Chapter Seven #3
He will think of the murder of Mr. Hurst, as you should do. There is no other topic that unites you, not now nor ever again. It had become more important to remind herself of that fact since she had realized that it was a fact Mr. Darcy did not know.
Juliet asked, “Becky, were you not attending upon breakfast on the day of Mr. Hurst’s death? Did I not hear Mrs. Bingley say something to this effect?”
Becky’s smile faltered. “Indeed, miss. It was something terrible to see.”
It struck Juliet that many servants in such a situation, probably most, would have been frightened by such an inquiry and quick to deny any potential blame.
Becky’s confidence that she was trusted—that her employers did not and would not assign any measure of the guilt to her—spoke more to the Bingleys’ kindness than anything Juliet had yet seen.
Many who seem generous toward their equals become far meaner creatures when dealing with those of inferior wealth and social station.
“Will you tell me exactly what you remember of that morning?” Juliet went to her little writing box, readying paper, ink, and pen. “Please share every possible detail. Even those you believe irrelevant may ultimately be of some use.”
Becky had no chance to reply, for that moment, a voice came from the hallway. “Miss Tilney?”
“Oh—yes?” Juliet nodded for Becky to open the door wide, which revealed the Loftons, arm in arm, clearly heading down for breakfast themselves.
Mrs. Lofton behaved as though nothing were at all peculiar about her willingness to intrude upon Juliet’s time in her private room; it was Mr. Lofton who seemed to recognize the awkwardness of the situation, glancing from Juliet to Becky to the floor and back again.
“Are you coming down for breakfast?” Mrs. Lofton said. “We are of course pleased to walk with you, should you desire.”
There was no way in politeness to refuse such an offer, even though it bordered on impudence.
Did Mrs. Lofton mean to suggest that, through allowing her door to be opened, Juliet had abandoned all expectation of privacy?
“Of course,” she said. “Thank you for asking. I must exchange a few further words with Becky first—”
“What more could I tell you, miss?” Becky said.
“It was any other day up until then, wasn’t it?
Anyone who’d been in the breakfast room earlier that morning, early enough to see who came in and out, why, then that person would have something worth saying.
But as it is…” She sighed, then smiled. “You do like your hair, miss?”
“Very much, thank you, Becky,” Juliet said. Bereft of any further means of delay, she joined the Loftons to walk downstairs, have breakfast, and drink coffee out of very quietly, but carefully, inspected cups.
After the dismal Longbourn dinner the night before, which had not improved following the loathsome pea soup, Jonathan Darcy awoke hungry.
Breakfasts were more reliably enjoyable, Mr. Bennet being fond of good bacon, and thus great was Jonathan’s temptation to linger long over the morning meal.
However, his desire to return to Netherfield overruled all other impulses.
Both the investigation and Miss Tilney awaited there, and thither he would go as soon as possible.
(Lest Jonathan sound too fervent in his longing, it should be noted that he was also aware that Netherfield would have breakfast enough for him as well.) His grandparents were, as ever, glad enough to spare him, and so the grass still sparkled with dew as he set out on his horse for his aunt and uncle’s home.
The ride was a pleasant one, and autumn rains had smoothed the roads to the perfect state between the extremes of dust and mud.
Jonathan wondered what his parents would say if they knew he was riding every day instead of remaining swaddled by the fire as they would have insisted upon at home.
Best, of course, that they should know nothing until he had already proved himself fully recovered, hale, and furthermore the suitor of Miss Tilney…
Unless they came to stop him.
Aunt Jane said she would not write immediately, he remembered, but she must do so eventually. She will conceal Miss Tilney’s presence, but the investigation alone will summon one of my parents, and then all will be known.
His great alarm upon this realization distracted him sufficiently that he only very belatedly realized he was not the only person on the way to Netherfield this morning.
A carriage on the main road—lower than his gently hilly path, and thus clearly visible—bumped along at good speed, hinting at more haste than was seemly at breakfast. Jonathan’s first guess was that this would be Mr. Isaac Lucas, perhaps with some word regarding the case.
However, as the carriage passed him, he caught a glimpse of the liveried coachman and the silhouette of his passenger.
Yet it was that passenger’s hand upon the window, a gaudy ring shining upon it, that identified her beyond all doubt.
Where should Mrs. Hurst have gone so early in the morning? Jonathan asked himself. It appears she is come from Meryton, but why should she go to the village?
It was, of course, possible that this early errand was not of a nefarious nature, that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the recent demise of Mr. Hurst. Perhaps Mrs. Hurst had suddenly, unaccountably, decided she wished to be out and about of a morning.
Well did he recall Miss Tilney’s wise maxim: If a fact would not convince a jury of guilt, it should not convince them.
But what one fact alone could not do, many together could achieve—and this was one more unexplained action by Mrs. Hurst that must be considered in an increasingly suspicious light.