Chapter Four
The morning that was to bring their departure from Netherfield Park arrived with a gathering of low fog that clung to the house and grounds.
Elizabeth was dressed before eight. Her trunk had been packed the previous evening with a neatness that would have surprised her mother, who believed Elizabeth incapable of order, and had been sent downstairs before breakfast. The Netherfield carriage was ordered for ten.
There was nothing left to do but eat, say her farewells, and leave, and she intended to accomplish all three with cheerful efficiency: Elizabeth felt she had been a guest for quite long enough.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Mr Bingley was notably attentive to Jane, making Elizabeth smile into her teacup.
If she were not very much mistaken, Mr Bingley was by no means reconciled to having the object of his fledgling affections conveyed three miles away.
Elizabeth hardly knew what showed his interest more clearly: the warmth of his conversation with Jane, or the pensive silence into which he repeatedly fell, all the while looking longingly at Jane, as though she were about to disappear forever.
Mrs Hurst ate toast. Mr Darcy drank his tea and read a letter, declining to show any interest in their departure with refreshing honesty.
Miss Bingley was present, poised and immaculate as always, and offered observations about the weather and the road conditions with a brightness that seemed a little forced.
But likely she had slept poorly and wished to appear alert and intelligent for Mr Darcy regardless.
Elizabeth ate her eggs and thought about Longbourn.
She thought about her father’s study, and the distinctive smell of it — leather and paper and the faint ghost of pipe smoke he had given up six years ago but which had never entirely left the curtains.
Elizabeth longed for the lane behind the house, still walkable in November if one dressed sensibly, and how the beech trees looked at this time of year, stripped and angular against the sky.
And, though the accommodation at Netherfield were quite comfortable, she longed for her own bed.
By half-past nine she was ready in every way and found herself, for the first time all week, without occupation.
All at once, Elizabeth realised she still had a book from the Netherfield collection, borrowed on the second day of her visit, that she had not yet returned to its proper shelf.
It was a volume of essays, solidly written, occasionally interesting, and entirely the sort of thing she might have abandoned at home but had been grateful for in the absence of better alternatives.
The book sat on the small table in Jane’s room, where she had left it the previous evening, and, glad to have some purpose to pass the time, Elizabeth determined to return it on her way downstairs.
The task would take her only a little out of her way, and she would then be free to take her seat in the entrance hall and count down the remaining time to ten o’clock with a clear conscience.
Elizabeth took up the book, kissed Jane on the cheek (having been judged not quite steady enough for so daunting a task as walking down a staircase unsupported, Jane was to follow at a slower pace, and on Mr Bingley’s arm), and went out into the corridor.
The library occupied the eastern side of the ground floor, next to a smaller room that the household referred to as the study.
Doubtless the study had been important once, but it was now used mainly for correspondence and the storage of books that had not quite made the grade for the main library — books such as her collection of essays.
Elizabeth pushed open the door and stepped inside.
A single window admitted what light the morning had to offer, though owing to the cloudiness of the day, this was not much.
Two walls were lined floor to ceiling with the overflow volumes, a writing desk occupied the centre, and the air was filled with a comforting smell of old paper.
She crossed to the shelf nearest the window, found the gap where the volume of essays had lived, and slid it back into place. She turned to leave, and was surprised to see Mr Darcy standing in the doorway, caught in the act of stepping inside.
He stopped when he saw her. It was a fractional pause, the kind that registers surprise and recovers from it in the same movement. He inclined his head with usual politeness.
Elizabeth paused too, both from surprise and because he was between her and the exit, and returned the gesture.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Forgive me, I did not know the room was occupied. I only came to —” He glanced at the writing desk, where several letters lay in a neat stack awaiting postage. “I have letters to send,” he concluded abruptly.
“And I have just finished returning a book,” Elizabeth said. “The room is quite at your disposal.”
She moved to pass him, and he stepped aside. At precisely that moment, the door swung closed, the handle turned, and the mechanism engaged, sealing them inside.
Both of them looked at the door, perplexed. There was a slight sound outside, as of footsteps hurrying away.
Mr Darcy crossed to the door at once and tried the handle. It did not yield. He frowned, applying greater force. The brass held fast.
