Mrs. Bennet pressed a hand to her chest. “The axle broke?”
“Yes, ma’am. She writes that no one was injured. But the rain has since made the roads impassable, and the Bingley family have insisted she remain the night.”
The room fell still for one brief moment.
Then Mrs. Bennet let out a long breath. “Thank Heaven,” she said. “Thank Heaven she was not injured. And how fortunate that she had not gone farther.”
Elizabeth felt the knot in her chest ease. That, at least, was a comfort.
Jane would not appear forward. She had not lingered by design or sought an excuse to remain. Circumstance had sent her back, and hospitality had done the rest. It was better—far better—than any contrivance.
Mr. Collins drew himself up again, though with a little less self-assurance than before. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, very good. Aregrettable accident, of course, but one attended by favorable consequences.”
Lydia frowned at him. “Thomas will still be unhappy.”
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “So, it would seem.”
Kitty rose from her seat. “I shall tell him before bedtime.”
“You are a dear girl,” Mrs. Bennet said distractedly, though her eyes were already back upon the note as though she wished to draw further reassurance from it.
Elizabeth remained by the window another moment, listening to the rain. Tomorrow, the roads would still be poor. Perhaps not wholly impassable by morning, but certainly difficult. The carriage would be awkward, and Jane might wish for familiar company sooner rather than later. Thomas, too, would ask for her.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened lightly against the sill.
She would go to Netherfield on the morrow. On foot, if she must. The decision settled in her mind with simple clarity.
She turned from the window at last. “Mrs. Hill,” she said, “would you see that my walking shoes are made ready in the morning?”
Mrs. Hill looked at her with mild surprise, then inclined her head. “Certainly, Miss Elizabeth.”
Mrs. Bennet stared. “You do not mean to go out in this weather.”
“Not tonight,” Elizabeth said, her expression calm. “Tomorrow.”
And with Jane safe, sheltered, and not in the least to blame for remaining where she was wanted, the thought of it sat easily with her. Finally, she felt she might sleep.
Chapter Eight
The road from Meryton to Netherfield had grown steadily worse with every passing mile. Darcy had noted it without comment as the carriage wheels pressed deeper into softened ground, the rhythm of their progress shifting from smooth to uneven, then to something slower and more cautious. The rain, which had begun as little more than a fine mist when they departed, had strengthened into a steady fall that blurred the hedgerows and rendered the distance uncertain.
Bingley, seated opposite, seemed determined to take no notice of it. “I cannot say I regret the evening,” he said, drawing his gloves free with a careless tug. “Colonel Forster is an excellent fellow. I am glad we made his acquaintance.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “He spoke well Meryton’s hospitality.” The militia was to be quartered in the market town over the winter. Many places disdained the soldiers and shunned them, but this little part of the country seemed eager to have the redcoats stationed nearby.
“And of you,” Bingley added with a quick grin. “It appears my friend Fitzwilliam has left a favorable impression.”
Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “My cousin is adept at recommending those he esteems.” He had learned over the course of the evening that the colonel of the militia had served with his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, on the continent. A wound had seen him home and reassigned to a militia regiment permanently. The colonel took advantage of the change and married a young woman, who would be joining him in Meryton shortly.
“That sounds very much like Fitzwilliam,” Bingley replied. “I do hope he is keeping safe while he is on the continent.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He was considering the evening—not its diversions, which had been unremarkable, but the smaller particulars that lingered despite themselves. A conversation carried beyond the brightness of the assembly room. A manner composed without effort. A refusal given without hesitation or discomfort.
He shifted his gaze toward the rain-streaked window and said, almost absently, “I share your concern. His last letter spoke of his good health. May it remain that way.”
Hurst, who had thus far remained silent, gave a low murmur that might have been agreement. He appeared more concerned with the prospect of a fire and a chair than with the society they had just left.
The carriage slowed as it approached Netherfield. It came to a stop under the covered portico, and Darcy sent up a prayer of thanks to whomever designed the manor house. It was good not to be thoroughly drenched while disembarking from the carriage.
