The Work of a Moment (Pride, Prejudice and Romance)

1. An Exercise in Eavesdropping

An Exercise in Eavesdropping

Elizabeth Bennet would curse herself later for her restlessness, but after hours spent at her sister’s bedside, she was desperately in need of fresh air and diversion.

Perhaps she could steal a few moments for a walk in Netherfield’s garden or at least visit its library and find a book amongst its meagre offerings.

Relieved that Jane was at last deeply asleep, she slipped through the door then paused for a long moment to stretch her arms and roll her neck.

The brightness of the corridor roused her from the odd stupor in which she had found herself.

Her sister’s fever and ensuing head pain had compelled Elizabeth to keep the draperies closed, creating a dark but restful mood in the bedchamber.

Now she felt as if she had emerged into a new world.

The previous day’s storms had passed, and sunlight poured through the tall windows at the end of the long corridor.

Sunbeams danced on the floor, making a delightful display of the dust collecting along the floor mouldings.

She was drawn towards the window, eager to peer outside and see the woods and vistas denied her the past two days spent indoors caring for her sister.

She leant her head against the cool panes and admired the blue of the sky, the faded reds and browns of the lawns and trees, and even nearer, a lone rider returning to the stables.

She immediately recognised the tall figure astride the black horse to be Mr Darcy, likely returning from finding fault with Netherfield’s rocks and streams.

Hoping to avoid encountering him in the main hall, Elizabeth walked towards the servants’ door and moved quickly down the stairs to what she recalled would be the corridor nearest the library. As she began to slide open the pocket door, she was met with a quiet murmur of conversation.

“I do understand.” The man’s deep voice was marked by frustration. “My patience is taxed, but I shall wait.”

A woman replied, “’Tis for the best.”

Had it been as gloomy as the day prior, Elizabeth would not have discerned the couple speaking in hushed voices only a few feet from her.

But even without a clear view of Mr Bingley standing close to a petite, red-haired housemaid, she would recognise his warm tones anywhere, having heard them only the night before when he had asked after Jane’s comfort.

Discomfited as she was by the portrait they made, Elizabeth’s first thought was to shut the door and return upstairs.

Stepping into the corridor and pretending she had seen and heard nothing would create awkwardness in what was undoubtedly an innocent situation.

Hesitant, she remained hidden behind the half-opened door.

Something about the scene made her uneasy.

While she did not doubt Mr Bingley was a man of good character, the sight of him whispering to a servant girl was odd.

Whatever they were discussing must be of some urgency for him to place himself in such a questionable position.

After all, it was a housekeeper’s place to speak to a maid, certainly not that of her employer—especially a gentleman—whilst concealed in the shadows of a rarely used passage.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, deciding that her curiosity would only be assuaged by learning the nature of their conversation. The girl spoke softly, with more assurance and less deference than expected.

“None of the servants will speak of what occurs within the family’s private chambers.”

“Nor should they,” Mr Bingley replied in a low voice. “It would be dreadful if anyone other than Darcy were to know of our arrangement.”

“Of course.”

“Here, this is for you,” he murmured.

Elizabeth peeked through the door opening to see Mr Bingley placing a small bag in the maid’s hand and saying, “I shall come later—”

Nearly breathless with shock, she slid the door shut and ran softly up the stairs.

Her thoughts raced. She was bewildered by the intimacy she had just witnessed.

Never had she seen a gentleman behave so familiarly, and yet so furtively, with a young female servant.

And for it to be Mr Bingley—the man whose cheerful attentions had seemed directed solely towards Jane!

As desperate to avoid her sister as she had been eager to evade Mr Darcy mere minutes ago, Elizabeth walked quickly past the closed door of Jane’s chamber—I cannot allow her to see me.

Not now!—and within moments, she was descending the front stairs.

Fortunately, beyond a footman standing by the door, the entry hall was empty.

She burst into the library, gasping, and leant against the back of the sofa to regain her composure. Mr Bingley and a servant girl? She tried to reason with herself, to determine she was mistaken.

The master of the house was speaking to a servant girl. There is nothing so unusual in that!

But it was unusual, especially in a house the size of Netherfield.

Mr Bennet would speak to Hill or Mrs Hill, but rarely was he in a room with Molly, the housemaid, and never without another female present.

Netherfield had many more rooms and servants, but it was never proper for a gentleman to speak to a female servant in such a familiar manner.

Shaken, she began pacing the room, arguing with herself over what she had heard.

Mr Bingley was friendly and pleasant. If he preferred cards to books and dancing to drainage inspections, he was no different from many men.

Perhaps, as Jane believed, he was singular in his goodness.

After all, would most men be as indulgent of such disagreeable sisters and friends and remain as welcoming to everyone in Meryton?

But was he too welcoming and too indulgent?

He had never scolded those sisters or showed curiosity about his neighbours beyond their sociability.

What had he admitted of himself? That he was impulsive and quick to act.

Those were faults shared by many, including Lydia, but Mr Bingley was an educated gentleman and expected to know better.

Could a man who lacked steadiness be trusted with the heart of her most beloved sister?

What sort of man is he, wooing Jane and charming the neighbourhood with his smiles and joviality whilst behaving so indiscreetly with a young female servant?

Innocent though she might be, Elizabeth had read a few novels. They lent colour to her imagination as she began to comprehend the possibility that she and her sister were under the same roof as a libertine. Could it be possible that Mr Bingley, kind and genial Mr Bingley, would behave so?

I thought Mr Hurst to be the loutish one, but he abuses the wine, not the servants!

Miss Bingley made a display of enjoying her position as mistress of Netherfield, always quick to remind others, especially the servants, that she was their better. Was her brother also one to take advantage of his position and simply more prudent when guests were about?

Perhaps she and Jane had misread Mr Bingley’s character. In truth, they scarcely knew him. Theirs was an acquaintance of mere weeks—what did they truly know about him or anyone in his party?

Her fists clenched, she stormed to the window, sickened that she and Jane were confined in Mr Bingley’s house. Mr Bingley, a man who was well on his way to capturing Jane’s tender heart! Who could have imagined such fickle lovemaking?

Resting her head against the glass panes as before, she strove to calm herself. Do not be a goose, Lizzy. You must have misunderstood what you saw. Jane and I will return to Longbourn, and then I shall—

“Miss Elizabeth?”

Startled, she turned to find Mr Darcy standing just inside the library.

His coat was splattered with mud, and his hair was less than perfectly groomed.

Everything in his appearance was altered from his usual pristine shine, but it was his expression that disturbed her.

Alarm? Or was it annoyance upon finding she had invaded his retreat?

Why was he here in such a state of muddy disarray?

Heat rose to her cheeks as she fumbled to reply.

“Are you well? Has Miss Bennet—?”

“She is well. As am I,” she said, shaking her head.

Mr Darcy’s grim and unwavering stare made it obvious that her answer did not give him satisfaction.

He stepped farther into the room, farther into the haven she had hoped to claim as her own.

With him he brought the smell of the brisk autumn wind, of leaves and dirt—of the fresh air and freedom she sought.

“Have you misplaced a book?” the gentleman asked. “As you see, there are few here, and even fewer of interest or quality.”

“I would agree. Please excuse me.”

Moving quickly past him, Elizabeth fled the room, intent on escaping unpleasant people and dispiriting events with a long walk through the gardens.