Elizabeth approached, curiosity overcoming alarm. “Is it stuck?”
“It appears to be locked.”
“Is there a latch on this side? Perhaps we may simply unlock it.”
Mr Darcy tested it again. “No, I am afraid not.” He straightened and looked at the door for a moment with the expression of a man rapidly reviewing several possibilities and finding none of them pleasant.
A distinct sound of footsteps came from the hallway. Elizabeth was at the point of calling out for aid when Mr Darcy touched her arm to forestall her. “Remain silent,” he commanded her in an urgent whisper.
She blinked. “Remain —”
“For your sake.” His voice was low but urgent. “You naturally wish to get out, of course. But you must be silent, or risk causing a scandal.”
Elizabeth stared at him, incredulous. “Mr Darcy, I cannot imagine that silence will render our situation less peculiar.”
Mr Darcy’s hand closed briefly on Elizabeth’s arm. She went still.
“Not a word,” he said, quietly and close to her ear, so that she felt more than heard it. “If someone finds us here —” He swallowed hard. With a feeling of unreality, Elizabeth saw his throat move, and knew Mr Darcy to be feeling as overcome as herself.
“We must make it appear as though only I am here,” he finished in a whisper.
Elizabeth nodded. It was, perhaps, for the best. She hardly felt as though she could speak.
“Who is there?” Darcy called, leaning forward. “Please alert the housekeeper. I have been shut in.”
A beat of quiet. Then, in a tone of great surprise: “Mr Darcy? Why, whatever has happened to you?”
Elizabeth recognised the voice a half-second before he did, or at least before he showed it.
“Miss Bingley,” Mr Darcy said evenly. “I must call upon your aid. It seems I have had the misfortune of becoming locked in. Could you —”
“Locked in!” Miss Bingley exclaimed. “Good heavens! I shall go for the key directly, Mr Darcy. I shall have it resolved in a moment.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief. Miss Bingley could not wish for Mr Darcy to suffer any discomfort in her brother’s house.
Then, too, she would relish being the one to rescue him from even a slight inconvenience.
Likely she would be back within moments.
Then there would come the minor difficulty of hiding herself while Mr Darcy left the room, but as no one would expect to see her, nor wish to find her there, it should be managed easily enough.
And then the little mishap would be quickly over, and as quickly forgotten.
Surely she could trust Miss Bingley for that much.
∞∞∞
Five minutes passed, measured by the slow transit of weak light across the floor and the increasing discomfort of standing in the centre of a room with nothing to do.
Elizabeth moved to the window and looked out at the east lawn, which was wet and grey and offered nothing of interest. Mr Darcy moved to the writing desk, looked at the letters stacked there, and did not pick them up.
The silence stretched between them, growing increasingly awkward.
“She will have had difficulty locating the housekeeper,” Elizabeth said.
“Very likely,” said Mr Darcy.
Elizabeth and Mr Darcy froze as the door handle rattled and jiggled. Someone must have attempted to turn it, though without result.
“Hello?” Elizabeth called out by reflex, before clapping her hand over her mouth. How thoughtless, how utterly thoughtless! Her eyes, wide and horrified, met those of Mr Darcy. Well, there was nothing for it now.
A pause, then a youthful voice spoke, sounding alarmed. “Excuse me, miss? The door won’t open. Is someone in there?”
“Two of us,” Elizabeth said, “and very eager to be let out. Can you find Mrs Nicholls, please? As quickly as possible.”
“Yes, miss.” The maid hurried away.
Mr Darcy and Elizabeth looked at each other as the footsteps faded once more.
“Well,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes,” said Mr Darcy.
At twenty minutes, neither of them said anything.
The eastern corridor was not close to the housekeeper’s room, and the key could have been anywhere in a house of this size.
In the butler’s pantry, on the ring kept in the kitchens, in a drawer that nobody had opened in six months. These things took time.
Elizabeth told herself this and found it reasonable, and told herself again, and found it slightly less so.
They bore the silence as comfortably as they could, which was increasingly difficult with every passing minute. The fire had not been lit this morning, as the study was not a room that saw much daily use, and the November cold was beginning to make its presence known.