The Best Room in the House #3
The maid curtseyed and came forward, though not with perfect ease. She set the candles on the small table near the window, glanced once towards the door, and then towards Elizabeth.
“Miss Bingley said the library was too dark, miss.”
“That was thoughtful of her.”
The maid made no answer. She adjusted one of the candles, though it seemed to Elizabeth that it had stood perfectly well before, then looked again towards the door.
“Will there be anything else, miss?”
“No, thank you.”
The maid curtseyed and withdrew. The door stuck as she pulled it closed, and for a moment Elizabeth thought she would leave it ajar. Then the girl gave it a firmer tug. It shut with a sound too decisive for so unwilling a door.
Elizabeth looked at it for a moment, then returned to The Spectator.
A quarter of an hour later, the door opened again. This time it did not do so easily. It caught, resisted, and then yielded with a scrape that made Elizabeth look up. Mr Darcy stood in the doorway. For one foolish moment she thought he looked exactly as though he had expected to find her there.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you.”
“You have not disturbed me. I was only failing to read.”
His eyes moved to the book in her hand. “The Spectator usually bears neglect with dignity.”
“I am relieved to hear it. I should dislike to offend an old acquaintance.”
“An old acquaintance?” he said.
“When one has met a book often enough in other people’s houses, one may claim some familiarity with it.”
“Then Netherfield has supplied you with a friend.”
“A silent one, at least.”
His face changed by the smallest degree. “That is sometimes the best kind.”
“Spoken by someone who has spent too much time with books.”
“Or with people who require more answer than one is prepared to give.”
Elizabeth looked at him over the edge of the volume. “That sounds like a dangerous distinction, Mr Darcy.”
“It has often proved so.”
Elizabeth closed the book upon one finger. “I hope I do not require more answer than you are prepared to give.”
“No,” he said at once.
The speed of it made them both still. Then he looked down, as though the pattern of the carpet had become suddenly important. “You ask questions as if you do not mean to corner a person.”
“That is because I generally do not.”
“Generally?”
“I reserve the right to corner people when they deserve it.”
His mouth softened. “And have I deserved it?”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth said. “But I am watching you with great attention.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
“That,” he said, “is not very reassuring.”
“It was not intended to be. I find reassurance is often wasted on gentlemen. They either do not believe it or do not deserve it.”
“And which am I?”
“I have not yet decided.”
He should have smiled. Elizabeth expected him to. Instead his face grew thoughtful, and for a moment the pleasant ease between them shifted into something quieter.
“I hope,” he said, “that when you do decide, you will not find me wanting.”
It was too serious for the jest that had preceded it. Elizabeth’s hand tightened slightly upon The Spectator. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Elizabeth became aware of a smell that did not belong to the room.
Not the coal fire, nor the faint waxiness of the candles, but something sharper. Hot cloth. Scorched dust. The unpleasant scent of something beginning where it ought not.
Mr Darcy lifted his head at the same instant. Elizabeth followed his gaze.
The curtain nearest the small table had caught. At first it was only a thin line of flame along the lower fold, so slight that Elizabeth stared at it in disbelief. Then it found the dry edge of the fabric and ran upward with terrifying speed.
“Move back,” Mr Darcy said.
She was already on her feet. He crossed the room in three strides, seized the heavy screen from before the hearth, and struck at the burning curtain. The blow smothered part of the flame, but the fabric folded in upon itself, glowing red through the smoke.
Elizabeth set down The Spectator and reached for the bell pull.
Her own little volume lay beside the candles, absurdly calm in the widening smoke.
The bell pull moved with a useless little jerk and fell silent.
“Again,” he said.
She pulled harder. Nothing rang. Mr Darcy looked towards the door. Elizabeth understood him before he spoke. She reached it first and seized the handle. The door did not open. She tried again, turning the handle fully and pulling with both hands.
It held.
“Mr Darcy.”
He was beside her at once. “Stand back.”
She did. He put his shoulder to the door. The frame answered with a dull, stubborn sound. The door remained shut. Behind them, the curtain flared again. Smoke rolled upward, darkening the glass and spreading beneath the ceiling in a low, gathering cloud.
Elizabeth looked at the door, then at the burning curtains, then back at him.
For the first time since she had known him, Mr Darcy’s face showed nothing at all. No reserve, no embarrassment, no awkward gravity. Only calculation. Then his eyes met hers.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, very calmly, “we are locked in.”