“The moment Mr. Bingley learned of Miss Bennet’s presence, he ordered Mr. Jones sent for. Another message has gone already.”
Some of the tension eased from Elizabeth’s shoulders. Mr. Bingley, then, was not careless. That comforted her, though it did nothing to improve her opinion of his sister.
“I am grateful for your care, Mrs. Nicholls. But pray remember—”
“That you are not to be treated as mistress of Netherfield,” Mrs. Nicholls finished quietly. “Yes, miss. I know. None of the old servants will forget it, and none of the new ones know enough to suspect it.”
“I trust you. It is only that the house is fuller now, and servants talk.”
“They do,” Mrs. Nicholls said, with the frankness of one who had spent her life among them. “But they must first have something to talk about. To them, you are Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, come to see her sister and perhaps to speak of tenant matters, as you have often done.”
Elizabeth nodded, though the reminder did not wholly settle her nerves. Netherfield had begun to feel less like a secret these last days and more like a candle shielded by two hands in a rising wind.
They reached the breakfast room door, and Elizabeth looked down at herself with sudden consternation. Her sisters had taken the carriage into Meryton, and Elizabeth did not wish to wait for their return, so she had walked. The fields had not been kind. Her hem was spattered with mud, her half-boots bore obvious evidence of damp lanes, and a few strands of hair had escaped beneath her bonnet despite Susie’s careful work.
A laugh, silent and wry, rose within her.
This would now be the second time Mr. Darcy saw her disheveled.
At least she could take comfort in knowing he had seen worse. Much worse. No amount of Hertfordshire mud could rival Gracechurch Street cellar mud, and if he had not been frightened away by that spectacle, a stained hem could hardly complete the work.
She squared her shoulders and gave Mrs. Nicholls a nod.
The housekeeper opened the door. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Every eye in the room turned toward her.
Mr. Bingley rose at once, all concern and eagerness. Mr. Darcy stood almost in the same instant, more slowly but no less certainly, and Elizabeth felt his attention before she allowed herself to meet it. Miss Bingley, seated with one hand near her coffee cup, looked from Elizabeth’s bonnet to her hem and gave a small gasp.
“Good heavens,” she said. “Is it truly so muddy out of doors? You look as if youwalkedfrom Longbourn.”
She gave a delicate titter, as though this were a jest too refined to require good nature.
Elizabeth untied her bonnet strings with perfect calm. “I did. The carriage was unavailable.”
Mr. Bingley sent his sister a look so unusually severe that Elizabeth’s opinion of him rose several degrees. “Miss Elizabeth, I am very glad to see you. I am only sorry the occasion is your sister’s illness.”
“How is Jane?” Elizabeth asked, turning to him at once.
His face clouded. “I am ashamed to say I do not know for myself. I only learned very recently that she had remained in the house.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered, despite herself, toward Miss Bingley. That lady had become very interested in spreading marmalade upon a piece of toast.
“I should like to see her immediately, if I may,” Elizabeth said.
“Of course.” Mr. Bingley stepped forward at once. “I shall show you the way myself.”
There was such open anxiety in his manner that Elizabeth could not resent his offer. He wanted to know how Jane did. Perhaps he hoped to catch even a glimpse, or hear a word from the maid, or reassure himself that the lady he admired had not suffered through neglect in his house.
“I will accompany you,” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth looked at him then.
It was a mistake, perhaps. His expression was composed, but not indifferent. There was something intent in his gaze, something restrained and searching, and the sight of it made her stomach give a small, foolish flutter.
Miss Bingley rose with sudden alacrity. “Then I shall join you.”
“No,” Mr. Bingley said.
