Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PROSPECT
Elizabeth
I found the gentleman’s cravat at dawn.
It was draped across my pillow alongside my fickle cat, who had returned to me sometime in the night. The guilty partner herself sat beside it, wearing the expression of a creature who had performed a tremendous service and was awaiting the praise it merited.
“Cinnamon,” I whispered. “What have you done?”
She blinked slowly, which in cat language translates to you are welcome.
There was no mistaking the owner of this fine white linen, now sadly wrinkled after what I could only imagine was a perilous journey through the hidden passages behind the library wall.
The faint aroma of shaving soap and sandalwood clung to its fibers, a fact I noted purely by chance and certainly not because I had lifted it to my face for closer inspection—a point I wish to emphasize most emphatically.
I could not send it to the laundry. Mrs. Nicholls would have the entire servants’ hall speculating about marriage and christening children before luncheon.
Abandoning it in the corridor was equally unthinkable—a gentleman’s cravat discovered outside a lady’s bedchamber would spell ruin for us both ere the breakfast bell tolled.
And returning it in person was laughable at best. One does not approach one’s employer before the morning meal bearing an item of his clothing to declare, My cat has stolen your cravat and deposited it on my pillow, which I assure you is less romantic than it sounds.
Instead, I did what every plucky Gothic romance heroine did: I secreted it in my bottom drawer beneath a stack of clean chemises and resolved to address the problem later, I knew not when.
“You,” I told the wretched beast, “are no friend to my nerves.”
She ignored me, naturally, grooming herself with the indifference of a creature with a spotless conscience.
I dressed in my second-best muslin—the superior gown having suffered grievously during yesterday’s sow encounter—and twisted my hair against my nape. Setting aside the mangled bonnet, I chose the plainer one with brown ribbons, because in my experience, brown ribbons never vanished or got dirty.
If my extended presence at Netherfield was, as Mr. Darcy had once insinuated, designed to prod his sister toward maturity, I felt equally obliged to offer him the same vexing courtesy.
Scooping my unrepentant cat into my arms, I descended the stairs, ready to unleash my irritating cheer upon the breakfast room.
Caroline Bingley presided from her usual chair, ankle arranged on the footstool.
The offending appendage was wrapped in white linen as if it were an offering to a god.
The three gentlemen were each tucked behind open newspapers when the footman plodded in with a silver tray laden with correspondence, which he deposited beside the toast rack.
“Louisa,” Caroline’s imperious voice cut through the rustle of newsprint, “is there something for me?” Her tone suggested she addressed not a sister, but a mere servant.
Mrs. Hurst calmly examined the post with the thoroughness of a woman who receives very little of interest but inspects it like her birthright. I waited until she was seated before taking my correspondence.
“Caroline, I believe there is but one piece for you.” Mrs. Hurst extracted a note that bore my mother’s unmistakable hand and the Bennet seal. “From an unknown correspondent.”
“Ah,” Caroline said, breaking the seal on Mama’s letter. “An invitation from Mrs. Bennet.” She scanned it with the expression of a woman detecting an unpleasant smell. “Dinner. Three days hence. How… rustic.”
“We accepted yesterday,” Bingley said from behind his newspaper. “I look forward to it enormously. Mrs. Bennet’s cook produces the finest rabbit pie in the county, possibly the country, and I say that as a man who has eaten rabbit pie in four counties.”
“Five,” Darcy said, without looking up from his newspaper. “You told them five yesterday.”
“Did I? Well, then, five counties, and Mrs. Bennet’s is still the finest.” He lowered the paper with the bright optimism of a man for whom every morning presents fresh opportunities.
“I wonder whether Miss Bennet, that is, Jane, might save me the first set at the assembly. Do you know when the next one is, Miss Elizabeth?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Caroline spoke first.
“Louisa, I require a trip to Meryton,” she announced. “Mr. Jones’s draught has quite run out, and my ankle simply will not bear another night without it. Might you take the carriage?”
Mrs. Hurst’s hand hovered above the marmalade dish. “I did not find the ribbons I wanted on my last trip, and Mrs. Grant mentioned a new delivery of Brussels lace—”
“Then it is settled. Charles, you will escort Louisa. I cannot ride in a carriage without distress, and I shall be quite settled in the music room while Miss Darcy undertakes her daily practice.”
