Chapter Eleven
Missives and Musings
Sunlight was dancing on the walls of Darcy’s bedchamber when next he opened his eyes.
He had not thought he would sleep again after returning to this room following his adventures the previous night, but nature had decided otherwise.
As per Lizzy’s... no, Miss Elizabeth's suggestion, he had summoned John to reapply the fragrant liniment to his arm and shoulder, and then, after dismissing his footman, had lain back upon his pillows to contemplate the extraordinary events that had taken place.
His mind would not obey him, however, and the relaxing scent of the balm and the release from pain, combined with the directionless haze of his random thoughts, sent him back to peaceful oblivion, from which he only now awoke.
He did not move at first, but allowed the recollections and sensations of the previous night to wash over him.
Foremost of these was his first sight of Miss Elizabeth, when she came upon him in the library.
He ought to have been embarrassed to be caught thus, hiding in the dark in another man’s house long past midnight, but overlying the mortification he felt was a rush of awareness of his discoverer.
She had stood there, clad in her nightgown and nightrail, her long dark hair streaming down her back, and his heart had begun to race.
She really was very pretty, her form light and pleasing.
Her robe had been cinched with a sash at the waist, accentuating a figure that was only hinted at in her normal fashionable garb.
Although she was more completely covered in her night clothing, with its high neck and long sleeves, than in a ballgown with a low-cut bodice, short sleeves, and high hemline to allow her ankles to be seen as she danced, there was something raw and provocative in the sight that flooded his body with heat.
Dual instincts to turn and run, and alternately to fall onto his knees and profess his admiration had fought within him, leaving him incapable of any action other than standing frozen in place, with what must have been a stupid expression upon his face.
He had supposed she would take him immediately to her father to be dealt with, but she had surprised him once more by her actions when instead, she took him into the sitting room, and thence up the secret stairs to her own chamber.
The urge to flee had by then long since abandoned him, leaving him now to fight only the inclination to prostrate himself before her and beg for a kiss.
Now, as then, he forced his mind to more sober matters and made himself consider the true grail for which he was on this quest, namely the code machine.
The image of Miss Elizabeth’s lithe form in her robe and flowing hair slowly, reluctantly, reformed into that of the code machine, with its cylindrical row of alphabetic discs and the machinery-encased base, with its buttons and levers.
What had she seen there that she understood?
He must somehow find a way to allow her to trust him and hopefully explain to him what she knew.
This brought him to mind of his obligation to Lord Stanton.
Stanton had seemed so confident that Bennet was working for the French, and that the machine was one that French agents had found and needed repaired by somebody familiar with the latest in English technological knowledge.
Was there, perhaps, something so clandestine about this particular operation that not even an agent of the Crown knew the specific nature of it?
The idea was sobering. He would have to be very circumspect in his report when next he sat down to write.
It would not do at all to jeopardise a vital research and intelligence operation through ill-advised good intentions.
He would contemplate later what details to convey back to London.
For now, he knew he ought to face the day.
He rose from the bed with minimal discomfort and dressed himself with quick and efficient movements, pleased at the increased ease of motion in his shoulder, then checked his fob watch for the time.
It was only half past eight. He released a sigh of relief: it would not do to embarrass himself even further by sleeping until noon.
The best way to proceed now was to make his way to the breakfast room, there to thank Bennet for his kind hospitality and care the previous evening.
He pulled on his boots and crept out into the hallway.
The household was now awake, even if its family were not.
Servants scurried this way and that, bowing respectful heads as he passed by, eyes cast downwards, shoulders pressed against walls.
None looked afraid or unhappy, however, their behaviour seeming to be borne of habit rather than fear of reprisal or dismissal.
One maid, a pail in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other, even raised her head as he passed and sent a soft smile in his direction.
“Are you well, sir?” she whispered as he passed by.
“I hope you are recovered.” Then she turned her face once more to the floor as he muttered a brief, “Much recovered, thank you.”
The servants were well treated here, it seemed, and from what he sensed, Bennet was a kind if somewhat inefficient master.
Perhaps one of these domestics could be befriended and prevailed upon to answer some of his questions.
He made a quick note of the young maid’s appearance and walked onward to find the breakfast room.
The aroma of fresh coffee and warm breads and meats drew him unerringly to his destination.
As in most country homes, there was a table of light foods upon which to break one's fast before engaging on the first activities of the day; the meal itself would be served somewhat later, after all had reconvened in the house.
Coffee and a roll was all that Darcy desired at the moment, for he still felt somewhat fragile after the terrible headache he had suffered the previous day.
He poured himself some of the fragrant brew and placed two rolls upon a plate and was about to turn to take a seat at the table when he heard his name.
“You look much improved over when last I saw you yesterday. How fares your head?” It was Bennet, looking like he had spent a restful night asleep in his bed, rather than cavorting with French renegades in secret stairwells.
Of course, he had not seen Bennet the previous evening, but only the three others.
Perhaps he really had been asleep all night!
Still, it would never do to alert the man to his knowledge, and Darcy covered his initial surprise by lowering his head to his china coffee cup to take a sip.
“I am feeling quite well today, I thank you. There is merely the slightest bit of fatigue to remind me of my ordeal, which this excellent coffee is helping to eliminate. You have been a most gracious host, and I cannot thank you enough for offering your house and care in my time of need.”
“Pish!” Bennet waved his hand in the air, as though flicking away a fly. “Friends do such things for friends. My home is always at your disposal. I trust you rested well.”
“I did indeed. The bed was most comfortable, especially so once Miss Elizabeth instructed my man on how to tend to the remainder of my headache.” He withheld all mention of the hours in which he was not asleep, but wandering through the house, both in its open hallways and hidden stairwells.
“Jolly good!” The conversation turned to matters of hunting, politics and—to Darcy’s amusement—whether green or black cravats were acceptable clothing these days, a conversation lasting over an hour, until gradually the ladies of the house drifted in from their various morning activities.
Miss Elizabeth was the last to enter, although Darcy could see from her wind-reddened cheeks that she had not just risen from her abbreviated slumber, but had been outside in the fresh air of early autumn.
Her eyes met his, and she blushed a soft pink, more an intensification of the natural flush of exercise than a sign of embarrassment, and he doubted that her family would notice anything amiss.
But with his eyes upon her, and his senses heightened towards her, he saw her colour and returned it with a blush of his own.
She broke the shared gaze and greeted her family and guest.
“I do hope you are recovered, Mr. Darcy,” she repeated her father’s sentiments, “and passed a beneficial night.”
He could not help but smile at her careful choice of words. He replied in the affirmative and offered to help her to a plate of the eggs the cook had only now brought in.
No sooner had he placed the dish before her when a stranger walked into the room.
“Mr. Collins, good morning,” Bennet nodded but did not rise from his chair.
His wife and daughters acted likewise. This, then, must be the cousin, recently arrived from his parsonage, whose unexpected arrival had prevented Miss Elizabeth from accompanying him on his ride yesterday.
He examined the parson’s face and realised that he had been present with the Bennet sisters at the encounter with Wickham.
Good Lord! What might Wickham have told him?
If Miss Elizabeth’s recitation last night were any indication, it could certainly be nothing good at all.
Bennet broke his train of thought when he placed his teacup back upon its saucer and gave a small cough. “How remiss of me!” he quipped, although his eyes suggested otherwise. “Please, allow me to make the introductions. Mr. Darcy, this is our cousin Mr. Collins. And Mr. Collins—”