Page 56 of An Accidental Meeting
Darcy picked up the snuffed candle Mr. Hurst had left on the floor and lit it again. The lock on his door was sound. He reached into his coat pocket and touched the little ring that held only two keys—one for his study and the other for his mother’s room. When he left the house, Mr. Rhoades was the only one who held a copy of the key to the study and Mrs. Reynolds the other key to his mother’s reading room. Darcy trusted both with Pemberley in his absence, and they had never disappointed, so he assumed Mr. Hurst must know how to defeat the locks without a key. That would explain how his wife had entered his mother’s reading room. Mr. Hurst could have opened the door for her before heading here.
If Mr. Hurst had cultivated such a skill, there was no telling who else he had stolen from. It would be simple enough to let himself into his host’s study and lift a few coins or small items that he could sell later. If he chose correctly, the items might not be missed for some time.
Even better, a thief who had been invited in might have the time to investigate which doors in the house were locked. If they were seldom used, the items inside might never be missed at all.
But Mr. Hurst had not been clever tonight. The idea of treasure had caused exactly the sort of problem Darcy had been dealing with all week. Greed.
After ascertaining that nothing was missing, he trudged to Bingley’s room with a burdened heart and knocked on the door.
“Darcy?” Bingley rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Is everyone well?”
“I am afraid not,” Darcy replied. “May I come in?”
When Elizabeth rose the next morning, she dressed with alacrity in the hopes of a quick walk about the gardens before breakfast. They were finally to take their delayed trip around the park this morning, and she was greatly anticipating spending time with Mr. Darcy away from concerns about his family’s possessions or Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst’s catty observations on her every feature, piece of clothing, or mannerism.
As it happened, she was not the first awake and about the house. Mr. Bingley, appearing more haggard than she could ever recall, was entering the house, and behind him, a carriage—his carriage, if she was not mistaken—was rattling down the drive.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, a bit startled to look up and see her there. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bingley.”
The man glanced behind him uneasily. “My brother and sister have decided to travel on to Scarborough ahead of us.”
“Was Miss Bingley not with them?”
“Ah, no.” He winced as though in some pain. “She will remain here. As Mrs. Darcy is in residence, all should be well.”
“I see.” She did not, of course, but though this had pricked her curiosity, it was no business of hers.
Mr. Darcy emerged suddenly from his study. “I do not think anything was broken, Bingley,” he was saying, but stopped short when he spied her. “Miss Bennet.”
“I was about to take a walk in the garden before breakfast,” she said, hoping he would offer to join her.
Alas, she was to be disappointed.
“I am afraid I have some matters to go over with Bingley, Miss Bennet. However, we shall see one another at breakfast, and then for the drive, I hope?”
Elizabeth felt herself dismissed. “I am looking forward to it, sir.”
His answering smile was small and tight. Whatever had happened?
Mr. Bingley was with him, however, and between the two of them they would sort things out. She bobbed a shallow curtsy and continued on her way.
Rather than approach the gardens, she meandered down along the river as she reflected on Mr. Darcy’s unhappiness. She would like to alleviate it somehow, but would he even wish for her concern?
It was a little cool down by the water, but Elizabeth did not mind it. She walked farther up the hill than she had with her uncle and aunt on their tour, but when she stopped to admire the view, she thought she ought to return. She had not mentioned taking this path to anyone, and she did not know the park as she knew Longbourn’s. With a sigh, she turned back, travelling past the coppice wood and crossing the bridge over the stream filled with fish.
Mr. Darcy’s estate was a grand example of carefully managed abundance, and it spoke to the character of the man in a way that Elizabeth had not been able to discern on her own. Though she still felt justified in her answer to his offer in April, Elizabeth could not say that her feelings for Mr. Darcy were the same. He truly had listened to her and had changed his manner, if not his essence. But then, she had already determined that he had never been truly bad.
Only a good man would have looked past his own affront and agreed that she had reason to refuse him. Only a deeply good man would have been fair enough to take her words to heart, to actually work to correct the flaws she had enumerated. And yet, Mr. Darcy had not done it to impress her, for he could not have thought he would ever see her again.
It was just like her, to turn a man away in a fury only to decide that she could love him after all.
Well, it was too late for that. He was kind, but Elizabeth was sure he merely wanted her to know that he had attended her reproofs. After all, he had not attempted to seek her out; she had merely shown up at his home, struggling to lift a frame off his housekeeper. She was grateful that they were amicable now, but it could never be more. Despite his warm welcome, he could not desire it.
But he had invited them to stay. He had no need to do so much.
Oh, she wished dearly for the confidence in her judgement that she had possessed before Mr. Darcy had handed her his letter! She was glad that he had told her the truth; that was not what she regretted. But once having read it, Elizabeth’s faith in her own understanding of character had been sadly broken.