“Happy to,” Bingley said, with the agreeableness of a man for whom Meryton errands are neither burden nor pleasure but simply the next thing on offer. “Though I confess I had thought we might all walk this morning—the weather is very fine.”
“Walk?” Caroline’s hand fluttered to her ankle.
“Oh! Forgive me, Caro. The ankle, to be sure.” Bingley turned toward the opposite chair. “Darcy, will you join us? I recall your mentioning the necessity of a sturdier inkstand from the stationer.”
Caroline’s eyes snapped toward the dark head still hiding behind the news.
“A footman might procure an inkstand easily enough. Surely, Mr. Darcy, your presence at Netherfield would afford Georgiana a far greater comfort. The dear girl’s playing is always so much more…
exact… when she knows you are listening. ”
“I would vastly prefer the open air,” Georgiana interjected from the window seat.
She watched not her formidable brother, but me, a spark of determined rebellion brightening her gaze.
“I should so like to attempt Oakham Mount again. We never saw the summit after Miss Bingley’s unfortunate incident in the lower pasture.
The prospect from the top continues to tempt my curiosity. ”
“An excellent suggestion,” I said, before Caroline could redirect. “Oakham Mount has a view of four counties on a clear day, and today appears obliging.”
“Three counties,” Darcy said. “The fourth is only visible in imagination.”
“Then we shall pack our most formidable imaginations, sir, and discover all four.”
A distinct chill descended upon Caroline’s features. “Given yesterday’s mud and that thoroughly unrefined rampage after the livestock, I had assumed a quiet morning of embroidery and sonatas would be paramount.”
“Miss Darcy has already expressed her preference,” I countered pleasantly.
“A companion’s chief responsibility is to nurture her charge’s blooming interests, not suffocate them beneath endless needlework.
You must enjoy the pianoforte without us, Miss Bingley.
A footman can position your velvet stool at the exact therapeutic angle Mr. Jones prescribes. ”
Caroline’s jaw parted in the manner of a woman who had been offered exactly what she claimed to want and found it insulting.
I believe I should like to evaluate these four counties for myself,” Darcy said, setting down his coffee cup with a finality that suggested the programme for the morning had been decided, and the deciding had not been difficult. “Or three, if Miss Bennet’s cartography proves optimistic.”
“Then perhaps I might come along.” Caroline shifted as though preparing to rise. “The fresh air—”
“Miss Bingley, Oakham Mount is a considerable climb,” Darcy interjected, his tone a blend of concern and what might have been thinly veiled relief. “The path is uneven and the ascent rather steep. I should not recommend it for a recovering ankle.”
“Heavens, no,” I agreed, adopting a tone of wounded gravity. “The terrain would be quite punishing. I twisted my own ankle there as a girl, and I was wearing sturdy boots and had the full advantage of youth and recklessness.”
“Moreover, the very sheep field of your tragic accident lies directly across our path,” Georgiana added, her voice a marvel of innocent kindness. “Populated, I am sure, by the identical beasts.”
“Well.” Caroline settled her shoulders against the chair with an air of injured dignity. “I shall remain indoors to attend my correspondence. Do take care to manage Georgiana.”
Georgiana collected her bonnet from the side table. “I assure you, Miss Bingley, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Perhaps it is my brother who requires looking after.”
Darcy reached for his hat, but not before his gaze met mine, ever so briefly. Neither of us dared to meet Georgiana’s mischievous eyes, but a glance at Caroline revealed her mouth pinched as if she had bitten into one of our sour orchard apples.
“Before I forget, Caro,” Bingley called out, oblivious to the bristling air, “do ensure passing our formal acceptance to Mrs. Bennet. We should loathe to appear ungracious.”
I didn’t need to say more, as Darcy stood from the table, his mouth moving in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but was undeniably approaching one. “Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, I wish you a good day.”
I must confess, my heart swelled with immense pride at Georgiana’s resolute stance against Caroline’s machinations.
So it was with buoyant spirits that the three of us—Georgiana, Darcy, and myself—slipped through the garden door on our expedition, leaving Caroline with her ankle swelling on a footstool.
Mrs. Jolliffe, ever thoughtful, had pressed a basket into my hands: bread, cheese, apples, and a flask of apple juice. Darcy promptly relieved me of the burden before the weight could properly settle.