Chapter Four The Horrors of Polite Society #3
“Your valet informed me that the silver punch bowl travelling through the upper passage this morning belongs to you.”
Mr Darcy stared straight ahead. “Yes, it does.”
The certainty of his answer confirmed that Fletcher had reported the entire ridiculous encounter. Elizabeth pressed on. “He mentioned magnetism, intense gravity, and very old silver.”
Mr Darcy did not blink. “Those are the principal elements.”
Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “I had not previously known that magnetism inspired deep affection for slippers.”
Mr Darcy directed a brief, unreadable glance at her feet before restoring his scrutiny to her face. “The mechanics are imperfect.”
Elizabeth stepped slightly closer. “Does the bowl often roam freely?”
Mr Darcy shifted his weight. “It has an incredibly unfortunate resistance to confinement.”
Elizabeth smirked. “Punch bowls should not have firm opinions about confinement, Mr Darcy.”
His voice was dry as tinder. “I have made that exact observation repeatedly, but I keep being ignored.”
She studied him closely, searching for ridicule and finding only caution. She lowered her voice further. “Is it dangerous?”
Mr Darcy met her gaze. “It has injured several candlesticks and one footman’s dignity, but it has never harmed anyone, to my knowledge.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Why did Fletcher have to remove it from my hem by force?”
Mr Darcy’s jaw ticked. “I can only assume that a material in your slippers attracted it. Think no more of it, Miss Elizabeth.”
Miss Bingley increased the volume of her performance. Mr Darcy did not turn towards the pianoforte, and Elizabeth realised that conversation became easier when Miss Bingley’s loud music prevented her from occupying it.
She narrowed her eyes. “You are concealing something.”
Mr Darcy folded his hands behind his broad back. “You have reached that conclusion through a punch bowl?”
“The bowl merely joined an existing body of evidence.”
Mr Darcy stepped slightly closer. “What other evidence have you collected?”
Into Elizabeth’s mind came the untouched food, the wineglass, and the walls where no mirror reflected the crowded room. Her eyes landed on Mr Hurst, who was motionless by the blazing fire. She offered a mysterious smile. “I have not completed my investigation.”
Mr Darcy’s expression altered again, and this time she recognised amusement before he suppressed it. “Should I prepare myself for interrogation?”
Elizabeth turned away. “You may prepare whatever ridiculous explanation you prefer. I shall decide whether it deserves belief.”
Mrs Nicholls entered the room before he could respond. Jane was comfortable but had awakened and wished for Elizabeth. Mr Bingley rose, restrained himself from approaching the housekeeper, and waited nervously while Elizabeth received the final report.
She left the drawing room aware that Mr Darcy’s intense gaze followed her to the door.
He had repeated Fletcher’s absurd account because both men had agreed on it, not because either expected her to believe it.
Elizabeth was certain of it. But she had no intention of challenging him again that evening.
Jane needed her, and mysteries rarely improved through impatient questioning.
Eventually, however, she would discover what was happening at Netherfield.
JANE’S FEVER brOKE shortly before three in the morning.
Elizabeth woke abruptly when Jane pushed away the coverlet and complained that the room had become far too warm.
The heat under her skin had lessened, light perspiration dampened her hairline, and her breathing no longer carried the shallow effort that had troubled Elizabeth throughout the long night.
The tired maid Mrs Nicholls had placed in the adjoining dressing room changed the linen and assured them that Mr Jones would consider the development excellent.
By breakfast, Jane had enough strength to sit against the pillows and eat half a slice of toast. Her complexion was pale, but her eyes were far clearer, and the faint smile that appeared when Mrs Nicholls mentioned Mr Bingley did not escape Elizabeth.
Mrs Nicholls placed the breakfast tray between them. “He has sent another enquiry. He wishes to know whether Miss Bennet slept, whether her fever has altered, and whether she requires anything that has not yet been provided.”
Elizabeth poured Jane’s tea carefully. “Has he discovered anything Netherfield has not already provided?”
Mrs Nicholls’s mouth twitched. “He proposed a pianoforte during the night, miss, in case music might assist her recovery.”
Jane’s cup paused before reaching her lips. “He did not!”
Mrs Nicholls sniffed. “Mr Darcy persuaded him that transporting one up the grand staircase at two in the morning might have the opposite effect.”
Elizabeth placed the teapot on the tray before amusement endangered it. “There, Jane. You have inspired a devotion strong enough to rearrange furniture.”
Jane attempted severity, but the bright colour in her cheeks had very little connection to fever. “Mr Bingley is attentive to all his guests.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I tremble to imagine what he offers to those he particularly values. The billiard table may reach this chamber before luncheon.”
Jane ate another portion of toast and appeared better for it. Once Mrs Nicholls returned, Elizabeth wrote a brief note for Longbourn, informing her father that the fever had broken and requesting that he should not dispatch the carriage until Mr Jones approved Jane’s removal.
Jane settled lower against the pillows. “You should go outside for a little while. You have scarcely left this room since you arrived.”
Elizabeth stretched. “I left it exactly long enough to be pursued by tableware.”
Jane’s expression became gently doubtful. “You were tired, Lizzy. Perhaps you misunderstood.”
“I was fully awake, and the punch bowl was determined.”
Jane smiled weakly. “Perhaps Netherfield has unusual customs.”
Elizabeth huffed. “That specific explanation has been offered for everything except the punch bowl, which has been attributed to science.”
Jane pressed her lips tightly together, although laughter escaped them. “Go for your walk, Lizzy. Mrs Nicholls will remain nearby, and I promise not to receive any musical instruments while you are gone.”
Elizabeth waited patiently until the housekeeper returned, then collected her bonnet after descending by the correct guest staircase.
The morning had cleared at last, leaving the grounds damp under a pale sky.
She followed the gravel path beyond the terrace, remaining within sight of the house while she stretched limbs stiffened by sleeping on the small cot.
Fresh air ought to have settled her thoughts.
Instead, the peculiarities of Netherfield followed her.
People who never ate, rooms without mirrors, bodies that became unnaturally still, a punch bowl capable of independent travel, and Mr Darcy, who seemed to know the explanation for everything while providing true answers to nothing.
Loud hoofbeats interrupted the internal catalogue.
A black stallion emerged from beyond the trees, advancing like a storm given hooves.
The animal was truly enormous, its coat almost blue under the weak sunlight, and its long mane flying behind a head constructed of massive proportions.
Mr Darcy sat in the saddle, one gloved hand controlling enough muscle and bad temper to flatten the shrubbery.
Elizabeth moved swiftly from the centre of the muddy path, but the horse noticed her and altered its course.
Mr Darcy drew sharply on the reins. The stallion stopped several feet away, struck the wet ground forcefully with one hoof, and released a huge cloud of breath through flared nostrils.
Elizabeth resisted the sensible impulse to retreat farther.
Predatory interest did not improve merely because it belonged to a well-bred horse.
Mr Darcy dismounted and kept a firm hold on the bridle. “Miss Elizabeth, you should not stand so near him.”
“I was farther away until he corrected the distance.”
Mr Darcy tightened his grip. “He is not accustomed to strangers.”
“He has a very direct method of introducing himself,” Elizabeth said.