Page 9 of A Compromise By Design

“Well,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes,” said Mr Darcy.

At twenty minutes, neither of them said anything. The eastern corridor was not close to the housekeeper’s room, and the key could have been anywhere in a house of this size. In the butler’s pantry, on the ring kept in the kitchens, in a drawer that nobody had opened in six months. These things took time.

Elizabeth told herself this and found it reasonable, and told herself again, and found it slightly less so.

They bore the silence as comfortably as they could, which was increasingly difficult with every passing minute. The fire had not been lit this morning, as the study was not a room that saw much daily use, and the November cold was beginning to make its presence known.

Elizabeth rubbed her hands together once, briefly, and stopped when she realised he had noticed.

“You are cold,” Mr Darcy said, sounding surprisingly concerned.

“Not at all,” Elizabeth said, in a tone of polite, meaningless reassurance. “It is nothing.”

Mr Darcy did not trouble himself to dispute the obvious untruth in words, but shrugged off his jacket instead.

“Mr Darcy, please,” Elizabeth protested.

“You are cold,” he said matter-of-factly, “and there is no fire. Here.” His directness suggested that he was making a practical offer rather than a gallant gesture.

As a continued refusal seemed more theatrical than acceptance, Elizabeth took the jacket. It was warm, heavier than she had expected, and carried the faint cedar-and-wool smell of well-kept clothing. She put it around her shoulders and felt immediately more comfortable, and entirely conscious that she was wearing his jacket.

And with a sudden, terrible swoop in her stomach, Elizabeth realised that, in the context of everything, it was not ideal to be wearing any of Mr Darcy’s clothing.

“Thank you,” she said.

“It is nothing,” he said.

Neither of them seemed to find anything further to say for a moment.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth had grown quite tired of waiting for someone to return with the key. Her desperation mounting, she moved to the desk and examined the drawers, thinking a key might be within.

No such luck. “Surely there must be some alternative means of escape,” Elizabeth said in frustration.

“There is no adjoining door,” said Mr Darcy.

“The windows?”

“Too high. And conspicuous.”

She studied the lock. Elizabeth had read, somewhere in a novel or one of the more sensational periodicals that found their way to Longbourn through Lydia’s readership, that a determined person with a hairpin could negotiate a simple lock. She was not certain this was true, but she was becoming rapidly certain that standing in a cold room waiting for a rescue that showed no sign of arriving was not, on balance, a better use of the time. “I have been told that a hairpin may accomplish wonders.”

Mr Darcy stared. “You cannot be serious.”

“I assure you I am.”

Before he could object further, she withdrew a slender pin from her hair and knelt by the door.

“Miss Bennet —”

“Pray, do not distract me. This task will be difficult enough without distractions.” Elizabeth’s dark curls slipped loose as she bent forward, a cascade tumbling over her shoulder. She blew an errant strand from her face with ill-suppressed irritation.

“You will injure yourself,” Mr Darcy said, more softly.

“If I do, you may consider it penance for my foolish failure to remain silent,” Elizabeth said. She squinted at the keyhole with the concentrated attention of someone who does not know what they are looking for but intends to look thoroughly. The pin went in. She felt the pin catch on something. There was an internal resistance that suggested a mechanism. Elizabeth turned the pin carefully and felt the resistance shift without yielding.