Page 13 of The Lost Prophecy

Mrs Hurst concealed her amusement by closely inspecting her embroidery. Miss Bingley directed a slow survey to Miss Elizabeth’s petticoat, where the evidence of the journey had risen several inches above the hem in a splatter of brown mud.

Miss Bingley’s voice dripped with poison. “Your concern for your sister is commendable, although I cannot imagine choosing to cross open country alone in such appalling conditions. A carriage would have preserved both basic propriety and our fine carpets.”

Miss Elizabeth glanced at the muddy footprints trailing behind her. “My father’s horses are required at the farm, and I did not believe the carriage necessary for such a short journey. I fear your carpet has suffered for my judgement.”

Miss Bingley stared at the mud. “The carpet will recover eventually.”

Bingley seized the bell pull and yanked it. “You must have breakfast before you go upstairs. I shall order eggs, toast, marmalade, and whatever else may be prepared immediately.”

Miss Elizabeth raised a hand. “I thank you, but I ate before leaving Longbourn.”

Bingley leaned forward. “Then you will certainly require something after the walk.”

A servant appeared in the doorway. Bingley ordered enough food for a family twice the size of the Bennets, hastily amended the instructions when Miss Elizabeth protested, and finally requested tea, toast, and preserves upon her strict assurance that nothing further would be touched.

Darcy observed the exchange from behind the failing security of his chair. Miss Elizabeth’s sparkling liveliness at the assembly had attracted him despite the immense danger she represented, but her arrival that morning revealed something far less convenient than mere wit. She had walked through wet fields without waiting for comfort, social permission, or suitable weather simply because her sister needed her. No ancient prophecy or blood law accounted for the force of that human devotion.

She turned to him, catching his intense gaze on her once again.

She offered a challenging, arched smile. “Have I brought enough of Hertfordshire indoors to offend you, Mr Darcy?”

He kept his voice level. “Not at all. I am merely thinking that the weather has not been kind to the roads.”

Her eyes sparkled with defiance. “The roads have survived the weather, along with my company, without much complaint.”

He could offer nothing that did not risk exposing what his composure concealed. “I am glad Miss Bennet will have her sister near her.”

Genuine surprise passed across Miss Elizabeth’s face. His polite answer had apparently failed to meet whatever high standard of unpleasantness she had assigned him.

Mrs Hurst set aside her embroidery and rose with a rustle of silk. “I shall take you to her. She was awake when I left her, although Mrs Nicholls intends to make her rest.”

Miss Elizabeth accepted the offer. Bingley stepped eagerly to the door, then remembered that accompanying an unmarried woman to another unmarried woman’s bedchamber would not magically improve propriety simply because both women were sisters, and stopped so abruptly that Mrs Hurst nearly walked into his back.

Mrs Hurst led Miss Elizabeth from the room. Darcy remained still until she began ascending the grand staircase. Her pulse travelled through the ceiling above him, approaching Miss Bennet’s weaker rhythm until the door of the blue chamber opened and closed.

He released the chair. Eight distinct, shallow impressions permanently marked the polished mahogany under his fingers.

Miss Bingley noticed the dents. “You seem unsettled, Mr Darcy.”

He turned on his heel. “I require a change of coat.”

Absolutely nothing had occurred to his pristine dark coat, but the excuse allowed him to leave the room before Miss Bingley examined the matter further. He did not acknowledge Bingley, who had returned to his sentry position directly under the blue chamber, and climbed the opposite staircase to his own private apartments.

Fletcher awaited him inside the bedchamber, laying out correspondence on the escritoire.

Darcy began unbuttoning his cuffs. “Fletcher, bring me the green coat.”

Fletcher paused. “Has the blue offended you, sir?”

Darcy tugged at his cravat. “The breakfast room has become too crowded.”

Fletcher did not offer a knowing smile, but a distinct twitch in his lips implied it. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet arrived eleven minutes ago.”

Darcy removed his coat and handed it over with a glare. “I am aware.”

Fletcher carried the garment to the dressing room. “I suspected that you might be. However, you are not the only one.” He paused by the small table near the curtained windows. “Your bowl is also keenly aware.”

The ancient silver punch bowl had occupied the table since their arrival at Netherfield. It no longer faced the centre of the room. Its ornate handles had shifted several inches, turning the empty interior deliberately to the wall beyond which lay the distant blue chamber.