Page 9 of The Briar Bargain
“Animals are very smart, Peter. When they see and feel the water coming closer, they will head for higher ground.”
“I don’t know . . .” the boy said, doubtful.
"Well, I shall be sure to tell your father when he returns to the house," Elizabeth promised, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Try not to worry."
"Thank you, Miss Elizabeth," he said, offering a weak smile before turning in the direction of the stairs.
Elizabeth watched him go, thinking she would have to speak with Mrs. Farrow about her son’s concerns. She asked Jane where the woman was.
“She is feeding the baby,” Jane replied.
It would have to wait, then. Elizabeth proceeded down the little hall and out into the main house, intending to fetch more blankets for the displaced families. As she passed the drawing room and approached the staircase, Miss Bingley's voice rang out, clear as a bell.
"She intends to position her sister as mistress of this house, I suppose. Next she will be laying out bandages and calling herself a nurse.”
“She has already done that,” Mrs. Hurst replied.
“Yes,” her sister said. “One wonders what she expects to come of it all."
There was a thin, brittle laugh, and then Mrs. Hurst said something like "A martyr in muddy boots."
Elizabeth turned away, her hand tight on the banister. She had no tears to shed, but she did feel a seething pulse of anger. Not for herself so muchas for Jane, who had done nothing but fall ill. For the tenants, who were displaced from their homes due to a flood.
AtMiss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who could not be bothered to fulfil the duties of the gentry or even be civil to the gentlewomen who were doing the work in their place.
She continued her errand, but her mind remained with Peter and his rabbits. When she returned to the families, she set to work organizing the extra linens, and the younger children needed their breakfast. A hundred small tasks demanded her attention over the next hour.
When she finally had a moment to herself, Elizabeth realized with a start that she had not seen Peter since their conversation. She looked about. No Peter.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” she said quietly, “have you seen little Peter Farrow?”
The housekeeper shook her head and returned to her work.
Elizabeth did not wish to ask his mother. She could see that Mrs. Farrow had her hands full with the younger children and that Peter was not with them. There was no sense in worrying her, but Elizabeth herself was beginning to fret. Had he grown tired of waiting for her? Would he seek out his father, or worse, would he search for the rabbits himself?
She hurried to the back stairs that led to the kitchens, where a stable lad warming himself by the fire confirmed her fears. "Yes, miss. Thought I saw young Peter heading out of the garden not ten minutes ago. Looked like he were in a rush. Figure he had a message for his da."
Elizabeth did not wait to ask permission or tell anyone where she was going. She was certain Peter had gone to look for his rabbits himself. She shoved her arms into her coat, slipped her feet into her boots, and made her way to the back door, unseen.
The rain had stopped, but the sky remained grey and sullen. Elizabeth pulled her collar up against the wind and set off across the sodden lawnsof Netherfield. Her boots sank into the grass with each step, the earth yielding beneath her like a sponge. She thought briefly of her hem, sure to be even dirtier after this little adventure than it had been when she arrived at Netherfield and felt a trace of grim amusement. A martyr in muddy boots indeed.
She owed her maid a substantial vail.
Elizabeth put her head down and hurried through the orchard. She was sorry to leave Mrs. Nicholls, but most of the initial work was complete. And she was not alone. Jane, so recently recovered, had predictably thrown herself into caring for the tenants, helping feed and entertain the many children.
The old iron hinges on the gate creaked as Elizabeth pushed it open. Mr. Bingley was a good match for Jane. If only he did not have such pernicioussisters . . .
She cut off the thought. There was no time for indignation now. Peter Farrow was her concern, not the poisonous observations of two snobbish harridans whose wealth had purchased them neither sense nor compassion.
She had left the house in such haste that she had forgotten her gloves. Her fingers were already growing stiff with the damp, and she tucked them into her sleeves as she walked, quickening her pace. The old line of oaks loomed ahead, long branches reaching into the leaden sky. Beyond it lay the first of the three tenant farms, and beyond those, the woods that bordered the Farrow cottage.
She pushed deeper into the woods, calling Peter's name at intervals. The trees thinned ahead, and she could hear the rushing of water. It was louder than it should be, even after days of rain. She stopped to look. The river had swollen far beyond its banks, transforming into a roaring torrent that devoured everything in its path.
The Farrow cottage stood on a small rise to her left, surrounded by water where their garden had been, though the house itself remained dry. To her right, about fifty yards closer to the river, the briar patch was now a part of the riverbank, and the water had carved out much of the ground beneath it. Atop what remained, Peter was searching for the burrow on his hands and knees.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted his name.
The boy turned, his small face lighting with relief. "Miss Elizabeth! My rabbits—"
