Chapter 9 #2
Georgiana made that half-choking sound while we hauled Miss Bingley to her feet, or foot.
The last quarter-mile was the worst—the ground was soft and slippery.
My half-boots, already saturated, lost all pretense of grip, so that the three of us lurched and staggered like a creature from a Gothic novel, six-legged and graceless and heading for the house with the desperate, listing determination of a ship making port in a gale.
Caroline’s riding habit caught on a hedge and tore at the hem with a sound that drew from her a cry of such anguish that one would have thought the fabric was her firstborn.
“That habit cost seven guineas,” she lamented.
“The ankle will heal, and the habit can be mended.”
“You do not understand. It was made to match specifically—” She stopped, pressing her lips together, and I realized she had been about to say something about who the habit was designed to impress, and the admission would have cost her more than the seven guineas.
We rounded the corner of the stable block, and Netherfield’s entrance came into view—the broad gravel sweep, the stone steps, the door that was, blessedly, standing open because a groom had seen us coming and had alerted the household.
And in front of that door, still in his riding coat and boots, stood Fitzwilliam Darcy.
He saw us, and he rushed down the steps.
“Good God.” He reached for his sister first—his eyes scanning her face. “Georgie, are you hurt?”
“I am perfectly well,” she assured him. “Miss Bennet managed everything.”
Caroline, who had endured a mile and a half of mud and indignity in anticipation of arriving at precisely this audience, did not intend to be overlooked.
“Mr. Darcy—” Her voice cracked, a sound expertly calibrated between pain and the register of a woman who wished it understood that she had suffered and that suffering, in a just world, would be rewarded with the strong arms of a tall gentleman carrying her across the threshold.
She shifted on our shoulders, angling herself toward him. “I am in considerable pain.”
Her words engaged his authority. “Mrs. Nicholls, have Tom and Jerry carry Miss Bingley into the drawing room. Then send for Mr. Jones. Bring blankets and a cold compress to the drawing room.”
Two footmen appeared, and we relinquished our load. I rubbed my shoulder, and Georgiana exhaled, swiping her hand over her sweaty brow. Darcy gave Georgiana an arm and then, looking back at me offered his other arm.
“Miss Bennet—”
“I am capable of managing myself, Mr. Darcy. I have been doing it all morning.”
“Take his arm,” Georgiana suggested, and then with a half-grin, added, “He won’t bite.”
My face felt as red as a beet, and yes, I took his arm, documenting this moment with the reluctance of someone confessing a personal failing.
The alternative—standing in mud-caked boots on the gravel while a seventeen-year-old girl insisted I accept an offer I hadn’t asked for—was an absurdity my pride couldn’t endure.
His coat sleeve felt warm under my fingers, and his arm was steadier than mine, which was trembling from the effort of dragging Caroline Bingley across several fields.
This trembling was purely physical and had absolutely nothing to do with the warmth of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s forearm.
Georgiana, on his other arm, caught my eye across the front of her brother’s chest and gave me a look of such uncomplicated mischief that I nearly stumbled. Who was this girl who had been so curt with me two days ago and was now teasing me about her brother?
I released Darcy’s arm the moment we crossed into the hall. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet, I must—”
“Later.” The word came out firmer than I intended, but the alternative was having this conversation while wearing half a field of mud. “I should like to change first, if you have no objection.”
He inclined his head. The muscle in his jaw twitched—he had something to say and was choosing not to, a display of restraint. This deliberate withholding was evident, and though I shouldn’t have, I found it fascinating.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” he said, turning. “Please have hot baths drawn for Miss Darcy and Miss Bennet.”
“Already underway, sir,” Mrs. Nicholls replied. “The water is heating. I have also laid out fresh linens and sent Sarah up to attend to both ladies.”
It was at this moment that Cinnamon made her entrance, appearing at the top of the stairs like a feline deus ex machina. She descended gracefully, wound once around my ankles, and mewed plaintively. “At least someone is glad to see me,” I murmured.
“She was on my desk again this morning,” Darcy remarked, and I found myself unable to determine whether his words were meant as an apology, a complaint, or a peace offering.
I resolved not to dwell on it. First, I would attend to the bath and the cat. Only then would I allow myself to confront the terrible, inconvenient admission that when Georgiana had said he won’t bite, something in my chest had answered, more’s the pity.
That was not an appropriate thought for a companion. I mention it only so that the record is complete.