Chapter Eight
A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, blowing a whirl of snow against the glass in the falling twilight.
The blizzard had abated, though in the last hour snow had once again begun to fall on the village of Bedford.
Certain that another storm would soon assault them, Mrs. Bennet had taken to her bed in the small rented room at the inn.
At her side, Mrs. Gardiner read the missive that had just arrived from Luton, after prying it away from her sister by marriage and smoothing out the crumpled parchment.
“Well, we shall simply have to remain here until the weather clears,” she said placidly.
“But Mr. Bingley’s fine carriage is broken, and no doubt poor Jane has been all knocked about—to be in a carriage accident on her wedding trip!
At Christmas, too! Oh, my poor girl. And poor Lizzy, all alone at Longbourn, when she ought to be travelling with us, for I am sure there must be a great many single gentlemen of fortune in the neighborhood of Macallister Manor!
Mr. Bingley said that there is one very wealthy fellow in particular he wishes Lizzy to become better acquainted with, but that headstrong child chose to sulk about the house all by herself! Oh, what am I to do?”
“You must calm yourself, Fanny,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, offering the older woman a vial of smelling salts.
“There is no mention of Jane being injured—I am sure there was a little jostling when the axle broke, but unless they were travelling a break-neck speed, there was no crashing involved in the ordeal.”
“Of course they were travelling in all haste,” Mrs. Bennet insisted, crying out as she took a whiff of the smelling salts and recoiled. “And poor Jane is too good-natured to ever complain!”
Mrs. Gardiner ignored Mrs. Bennet and continued, “Lizzy knows what she is about, though I am sure she did not choose to be left behind. There was so much disorder as we departed Longbourn, we must have just… forgotten her. But she is your cleverest daughter, and certainly capable of passing a few days alone, perfectly content. Do not forget, she has your excellent housekeeper Mrs. Hill to look after her.”
“Oh, sister,” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Oh, you are such a comfort! Yes, I am sure Lizzy is having a grand old time, laughing at us all, stuck in this ghastly storm! Well, if she can enjoy lolling about, reading all day with that horrid little creature Whiskerton, whom I know she is allowing all over the furniture—but there was no need for Mr. Bennet to chase after her and put himself in danger. Charles writes that Mr. Bennet has gone off with gypsies! He will likely be robbed and killed, and then what is to become of us all? We shall have to stay at Macallister Manor forever, even if there are not any eligible young men for my poor girls, for those Collinses will have us turned out of Longbourn before the new year!”
Mrs. Gardiner heaved a heavy sigh, staring out at the strangely soothing sight of the gentle, billowing snowfall, and then she began to repeat all her reassurances over again.
Elizabeth was grateful that Mrs. Hill had tidied Kitty and Lydia’s room that day, allowing for Georgiana to sleep alone and affording Elizabeth the same luxury.
Indeed, she would have likely frustrated her new friend, for she tossed and turned for what felt like many hours.
Ever since her family’s departure, each day had been stranger than the last. Her family had abandoned her, Longbourn was threatened by the very same officers whom her mother and younger sisters habitually fawned over, and now everything she had known about a man she loved to despise had been turned upside down.
He had rescued her from fainting in the snow, had pledged to assist her in defending her home from brigands, and according to his sister, he harbored a secret tendre for her. And, most shockingly of all, Elizabeth had begun to return his regard.
This would not do. Despite the pleasant, dizzying rush of dwelling in her feelings for him, Elizabeth refused to lay awake like some lovelorn idiot. She would infinitely prefer to read a book and take her mind off such matters of the heart—before her sentiments led her to mischief.
She crept silently downstairs, but stopped abruptly at the sight of flickering orange light pouring out from under the door at the end of the hall.
Had they left a fire burning in her father’s book room?
The light abruptly dimmed for a moment, a shadow of movement within the room.
The hairs on her arm raised, gooseflesh covering her skin beneath the thin nightgown and woolen shawl she had wrapped around herself.
Elizabeth remembered that Mrs. Hill had made a point of informing her where the sharpest, largest knives were kept when they had all been cooking together in the kitchen, and she took slow, careful steps toward the servants’ stairs to retrieve one now.
