottom step, he stopped, brought his arm back, and threw the rock with surprising force.
It sailed over the garden wall, over the fruit trees, and deep into the thicket beyond.
He turned back, dusting off his hand, saw her, and gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t want you to encounter it, either.”
“It would take an exploration party to find it now,” she said, feeling oddly lighter after his display. “Would you care for tea?”
He returned to the bottom of the steps, at eye level with her where she stood in the kitchen doorway. “I should like tea, yes. I did not join the others at breakfast.”
She nodded, returning inside. “I imagined you had not. There wouldn’t have been time.”
Behind her, Mr. Darcy came up the steps and into the kitchen, closing the door. Elizabeth resisted looking over her shoulder at him, knowing that in such a small room, he would be very close. She reached for the kettle where it hung above the table on a rack the Murphys had built for pots and pans.
An arm came up, from behind her, and captured the kettle as she grasped it. “Allow me. You don’t want to hurt your hand.”
Elizabeth swallowed, extremely aware of how near he stood, although they didn’t touch. “Thank you.”
He took the kettle down and filled it. “Is there no one here to assist you?”
“We gave the staff the morning off, thinking we’d be a long time at Netherfield Park.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Do we need more wood for the fire?”
She shook her head, gesturing at the kitchen’s supply. “Would you care for toast? I haven’t eaten, either. I should make some for Papa, too.”
“I would, but only if you permit me to assist you,” he said while gathering kindling.
Bemused, Elizabeth accepted. Mr. Darcy, cooking? Not that tea and toast truly counted as cooking, but his insistence on helping still felt odd. “I can slice the bread. It’s my left hand that’s hurt.”
“Let me do it. You’ll need to hold the bread with your injured hand.” He pointed to one of the shelves. “Are those the correct plates? It is convenient, isn’t it, to be able to see them all.”
His broad shoulders to her as he studied the plates, Elizabeth gaped at his back, surprised to hear him further compliment her mother’s choice. “Ah, yes, and that tray. We can eat in the dining room, and I’ll take a tray to my father.”
Elizabeth did what she could using only one hand. She felt she could use the other if she was careful, but Mr. Darcy proved too solicitous to let her. She did set the table, one handed, which proved rather inefficient, but there wasn’t any hurry.
Together in the kitchen, she and Mr. Darcy worked in easy harmony, assembling tea and buttered toast, to which Elizabeth added a small bowl of jam for her father and a slightly larger one for them.
Once Mr. Bennet’s tray was ready, she reached for it, but Mr. Darcy took it from her.
She walked behind him and saw him set it before her father on the low table.
Mr. Bennet was so engrossed in his reading as not to notice them.
She could only hope he would eat and drink while everything remained warm.