Page 70 of Ashes and Understanding
But the levity faded when he then turned to Sir William. “Am I to understand, sir, that Miss Elizabeth is not a suspect?”
Sir William blanched. “Of course not! No—heavens, no. She’s a witness, not a—well, certainly not.”
“Then who is?” Darcy asked quietly. “Are there suspects?”
Sir William hesitated, then glanced at Mr. Gardiner. “There… there is some speculation,” he admitted reluctantly. “It is only natural to question everyone who had dealings with the deceased.”
Mr. Gardiner sighed and stepped forward. “I understand. He was sent to investigate me and my family. And he died here. You would be remiss not to consider me.”
“That is completely ridiculous!” Elizabeth burst out, rising to her feet. “Uncle, no one with sense would ever suspect—”
Sir William raised his hands. “Miss Bennet, I assure you, I take no pleasure in this. But I must follow protocol… although with friends and neighbors involved…” The usually jovial man’s words trailed off, and he shifted in his chair, clearly ill at ease.
“My late father was magistrate for a time,” Darcy said, watching to ensure Elizabeth resumed her seat. “I know it was always difficult when landowners and members of the upper class were involved.”
“Indeed,” Sir William replied gloomily.
Darcy hesitated, then said, “Would it be of use, sir, if I were to hire a Bow Street Runner or another official to assist in the investigation? That way, there would be an impartial voice, and you would not need to handle this alone.”
Sir William looked at him in astonishment. “Would you do that?”
Darcy gave a short nod. “I admit that murder is well outside of my area of expertise, and I assume the same is true for you as well.”
Sir William exhaled in obvious relief. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I would be most obliged.”
Elizabeth sank back into her chair, exhaustion settling into her bones. But somewhere beneath it, under the blood and the shock and the fear, was something else.
Gratitude.
Not just to her family, who believed her. Not only to her uncle, who bore suspicion with such grace.
But to Mr. Darcy, who had not flinched. Not from the sight of her, bloodied and dazed. Not from the weight of responsibility. And not from her.
When others might have looked away, his eyes had remained fixed on hers—steady, grounding, and unexpectedly tender.
She looked up, met his gaze again, and gave him the smallest nod of thanks.
His answering nod was slight, almost imperceptible—but his eyes softened. Just for her.
And for a single moment, despite the heaviness of the room, something warm and unspoken passed between them.
∞∞∞
The ride back to Netherfield was silent at first; both Darcy and Bingley were lost in their own thoughts. The rhythmic cadence of their horses' hooves against the damp earth seemed to echo the disquiet that had settled between them. Bingley finally broke the quiet with a disbelieving shake of his head.
“A murder,” he murmured, then spoke louder when Darcy asked him to repeat himself. “A murder, Darcy. In Meryton, of all places. This is a peaceful place, even if it is a little busy. Who could have imagined such a thing?”
“The village has been quite busy as of late, at least from what I understand,” Darcy replied. “A surfeit of homeless dock workers in search of a way to earn their bread appears to be the main cause.”
“It must be one of them, or even one of the new militia men. Certainly Mr. Gardiner is far too respectable a man to be entangled in something so… so nefarious.”
Darcy gave a curt nod. “Agreed. Whatever Smithson was involved in, it was not of Mr. Gardiner’s making.”
Bingley sighed, running a gloved hand through his disheveled hair. “And Miss Elizabeth... to have stumbled upon such a ghastly scene. The horror she must have felt.” He paused, his brow furrowing deeper. “At least she has a fair amount of spirit. I shudder to think of poor Miss Bennet in such a situation. It must be difficult for her, right now, to be unable of comfort her dear sister because of her ankle.”
Darcy made a noncommittal noise. Bingley continued talking, but his voice became little more than background murmur. Something Elizabeth had said earlier was tugging at Darcy’s memory—something important—and it urged him forward to Netherfield so he could put pen to paper.
Upon reaching the estate, the sun had begun its descent towards the horizon. Darcy and Bingley dismounted quickly at the stable yard, handing the reins to a waiting groom. The lad looked anxious, fairly bouncing on his heels as he looked around the fields.
