Page 45 of The Briar Bargain
"I meant to us both," Jane corrected, her blue eyes serious as they met Elizabeth's. "He was so attentive while you were ill. Surely you must have noticed the care with which your breakfast was prepared this morning? And yesterday, when you mentioned feeling a little chilled, the fire in your chamber was built up considerably before evening."
Elizabeth shook her head, though she felt less certain than she attempted to sound. "You are very generous in your observations. But I am quite certain that Mr. Darcy has no regard for me beyond fulfilling what he sees as an obligation to a woman he helped to rescue. He is a friend. He told me so himself. Nothing more.”
Jane smiled. Something . . .knowingwas in her expression that made Elizabeth decidedly uncomfortable. "For Mr. Darcy to offer you his friendship is no small thing, Lizzy."
“I am aware. And I shall not sully that offer by presuming, as some do, that it means more than it is.” Despite her words, Elizabeth’s mind churned with questions she was not ready to ask.
Her sister merely hummed as she lifted her cup of chocolate to her lips.
Elizabeth finished her tea and carefully placed the cup in its saucer, the small sound seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Whatever the truth of the matter, she could not allow herself to read too much significance into gestures that were likely nothing more than gentlemanly courtesy.
Mr. Darcy was not the man she had thought he was, but he would never stoop to offer for her, and she was too stubborn to fall in love with a man just because he was kind to her. She would not like to end up disappointed like Miss Bingley. No, she would guard her heart against any hopes in that quarter. Mr. Darcy had promised his friendship. That was all she would expect.
Chapter Fifteen
Darcy typically enjoyed riding. It was often a solace to him, an opportunity to escape the confines of drawing rooms and the complexities of polite conversation for the simple pleasure of movement and fresh air. But as he stood in the stable yard, adjusting his gloves and surveying the muddy ground, he found himself tempted to wish for more rain, if only as an excuse to postpone this expedition.
The irony was not lost on him. A fortnight ago, he would have volunteered to inspect every bridge, culvert, and sheep-gate in Hertfordshire if doing so would hasten the exodus of a certain very pretty, very uninvited guest. He could see that Miss Elizabeth was recovering—she no longer grimaced when she turned or sat down. But just now he did not like to leave the house.
At Bingley’s urging and Hurst’s unexpected agreement, the gentlemen had resolved to inspect the bridge that connected Netherfield Park to the main road leading to Meryton and, by extension, Longbourn. The previous week's deluge had rendered it impassable, though whether the river had weakened its foundations or merely overwhelmed the approaches with debris remained to be determined.
He ought not to be grateful for something that had caused such havoc and even now continued to be an inconvenience to the Miss Bennets. It was selfish, ungentlemanly, and entirely contrary to his professed desire to see his friend's household returned to some sense of normality. And yet, as he watched a groom lead his bay gelding from the stable, he found himself hoping quite fervently that Mr. Linton's assessment would provide him more time.
"Blast this wind," Hurst said from behind him, cutting through Darcy's reflections. The older man emerged from the tack room wearing what could only be described as a ponderous frown, his riding coat already spotted with mud despite having been outside for less than half an hour.
"I have never known you to be deterred by a little wind, Hurst," Bingley said cheerfully, accepting the reins of his favourite mare from a waiting groom. "Or by much of anything else, come to think of it. You once rode to hounds in a snowstorm."
Hurst gave him a long, doleful look that suggested he found the comparison insulting. "My inducement to ride on that occasion was the promise of sport and an excellent brandy at the end. Today's expedition offers neither entertainment nor refreshment."
Darcy mounted easily, settling himself with ease. "Bingley, you will have to have the chimneys inspected for debris after this wind dies down.” He turned to address Hurst. “You may consider yourself a gentleman, Hurst, assisting your brother in seeing to his duties."
Hurst grumbled. "They are nothisduties, they are the duties of the owner.”
“Who may not hear about our being cut off until Christmas if we do not restore the usefulness of the bridge,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Consider yourself fortunate that the rain has stopped.”
“I shall consider myself cold, damp, and thoroughly put-upon," Hurst replied, hauling himself onto his mount with great effort.
The air carried the rich scent of moss and churned earth. Darcy inhaled it with an odd sort of reverence, thinking of Pemberley.
Thinking of the woman he would like to join him there.
The ride itself offered little novelty, following paths that Darcy had travelled numerous times since taking up residence at Netherfield. But he had never made this journey with such an invested interest in its outcome. Miss Elizabeth would certainly be awaiting the results of this inspection as keenly as he did. She would be hoping for news of safe passage home, while he found himself churlishly hoping for the opposite.
It was a lowering reflection on his character, and one that he tried unsuccessfully to dismiss as they approached their destination.
Bingley had arranged to meet Mr. Linton, an elderly man who had lived on the edge of the estate for nearly forty years and who possessed, by all accounts, an instinctive understanding of stone, timber, and the capricious behaviour of floodwater. When they arrived at the bridge, they found Mr. Linton already waiting, seated atop an indeterminate but sturdy mare. The old man's coat collar was pulled up and his cap pulled low against the persistent wind. He nodded at their approach without dismounting.
"Morning, sirs," he said, his voice carrying the measured cadence of a man who had learned to waste neither words nor effort. "You have come to see the damage for yourselves, then?"
"Indeed we have," Bingley replied with his usual affability, though he kept a wary eye on the shifting current that still ran higher and faster than normal. "What is your assessment, Mr. Linton? We are hoping for encouraging news."
Mr. Linton removed his cap and scratched his grey head with deliberate thoughtfulness. "Bridge is still standing, sir, which is promising. But thewater rose high enough to catch the lintels and drag down near half the west rail. Debris has jammed this side solid as mortar.” He motioned to the debris that was functioning as an unwanted dam. “River cannot flow clean through as she ought, so she is pushing up and over instead, which makes the whole business unstable."
Darcy dismounted, handing his reins to the young stableboy who had accompanied them from the manor. He moved towards the stone arch and studied the damage closely.
The reality was worse than he had dared to hope.
What had once been a modest but serviceable bridge now resembled the aftermath of a siege. Mud and straw and entire branches, some still bearing their complement of bedraggled leaves, had wedged themselves against the ancient stonework with such violence that even the considerable weight of the rushing water had not been sufficient to dislodge them. The bank on the far side was almost entirely obscured by a tangle of wreckage that would require systematic removal before any assessment of the underlying damage could be attempted.
