It was the stone. His face when he saw it on her table had lit up in a way that banished almost every bit of her uncertainty. For all her qualms about their constant misunderstandings and the allure of other, prettier, wealthier women who had not already rejected him—nobody could look so well pleased by a dull littlestone with a hole in it unless they cared deeply about the person to whom they had given it.
After that, it had felt as though a dam had broken, and everything he said had drawn forth a greater flood of affection. His continued, ill-concealed jealousy of Mr Hartham, rather than offending her, began to make her understand her importance to him. His obvious enjoyment of her participation in the plotting against his cousin began to convince her that he craved her loyalty. In short, she had decided she must begin to have a little faith in him—and to allow her own feelings justice. It was a bold and somewhat alarming resolution, but she was set upon it, for it seemed her heart would be ignored no longer.
Her mistake had been in asking Miss Hawkridge about Miss Larkin on the drive over. The answering panegyric had sorely tested her new-found confidence. The beautiful Miss Larkin had family, fortune, and connexions; she was a great friend, much loved amongst the upper circles, and revered for her elegance and fashion.
That ought to have been enough, and she despised herself for being unable to resist asking more questions, to which more objectionable answers came: ‘Yes, she and Mr Darcy have known each other for years.’ ‘Yes, she admires him—name me a woman who does not?’ ‘Yes, it would be an excellent match.’ By the time they had arrived at the house, Elizabeth was returned to the torture of uncertainty, and was reduced to traipsing behind the others in an agony of suspense, occasionally giving her permission for this fixture to be adjusted, or that fitting to be altered.
It had to be said that the ideas put forth for the fake haunting were impressive. The gentlemen had securedan amount of white powder—boracic acid, Elizabeth was informed—which, when burnt, turned the flame green. This they were sprinkling over the coals and lamp wicks in every room. They had scratched pleas for help in some of the exposed timbers around the ongoing building works. They had used wax to write on panes of glass so that condensation would reveal hidden messages. They had left things precariously balanced on the edge of shelves, poised to fall at the slightest provocation. Colonel Fitzwilliam had even purchased an old fiddle and arranged for one of the labourers to come into the house at the same time every evening and sit in the attic and play it—‘as poorly and as screechingly as he chooses, and we are all to pretend we cannot hear it!’
They were now on the first floor and had already set their traps in the library before dismissing the next two rooms as being of no use to them, for they were too often still overrun with workmen.
“What about Georgiana’s room?” Miss Hawkridge said, pointing at the third door the men had walked directly past.
Mr Darcy stopped and turned back around. “Saye never goes in there.”
“Oh.” After a moment, she added, “It is a shame she is not here. She will be sorry to have missed out on all the fun.”
“It could not be helped. This is the first time Saye has left the house for days.”
“I do not think it is such a bad thing,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “She would only have given us away. She is a terrible liar—blabs everything as soon as you look at her.”
Aware of how Miss Darcy had confessed her intentionto elope to Mr Darcy when he intercepted her and Mr Wickham in Ramsgate, Elizabeth could well believe it. She suspected he was thinking the same thing, for he looked exceedingly grave.
“Honesty is a fine trait,” she said gently. “And makes up for many a defect.”
Mr Darcy met her eyes, his small smile imbued with such gratitude as made her yearn for more of his attention. “Where has she gone?” she asked.
“Somewhere with Mrs Annesley, I believe. I am not sure where, come to think of it.”
“Enough chitter-chatter, troops!” the colonel snapped. “Let us concentrate on the job at hand. Where next?”
“I do not think you should dismiss Georgiana’s room,” Miss Hawkridge said. “It will be more believable if all the fires burn green.”
“Good point,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, opening the door. Miss Hawkridge followed him in.
“There is no point in us all doing that,” Mr Darcy said. “You two carry on. Miss Bennet and I will tackle Saye’s room.” Without waiting for an answer from them, but with a playful cock of his head, inviting Elizabeth to go with him, he set off down the hall.
Her heart fluttered about stupidly as she followed him, and she smiled at her own folly. To be so easily affected by a man—one moment in despair, the next in pitiful eagerness—was absurd!
“This is his lordship’s chamber?” Elizabeth said when Mr Darcy opened the door to the room in which woodworm had demolished the floorboards. She groaned quietly when he confirmed it. It was in ill repair, the wallpaper not yet replaced and the walls a mottled tableau of old paint and mildew. The windowframes were new, but the curtains were not, and the fireplace had no surround. “My mother would despair if she knew I had let this room to a viscount.”
Mr Darcy was crouched beside the coal bucket, sprinkling some of the white powder. He made an extremely dismissive noise and said over his shoulder, “It is his own fault. He wantedmyroom, if you recall, and changed his mind when the ceiling collapsed.”
Elizabeth winced. “How could I forget.” Her eyes wandered around the room, and she shook her head. “I do love this house, but it is proving to be a constant source of mortification.”
Mr Darcy came to his feet and crossed the room to her, gesturing for her to pass him the small bag she had been carrying. “The current state of the house is no reflection on you. It was Saye who insisted on staying here before the place was ready.” He took the bag from her but did not immediately move away. “You have done wonderfully. Your aunt would be very proud.”
Elizabeth could scarcely breathe, so intensely was he regarding her. She was just summoning the courage to reply when Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted, “We are going up to the next floor, Darcy!” along the hall, and the spell was broken. Mr Darcy stepped away from her and took the bag back to the fireplace, where he began pulling out the boiled rabbit bones that the cook had provided. He removed his coat and knelt on the hearth, pausing to roll up one shirt sleeve.
Glancing at her somewhat uneasily, he said, “My man will not be best pleased if I get soot on everything.”
Elizabeth was momentarily nonplussed, until she comprehended that she had been staring at the contours of his arm. “Yes, of course,” she mumbled,turning away in haste and looking desperately for something else to do. She left him trying to wedge the rabbit skull up the chimney in a way that might allow it to fall out unexpectedly and wandered into the dressing room, looking for things to dislodge or set askew. It contained only a bathtub and washstand. She walked around them to the large closet—or small storage room—at the far end. That was lined with shelves on either side which were all full to bursting with clothes, and the back wall was stacked high with trunks.
She jumped when Mr Darcy spoke from directly behind her.
“Anything useful?”
“Not really,” she said over her shoulder. “We could perhaps unbalance that top trunk?”
