Page 100 of Cousin Conundrum

The room was arranged with a half circle of chairs and sofas assembled before a writing desk. Mr. Fletcher set Kitty in one of the chairs, then helped her situate her outstretched legs on a stool. She’d discovered almost immediately how much it hurt to have her legs hang down to the floor. Not because her feet rested there, but because blood seemed to throb into them, beating out pain in time to her heart. Keeping them propped up helped.

The maid moved deeper into the room to settle into a chair along the back wall as Mr. Fletcher sat beside Kitty. She studied him out of the corner of her eye, wishing she could think of any good reason for him to remain at Netherfield Park. Nothing she came up with seemed more important than testifying against the Archers.

Or, rather, Dubois. Since being taken into custody, Mrs. Archer had admitted to being Madame Dubois, a minor French noble with ties to other landed houses throughout the Continent, the most auspicious being those to Queen Maria of Portugal. Madame Dubois had, Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Hurst reported, insisted on writing to her distant cousin, who currently resided in Brazil, safely away from the strife raging across the Iberian Peninsula. The Crown, Mr. Fletcher said, had accompanied Madame Dubois’ missive with an envoy carrying descriptions and sketches of all six Archer women. No one trusted that, this time, they told the truth of who they were.

Footfalls heralded the arrival of Jane, looking luminous, and Elizabeth, chalk-faced and with worrying smudges under her eyes. Kitty frowned at her sister as she sat beside Jane on a settee. By all accounts, Mr. Darcy was awake and recovering well from being shot. Shouldn’t Elizabeth be happy now, too? And why were her sisters sitting together when both had beaus?

Kitty leaned closer to Mr. Fletcher, purely for the purpose of whispering and not at all because she longed to be nearer to him, and asked, “Are Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy not giving their accounts?”

“Both elected to do so earlier, in private,” he said as Miss Bingley and the Hursts entered.

The gentlemen had given their accounts in private while she and her sisters must do so before an audience? Not that Kitty truly cared, but it seemed unfair. “Why?”

“Mr. Darcy is still abed, by Mr. Jones’ orders, and Mr. Bingley declared that he cannot bear to hear Miss Bennet report on her abduction.”

Kitty scrunched her face. Mr. Fletcher wouldn’t hide from the knowledge of what had befallen the woman he loved. Nor, she felt, would Mr. Darcy, had he a choice. Even Mr. Hurst was here. He was made of stronger stuff than Kitty had first surmised.

She looked over at Jane, the only woman in the room who appeared completely at ease. She all but glowed, a small, private smile turning up her lips, her gaze unfocused.

If Mr. Bingley made Jane happy, then he made her happy. He was, Kitty could admit, an eminently affable gentleman. Moreover, with her temperament, did Jane truly need or want a man like Mr. Darcy, or even Mr. Fletcher? Jane would never disagree with anyone. She needed a man like Mr. Bingley, who wouldn’t disagree with her.

Muted, but growing in volume, a familiar aggrieved voice sounded down the hallway. Kitty sighed. She and Elizabeth had argued against having their parents present but had been overruled. Apparently, Mr. Partridge had discovered Kitty and Elizabeth were not yet of age.

“…married by the time this is settled, do you not agree, Mr. Bennet?” Mrs. Bennet was saying as she drew near enough to be understood. “And to think, one of them will be Elizabeth. Who could have imagined? And to such a wealthy gentleman. Could you have imagined, Mr. Bennet?”

A glance showed Elizabeth’s features pinch.

The quiet murmur of Mr. Bennet’s voice sounded, unintelligible.

“Do not say such things,” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Had you your way, we would all be cast to the hedgerows, especially as that turncoat Charlotte Lucas has somehow attracted Mr. Collins’ attentions. I cannot imagine in what way. She is nothing to look at and is quite old.”

Kitty winced, not even daring to look at Elizabeth. News of Charlotte’s ambitions had already reached them, and though nothing was official yet, Elizabeth hadn’t taken it well. She believed her friend deserved better.

Mr. Bennet spoke, again too low to hear.

“You dreadful man. You say these things simply to vex me, Mr. Bennet. You—” Mrs. Bennet broke off as the two entered the room, then recommenced with, “Where is Mr. Darcy?”

Kitty shook her head. If their mother thought Mr. Darcy would be with them, why did she say such things as she came down the hall? Had she no idea how her voice carried?

“He is abed, Mother,” Elizabeth said, sounding as tired as she looked. “He has been shot.”

“I know that.” Mrs. Bennet’s face became smug. “Shot while protecting you, my dear, clever girl.”

Kitty couldn’t imagine what was clever about being part of someone getting shot. From Elizabeth’s face, she couldn’t either.

“Mr. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Hurst greeted, standing. He gestured to an empty sofa. “We saved you a place.”

Mr. Fletcher rose as well, bowing to Kitty’s parents before saying, “I will fetch Mr. Partridge so we may begin.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet took the sofa Mr. Hurst indicated, set off to the side, as Mr. Fletcher crossed the room. The moment he disappeared from sight into the hallway, Mrs. Bennet said, her stage whisper pitched loud so as to carry across the parlor, “Kitty, you must entice Mr. Fletcher to offer for you. He is the grandson of an earl.”

With a groan, Kitty dropped her face into her hands, having no thought Mr. Fletcher hadn’t heard.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Elizabeth recounted her memories of the evening Mr. Darcy was shot as best as she could, all while trying not to think about the very man about whom she spoke. On the other side of the writing desk, Mr. Partridge, a thin gentleman with sparce hair, jotted away. He wrote in pencil and, from what she could see, in some sort of code, his hand moving rapidly over the page. She endeavored to speak slowly, but he didn’t seem to need her to. He never once asked her to pause, or even looked up.

At least, not until she finished speaking. Then he raised his bespectacled face. “You admit freely to shooting the pistol Mr. Darcy had in his pocket, with the intent to hit the woman you knew as Miss Archer?”