The Facts of the Matter #2
Darcy drank his coffee and thought about August.
Fletcher returned with a fresh coat and set about his work with his usual efficiency. He seemed to understand that silence was sometimes the most useful thing he could offer.
“Will you be going down to breakfast, sir?” Fletcher asked.
“Shortly. Is Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, is she up?”
“I believe so, sir. Mrs Nicholls said she was with her sister early.”
“Good. That is good.”
Fletcher accepted this without comment, which was one of the things Darcy valued most about him. He went down to breakfast at half past seven.
Fletcher had passed him Morris’s report in the passage: evidence secured, the lock mechanism and the cut bell pull preserved, a description of the maid sent to Henderson’s contacts in London. The woman had not returned. She had not been expected to.
Darcy folded the note and put it in his coat and went into the dining room. Bingley was already at the table, his coffee untouched, his sleeplessness considerably less well concealed than Darcy’s.
“I sent a note to Lucas Lodge at first light,” Bingley said, without preamble. “Sir William will be here by ten.”
Darcy sat down. “Good.”
Bingley looked at him. “You are not going to argue with me.”
“I considered it,” Darcy said. “I concluded you were right.”
Something in Bingley’s expression eased very slightly. He picked up his coffee. “Miss Elizabeth. She plans to leave this morning. Miss Bennet is well enough. I have offered the carriage.”
“Has she come down?”
“Not yet.”
They sat in silence. Outside, the November morning pressed grey and cold against the windows.
“Darcy,” Bingley said at last. “Wickham will try again.”
“Yes.”
“Then she is not safe. Not while he knows she matters to you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “She is not.”
Bingley let the subject drop. Elizabeth came down at eight.
He heard her on the stairs before he saw her, her step lighter than the household staff, more deliberate than Bingley’s restless morning movement.
He did not look up from his coffee immediately, which he considered a reasonable exercise of self-control.
When he did look up she was in the doorway, dressed for travelling, pale from sleeplessness and determined that nobody should know it. She saw him. Something passed across her face, too quick to name, and then she came in and sat down.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” Bingley said warmly. “How is Miss Bennet?”
“Much improved. She will be ready to leave by ten, I think, if the carriage can be spared.”
“It is entirely at your disposal.”
She accepted coffee from the footman and sat very correctly. Darcy was aware of her not looking at him with a precision that suggested she was looking at him very carefully indeed. He understood the feeling entirely.
“Sir William Lucas is coming at ten,” Bingley said. “As magistrate.”
Elizabeth looked up then. Briefly, directly, at Darcy.
“Good,” she said.
She returned to her coffee. Darcy found he had nothing to add to that. Miss Bennet came down twenty minutes after her sister, moving carefully in the way of someone who has been ill and is not quite ready to trust her own strength. Bingley was on his feet before she reached the doorway.
“Miss Bennet.” His voice had gone rather warm. “You should not have come down. I could have sent up.”
“I am quite well,” Miss Bennet said, with her gentle smile. “Or nearly so. I thought I had imposed upon your household long enough.”
“You have not imposed at all,” Bingley said, with a conviction that left very little room for argument.
Miss Bennet allowed herself to be settled into a chair with more solicitousness than was strictly necessary, and accepted coffee and toast and Bingley’s anxious attention with every appearance of being unaware of it.
Elizabeth watched her sister with an expression Darcy could not quite read. Fond, certainly. Something else underneath it.
Miss Bennet took in the table with the quiet attention of someone who had been upstairs for several days and was now trying to understand what she had missed. Her eyes rested on Darcy for a moment longer than politeness required before she turned to Elizabeth.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said.
“Good,” Miss Bennet said, and plainly believed nothing of the sort.
Sir William arrived at ten precisely, which gave Elizabeth and Miss Bennet just enough time to be ready to leave, and Darcy no time at all to speak with Elizabeth alone. That, he told himself, was for the best. He did not believe himself.
Sir William entered with all his usual ceremony, but even he could not carry cheerfulness very far into a house where the library curtains had burned, the bell pull had been cut, and the master looked as though he had aged five years before breakfast.
“My dear Mr Bingley,” he said, taking both Bingley’s hands. “A most distressing affair. Most distressing indeed.”
William Lucas was with him. Darcy observed this without surprise. A son accompanying his father on official business was entirely natural.
Elizabeth was standing beside Miss Bennet, bonnet in hand, very composed and very pale. She gave William the smallest possible smile of reassurance before Sir William turned his attention to Bingley.
Miss Bingley had achieved, overnight, a remarkable recovery of composure, and received Sir William with gracious attention while plainly intending to hear every word of what was said.
Mrs Hurst sat beside Miss Bennet and looked genuinely distressed.
Mr Hurst had not yet appeared. Sir William’s first enquiries were all kindness.
He asked after Miss Bennet’s health, Elizabeth’s nerves, Mr Bingley’s household, and whether any servant had been injured in extinguishing the fire.
But there was, beneath the ceremony, a steadier purpose than Darcy had often seen in him.
Darcy marked the moment the older man understood that this conversation could not be had in its fullness with so many present.
“My dear Mr Bingley,” Sir William said at last, “perhaps we had better look at the room.”
Bingley nodded. “Of course.”
Darcy followed them. Morris came too, at Bingley’s request, silent and precise.
William Lucas had followed them in. He stood near the door, taking in the room as the seriousness of what had happened there the night before became clear.
The library was a sobering sight in the grey morning light.
The curtains by the window were gone almost entirely, reduced to blackened strips and ash.
The wall above them was smoked dark, the small table scorched, and the carpet beneath stained with water and soot.
The branch of candles still stood where the maid had placed it, though one had burned down much further than the rest.
The bell pull hung uselessly against the wall, the cord cut clean through. The main door stood open now, but the lock had been removed and set upon the writing desk. Beside it lay the cut length of bell cord, the half-burned candle, and a folded note in Morris’s hand.
The far bookcase had not been pushed back into place. It stood crooked and accusatory, dragged several feet from the wall, exposing the narrow old door behind it.
“That,” Sir William said slowly, “is not usual.”
“No,” said Bingley. “It is not.”
Morris stepped forward and gave a concise account: the lock had been turned from the passage side; the bell pull had been cut; the maid who had brought the candles had not returned to the servants’ quarters and did not appear to belong to Netherfield’s regular staff.
Sir William listened without interrupting.
When Morris finished, he turned to Darcy.
“Mr Darcy,” he said. “I think we had better speak privately.”
Bingley offered his study, which was far enough from the drawing room that Miss Bingley’s ears would not reach it.
Morris brought the evidence, the lock mechanism, the cut bell cord, a careful written account of the maid’s description as Elizabeth had given it, and then withdrew and closed the door.
Sir William sat across the desk from Darcy. His ceremonial manner had fallen away, and he was thinking carefully.
William stood by the window. Bingley had remained, which Darcy had expected and not objected to.
“Now then,” Sir William said. “Mr Darcy. I have examined the room. I have seen the lock and the bell cord. I have heard Mr Bingley’s account of the maid who cannot be found. I am not a foolish man, sir, whatever else I may be. This was not an accident.”
“No,” Darcy said. “It was not.”
“Then I must ask you directly. Do you know who arranged it?”