Page 89 of The Briar Bargain
Miss Bingley opened it without comment and gestured for Elizabeth to enter.
Elizabeth stepped inside and glanced about her. The room was small and dim, lit by several candles but with an air of disuse. The furniture was draped in linen other than one settee, the shelves bore faint outlines of absent ornaments, and a fire in the hearth that smelled smoky. The wood had either been in the rain or was not seasoned. No one else was there.
Behind her, the door shut with a soft but decisiveclick. The unmistakable turn of a key in a lock followed.
Elizabeth turned sharply. "Miss Bingley?"
The woman spoke through the door, her tone now coldly satisfied. "Do not be alarmed. You will be perfectly comfortable. The fire has been seen to, there is more wood to feed it, and your dinner will be sent up to your chamber once the rest of us have finished the meal."
Elizabeth stepped to the door, incredulous. "What is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning," Miss Bingley said, "is that I want one evening without having to look across the dinner table at the impertinent, interfering person whose meddling could have cost my mother’s gift to me."
Elizabeth felt the full weight of her error crushing down upon her. "Miss Bingley, I understand your anger, but this—"
"Do you?" Miss Bingley's voice turned bitter. "Do you understand what it is like to lose the last tangible connection to a dead parent because you gave way, as duty required, to a person who believes she better understands managing servants or reading character? And this is not all that has been stolen from me at Netherfield."
Elizabeth pressed her palm against the door. "Please, let us discuss this properly. Allow me to apologise for my error and make restitution."
"Considerthisyour apology for interfering in matters beyond your understanding.,” Miss Bingley said. “The bridge will be mended by tomorrow. You will be on your way soon enough, and I will not be returning. There is little point in pretending we shall ever be friends. I will have one final, peaceful dinner at Netherfield."
Elizabeth was certainly willing to avoid Miss Bingley’s company after such news. “I shall absent myself, but please, allow me to return to my chamber.”
“You will forgive me if I do not feel I can trust you to remain there. Good evening.”
Elizabeth stood motionless for several moments after Miss Bingley's footsteps faded away, her hand still pressed against the door. The silence that followed felt heavy and final.
It was certainly an odd punishment, being locked away like a wayward child sent to the nursery without supper. Under different circumstances, she might even have found it amusing. But as the weight of her error settled fully upon her, Elizabeth found she could not summon any greatindignation at her treatment. Miss Bingley's anger, however extreme its expression, was entirely understandable.
Well, if she was to be imprisoned for the evening, she might as well make herself as comfortable as possible. Elizabeth settled into the settee and allowed her mind to wander. She thought of the dinner proceeding without her at this very moment, Miss Bingley leading everyone into the dining room, explaining her absence, directing conversation to other subjects, and dispensing gracious smiles.
Jane would come looking for her before long, but she would not know where to find her.
The fire shifted in the grate, drawing her attention back to her immediate surroundings. The flames seemed to be struggling more than when she had first entered the room, appearing weak and uncertain, producing more smoke than heat. Someone had done a poor job of laying it. Perhaps one of the younger maids, tasked with preparing a room that saw little use and working with wood that had been inadequately dried.
Elizabeth pulled her gloves off and set them down. She watched the smoke curl upward and felt a small prick of unease. The chimney did not seem to be drawing properly. Instead of disappearing cleanly up the flue, the smoke was beginning to swirl back into the room, creating a grey haze that was gathering near the ceiling like little storm clouds. The acrid smell grew stronger, making her throat feel scratchy and raw.
Something was wrong. The draught that should have pulled the smoke upward was barely perceptible, almost non-existent. There must be some sort of obstruction in the flue— leaves perhaps, accumulated debris from the recent winds, or even a bird's nest that was blocking the proper flow of air.
The smoke was becoming thicker now, no longer confined to the upper reaches of the room but beginning to descend in wispy tendrils thatmade her eyes water. Elizabeth looked around anxiously for some way to extinguish the fire, but there was nothing to hand, not even a bucket of water or sand near the hearth as there would be in a room that was regularly occupied. There was not even a poker or shovel with which she might scatter the burning wood.
She returned to the door with growing urgency and rattled the handle once more, the metal cold and unyielding beneath her fingers. Then she pressed her ear against the solid wood, straining to hear any movement in the passage beyond. Nothing but silence greeted her efforts.
"Help!" she called, her voice carrying as far as she could project it. "Someone, please! I am locked in!"
The sound seemed to be absorbed by the heavy door and thick walls, swallowed up as though she had shouted into a void. No answering call came, no hurried footsteps. She called out again, louder this time, putting all her strength behind the words. "Help! Can anyone hear me?"
Still nothing.
The smoke was thickening at an alarming rate now and beginning to descend from the ceiling. It began to irritate her throat in earnest, causing her to cough, and her eyes were starting to stream. She pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it to her nose and mouth, grateful for the small protection the fine linen offered, though it could do little against the fumes filling the room.
This was no longer merely an inconvenience or a punishment to be endured with resignation. Miss Bingley's scheme had taken a potentially deadly turn. Elizabeth did not believe even Miss Bingley would have done this on purpose, but it would not matter, in the end.
Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm and assess her situation. The room had two potential means of exit: the locked door through which she had entered, and the windows that faced the exterior of the house. Shehad already determined that the door was completely immovable, so the windows represented her only hope of either escape or summoning help from someone on the grounds below.
She turned to examine the back wall more carefully. The windows were tall and narrow, set rather high. Elizabeth grabbed a small table that sat behind the settee and shoved it against the wall beneath one of the windows. The piece of furniture was heavier than it appeared, and her exertions made her breathe more heavily. She coughed and squeezed her eyes shut against the stinging of the smoke. She positioned a chair next to the table, testing its stability before quickly climbing up. The makeshift platform tipped slightly to one side under her weight but held firm.
From this elevated position, she could see brass latches that appeared to have suffered from years of exposure to the damp air that plagued old houses. She reached up to the window latch. The metal was rough with rust, the corrosion making it difficult to grasp properly. She applied steady pressure to the mechanism, willing it to turn. It held firm, refusing to budge.
