Page 28 of The Briar Bargain
Elizabeth’s own lips twitched. “A radical sentiment, Mr. Darcy.”
Jane, with her characteristic sweetness, tried to help. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Darcy. I suppose some ladies do try to appear so elegant that they forget to be entirely genuine.”
Miss Bingley’s lips turned down and Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. She was certain Jane had intended only to agree with Mr. Darcy, but her words had hit an unintended target.
Mr. Bingley, eager to smooth any possible ruffled feathers, jumped in with too much cheer. “Yes! Yes, indeed. But of course, no one here could be accused ofthat—of trying too hard. Naturally refined company all around!”
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye and saw it: the tiniest quiver at the corner of his mouth. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop her own.
Miss Bingley’s fingers clenched around her fan. “How fortunate to possess gifts that shine brightest in their natural state. I believe I shall take my sister’s example and retire.” She rose and quickly crossed to the door.
Jane, mortified, glanced at Elizabeth. “I think perhaps we should as well.”
“An excellent idea,” Elizabeth said, rising to her feet.
As they made their farewells, Elizabeth risked one last glance at Mr. Darcy. He bowed with perfect solemnity, but there was no mistaking the laughter in his eyes.
And with that, the evening drew to a close.
Chapter Nine
Darcy strode down the length of Netherfield’s first floor for the third time, his boots clicking against the polished floor with barely restrained impatience as he peered into one empty room after another. The rhythmic sound echoed through the hall, a staccato beat that matched the growing urgency in his chest. Bingley was already out of doors—he had left with the other gentlemen to clear debris from under the main bridge so the water could at last drain away. Darcy had been on the verge of joining him when he discovered that Miss Elizabeth was nowhere to be found.
It should not concern him. She was not his responsibility. He had no claim upon her time or her whereabouts, no right to expect an accounting of her movements. And yet the thought of her alone in this great draughty house, or worse, braving the cold after her recent ordeal, awakened a disquiet that refused to be reasoned away.
She had not been herself at breakfast. She had carried herself more stiffly when Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst entered the room, the careful politeness that replaced her usual spirited discourse, the tightness about her eyes that spoke of a suppressed frustration. Most telling of all were the faint lines of fatigue that marred her otherwise lively countenance, as though the effortto maintain civility in the face of constant provocation had drained her of her natural vivacity.
The change in her demeanour troubled him more than he cared to admit. Miss Elizabeth diminished was a sight that sat poorly with his conscience, particularly when he bore some responsibility for the circumstances that had brought her to this state.
He thought of the incident earlier, when Miss Bennet had stepped away to resume her work with the tenant children and he had seen a glimpse of Miss Elizabeth walking gingerly up the stairs in the direction of her chamber. He could not help but overhear their hostesses' barbed commentary drifting through the partially open door to the family parlour.
“I cannot comprehend how some people fail to recognize when they have overstayed their welcome,” Miss Bingley was saying. “The river cannot be so very bad.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Hurst agreed languidly.
The casual cruelty in their voices had sent a surge of anger through him so sharp and immediate that he had found himself entering the room before conscious thought could intervene.
"Ladies," he had said, his voice edged with steel and cold disapproval. "You should be aware that your voices . . . carry."
Miss Bingley’s smirk had faltered, her fan freezing mid-flutter as she registered the ice in his tone. Mrs. Hurst, ever her sister's echo, had found sudden cause to study the intricate patterns of the carpet.
Miss Elizabeth was not in the drawing room, where the ladies typically gathered at this hour. She was absent from the smaller parlour where she had been wont to seek solitude when the company grew trying.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” he called quietly to the housekeeper. “Is Miss Elizabeth with her sister?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Nicholls replied. “I understood she would be resting in her chamber.”
But Darcy knew from a previous inquiry to her maid that Miss Elizabeth was not there either.
With her sister still tending the displaced children in the western wing—a duty that spoke to Miss Bennet's gentle character but left Miss Elizabeth without her natural ally—Darcy decided he would take it upon himself to find her.
He had already searched the library and the morning room. A consultation with the butler had yielded nothing more than a suggestion that perhaps Miss Elizabeth had stepped out to the gardens for air, despite the muddy ground.
The thought propelled him to the entrance hall and, ultimately, outside.
The grounds were sodden, the aftermath of recent rains leaving the earth soft and treacherous underfoot. The air carried a sharp bite that spoke of winter's approaching dominion, and grey clouds gathered ominously overhead, promising further precipitation before the day was done. Darcy drew his coat tighter about him, his breath forming small clouds in the chill air as he scanned the pale expanse of lawn that stretched away from Netherfield's imposing façade.
The gardens closest to the house were empty save for a few hardy gardeners attempting to salvage what they could from the storm-damaged plantings. Beyond them, the parkland rolled away in gentle swells, marked here and there by stands of oak and elm that stood like sentinels against the grey sky.