She might not have been able to navigate the unfamiliar kitchen, but for the moonlight that poured in through a high, wide window to her left, illuminating the block where a dozen knives of various sizes were stored.
She drew one out, laughing to herself as she felt like she had just drawn Excalibur from the stone.
She flicked her wrist a few times, testing the long knife, practicing how she might wield it when she confronted the intruder.
When Elizabeth returned upstairs, she clenched the knife in her hand as she moved stealthily toward the door, scarcely caring to breathe.
Once again Mrs. Hill had done her a good turn, for the hinges in the creaky old door had been oiled that morning, for the housekeeper had spent the day attending to obscure chores she was seldom able to make time for.
Elizabeth placed her hand on the doorknob and slowly twisted it, opening the door even as she wondered if she was making a terrible mistake, if she ought to have woken Mr. Darcy and asked for help.
She tipped her head back in relief and released the breath she had been holding, for there was only one bandit in the room; he wore a long, dark cloak, his back to her as he appeared to peruse the shelves of books beside the fireplace.
She had never considered that anything in this room might be of interest to the band of thieves hidden in the regiment—Harrington and Marveston had struck her as aggressively illiterate—but her father did own many rare volumes that must be valuable.
Her father also kept a pistol in his desk, she recalled.
And the desk was not five paces to her right; even if she alerted the villain to her presence, she could reach the weapon before he could reach her.
She moved the knife to her left hand as she surreptitiously made a play for the pistol, her mouth open and ready to scream or bite if needed.
The figure across the room moved, but only to replace a book on the shelf and reach for another, but Elizabeth froze with terror, certain the beating of her heart was loud enough to give her away.
Finally, she forced herself into motion, swiftly stepping toward the desk, opening the drawer, and grabbing the pistol.
The noise finally gave her away, and the intruder spun about, producing a pistol of his own and pointing it at her even as she did the same with her father’s weapon.
She gave a shriek of fright and fury and then bared her teeth, hellfire in her eyes as she raised the knife with her other hand, poised to attack.
The villain had moved directly in front of the fire as he turned about, and the cloak billowing from his shoulders blocked a great deal of the light in the room.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she saw Mr. Darcy lowering his weapon.
“Good God! Eliz- Miss Elizab- Miss Bennet!” He tucked the pistol into the waist of his trousers, and what Elizabeth now realized was a large woolen blanket fell away from his shoulders as he ran his hands down his face in dismay.
“Mr. Darcy!” She drew the shawl tighter around herself, mortification at war with relief in her chest. “I am so sorry—I… what are you doing?”
Before he could do more than take in the sight of her in such a state of undress, ready to commit ambidextrous violence, there were heavy footfalls in the corridor. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy exchanged a look of alarm before they each raised their weapons again.
They heard a string of oaths and taunts a moment before they saw the housekeeper charging into the room with her shotgun, her nightrail billowing around her short, stout frame. “Filthy animals, I’ll murder the lot of ye, I swear I shall, and make a stew of what’s left o’ ye right bastards!”
“Mrs. Hill,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice low and firm with just a hint of humor and horror. Elizabeth could say nothing at all, could barely stand from the fit of laughter that overpowered her.
Mrs. Hill lowered her weapon just a fraction as she squinted at them, and Mr. Darcy perceptively moved away from the fire, casting more light onto himself and Elizabeth.
“Oh, dear,” the kindly old woman said, resuming her usual demeanor.
“I heard a scream and feared the worst! I beg your pardon, sir, and you, Miss Lizzy. We won’t be mentionin’ this to your mother, eh? ”
“Certainly not,” Elizabeth managed to wheeze, still not recovered from her outburst of hilarity.
Once again Mr. Darcy was obliged to confiscate the shotgun. “I really must insist, though I commend your bravery, madam.”
“Well, arright. But, erm….” Mrs. Hill fidgeted with her hands for a moment before taking the knife from Elizabeth. “Sorry, my dear.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath and nodded, hoping she had given her housekeeper the look of a sane person. “I… ah….”