His interference came from concern. Mr Darcy had thought he was acting in the service of a friend, and Elizabeth had to reconcile herself to his not being as hateful as she had always imagined.
“You are sorry for hurting my sister?” He nodded. “Then you should reunite them,” she said softly. He raised his eyebrows in question, and she went on. “If—whenwe are released, you could confess all to your friend.”
“He will be angry,” Mr Darcy said with a sigh.
At least that was not an outright refusal. “If your friend loved Jane, tell him that you were wrong, that she did and still does cherish a tender affection for Mr Bingley.” She tried to force cheerfulness into her voice when she said, “Any anger at your interference might be offset by the assurance that Jane loves him.”
Mr Darcy gave a half smile. “Well, if we survive this ordeal—since we are to wait out our captors and hope for a safe release—then I will tell him I concealed your sister being in town these three months, and that I believe myself mistaken in supposing that your sister was indifferent to him.”
She smiled at him in return. “We will survive the ordeal. A ransom will be demanded and paid, and we will be restored to our loved ones.”
He did not look as though he believed it. “If you intend on complying and not escaping, then we shall have to assure our captors that you are, in fact, Anne de Bourgh.”
After she assured him that she could, they lapsed into silence. She had been wrong about Mr Darcy’s reasons, and as proud as he was, he had not been as unfeeling a friend as she had presumed. It pressed uncomfortably on her mind that he had lost his patience last evening when they were discussing Wickham rather than Bingley and Jane.
What if there was more to their history, too? She feared her friend Wickham’s account of Mr Darcy was not entirely right. Was there a part of that story and Mr Darcy’s motives that she likewise misunderstood?
If he spoke honestly about his interference with Jane and Bingley, perhaps he would answer if she asked about his relationship with Wickham. Before Elizabeth could speak, the lock turned in the keyhole, and the door opened.
Chapter Four
The last thing Darcy wanted to think about was rejected marriage proposals or failed love affairs or the defects in his own character. All of those subjects needed their moment of reflection and proper action, but now he wanted to fight whomever was about to open that door. If Elizabeth had been willing to risk escape, they might have planned what to do in this situation. They might have taken them by surprise, and then run into the village to find help and sanctuary.
Instead, over the past hour he had to address, in his own heart, how he had hurt a young lady who did not show her feelings, how he had lied to one of his closest friends, and that he had failed to flatter the woman he loved.
Elizabeth had stood when the lock turned, and Darcy shifted to stand in front of her. But instead of Steamer, a boy opened the door, the one in mourning clothes too large for him. He was awkward, not quite a little boy but not close to being a man either. He entered, and behind him a maid followed and placed a water pitcher on the cluttered washstand shoved into a corner.
As she lit two candles on the mantel, the boy said, “Steamer said I was to let in the daily girl. He is at the bottom of the stairs. He, he also said if you knock me down, he would come up hereand…” The boy gave an embarrassed look to Elizabeth and then turned to Darcy. “He said he would stab you and then he would, to her…” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do I have to say it in front of the lady?”
Darcy shook his head, not daring to look at Elizabeth. This vague threat, delivered by a child, was alarming. It was not helping her point that they stay.
The maid edged around the boy, saying she would be back with the tray. The boy stayed by the open doorway and Darcy asked, “Why were we taken?”
The boy shrugged, and Darcy wondered if he was lying or truly did not know.
“Who is in the house now? Who lives here? What village are we in?”
The boy looked out the door and shook his head. Steamer might have told him not to answer questions. Darcy tried to check his impatience at being so entirely out of control.
“Are we occupying your room?” Elizabeth asked in a pleasant voice that felt unsuitable for the situation. The boy shrugged again, but this answer seemed to convey that he did not mind rather than that he did not know. “I am sorry to have taken your space. Where must you stay now?”
“My mother’s. She is the barmaid at the Old Bell. We have rooms upstairs, but Colton and Conway stay there when they come to the village, so I have to sleep in the offices in the stable now.”
Darcy shared a look with Elizabeth over the boy’s head. She gave a quick nod, understanding that he wanted her to keep him talking.
“’Tis a shame you have lost your room both here and there. Why is there no other space in this house for you?” He shrugged. “How many others live here?”
“Just Steamer, when they are in the village. My uncle stays at the tavern when he passes through.”
“Is your uncle Mr Markle?” Darcy asked as gently as he could.
The boy nodded, ducking his head.
After a silence, Elizabeth tried again. “Do you see him often? Is he expected soon?” One might have thought she was hosting a morning at home and making chat with the neighbours.
The boy pushed up the sleeve of a coat that was too long. “I don’t know. Colton sent a messenger, but Mamma and I have not seen him since”—his voice dropped—“my father…”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Elizabeth said. Darcy knew she had forgotten talking with the boy while she was under the influence of laudanum.
