Page 2 of An Accidental Meeting
He was a little younger here, less burdened, less stoic. However, she recognized the ghost of a smile that played about his lips, for it was the same one he had often worn as he gazed at her. She had believed he was cataloguing her faults but given his confession of admiration and love last April, she did not believe so any longer.
“The portrait is very fine, is it not?” Mrs. Reynolds asked as they both stood looking up at it.
Elizabeth nodded. “It certainly is.” She thought it appeared all the finer for having a plain wooden frame, not like the others, which were gilded. It suited the man who was depicted there. She stood together in silence with Mrs. Reynolds until Elizabeth startled, realizing that she had lost all sense of the time. She was surprised to find that her aunt and uncle had walked ahead and were nowhere to be seen.
“Your aunt and uncle have gone on to meet the gardener, who will lead a tour of the park,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “I told them I would wait for you.”
Elizabeth blushed. “You must think me rather silly to be staring in such a way, but the likeness is quite astonishing.”
“I have often said as much,” the housekeeper said approvingly. She tipped her head to one side, and then, with a little grumble, stepped forward. “It is crooked again,” she said. “I will just . . .”
Had this been one of her sisters, Elizabeth would have physically restrained her, for the painting was large and the frame appeared quite heavy. Mrs. Reynold grasped the bottom of the frame in both hands and, with a strength that surprised Elizabeth, tugged one corner up.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth said hurriedly, “forgive me, but perhaps you ought to call a footman?”
The housekeeper either did not hear her or ignored her. Elizabeth’s gaze travelled up to see the painting shift awkwardly. She gasped but released a relieved breath when the painting dropped back in its place.
The housekeeper took a half step back to appraise her work.
Elizabeth glanced down the gallery to the back stairs, thinking she ought to join her relations, but a sharp sound, like the sudden breaking of a violin string in the midst of a performance, made her turn back.
The world around her slowed to a crawl as she took in the entire scene.
Mrs. Reynolds, standing before the painting of Mr. Darcy.
The portrait dropping straight down, the bottom of the frame catching on the chair rail. The top of the frame pitching forward.
Wires pulling away from the wall and nails clattering against the floor.
The housekeeper being tossed backwards, arms flailing.
Elizabeth instinctively darted forward, but she was perhaps two steps too far back to reach Mrs. Reynolds in time. The top of the massive frame cracked sharply as it hit the floor with force, Mrs. Reynolds caught beneath. All Elizabeth could see were two thin legs sticking out from beneath the bottom of the frame.
Had the situation been less serious, Elizabeth might have laughed. So audacious was her visit to Pemberley that even the man’s likeness must leap off the wall to rebuke her. But there was nothing to laugh at here.
Elizabeth planted her feet and attempted to lift the damaged portrait, but the soles of her boots slipped on the slick marble tile. She grunted with the exertion. No wonder the picture had come away from the wall, for it was quite long, making it awkward to lift, and heavier than she would have expected. “Help!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Somebody help me!”
Footsteps pounded up the nearby stairs. Boots, Elizabeth thought vaguely, though she did not bother to look up. She lifted her portion of the ungainly portrait so that at the least its full weight was not resting on the woman underneath.
“Mrs. Reynolds!” The voice was deep and shocked. A large hand grasped the side of the frame nearest Elizabeth and pulled it back as though opening the cover of a book. She watched, limp with relief, as it clattered to the floor, several feet from her and face up.
Freed of her burden, Elizabeth looked up to discover that while the painting was no longer on the wall, she was still staring at its subject.
“Miss Bennet!” Mr. Darcy exclaimed.
Chapter Two
The cry for help was still ringing in Darcy’s ears as he gazed upon the last woman he had ever thought to see again. He was flustered. Befuddled. Confused. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was at Pemberley. Why was Elizabeth at Pemberley?
He tore his eyes from the countenance he saw every night in his dreams and turned to attend to Mrs. Reynolds. Her complexion was pale, and her breaths came quickly.
He heard whispering behind him and looked over his shoulder to see several footmen and a maid gathered at the other end of the gallery. There would be time for sorting out Elizabeth’s sudden appearance later.
“Adams, ride for Mr. Hammond,” Darcy commanded, and one of the men flew back down the stairs.
Mrs. Reynolds stirred, trying to protest, but Elizabeth took his housekeeper’s hand and urged her not to move just yet. There was a smear of blood on the floor near Mrs. Reynolds’s head, and Darcy’s stomach twisted in fear. He immediately reached for his cravat, intending to use it as a bandage, but Elizabeth shookher head to stop him, removing a handkerchief from her reticule instead. She folded it, then gently lifted the housekeeper’s head and pressed it against the wound. “You are just up from riding, sir,” she said, nodding at his clothing. “This is clean.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said gratefully. “Mrs. Reynolds, how do you feel?”
