She squeezed his arm, having not removed her hand during the whole narrative. “I do not think Lady Catherine could have done this, but who else hates me enough to murder me in my bed? Miss Bingleydeparted for London, and it seems that Wickham is away as well.” Her brow furrowed. “And even if he were here, why would he stretch his hand out againstme?”
All eyes turned to Lydia, who shrugged. “How should I know?” She rubbed her stomach and asked for another slice of cake, earning the footman another demerit in Mrs. Bennet’s accounts when he was not there to wait on them.
“Where is he off to?” she mumbled.
Darcy knew she referred to the missing footman, but he was more concerned about the missing ne’er-do-well, Wickham. There were too few suspects to dismiss him so readily. He caressed Elizabeth’s hand and stood. “The colonel and I will ride over every inch of the countryside. Perhaps your neighbors will assist us.”
Mr. Bennet rose. “I will accompany you.”
“If it is agreeable to you,” Darcy replied, “I would be much easier of mind if you would stay with Elizabeth. We dare not leave the ladies without protection with a murderer about.” He glanced at Mrs. Bennet, but she did not flutter and sway. Nor did she produce her fan or complain of nerves. She had not even opposed Mr. Bennet’s offer of assistance.
Mr. Bennet sat. “That suits me better than having my bones rattled and my organs jostled out of their proper place. But do you really think Lizzy is still in danger so long as she stays indoors and away from thewindows? The villain could easily assume the worst, negating the need for any further attack.”
“I am not tempted to walk on these swollen feet,” Elizabeth said. “I think I shall stay indoors today.” As though it were a choice.
Darcy loved her spirit, recognizing how shaken she must be to agree to stay in when she always preferred the out of doors and expressing herself in such a way as to dispel his anxiety.
Heavy boots squeaked over the floorboards, and Mrs. Hill appeared, dragging the poor, wincing footman with her by the ear.
“Mrs. Hill, shall we speak in the kitchen?” offered Mrs. Bennet in a shocking display of propriety.
“I dare not release my hold lest he slip away again. Neglecting his duties sneaking around the house, he was, and the state of his livery.” Mrs. Hill’s frown deepened as she glared at his grass-stained stockings, sweat-drenched shirt, and dust-coated shoes.
Twisting himself out of her grip, the footman stepped forward. “I found Mrs. Bennet’s tablecloth, sir.”
Mrs. Bennet sat taller in her chair, all attention. “Where is it then?”
The young man bowed his head. “I am sorry to tell you it is ruined.”
Sinking back into her chair, the matron merely said, “Oh.” No wails or fan-waving. Truly, that machine was a miracle worker.
Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows, a glint of admirationin his eyes as he flicked his gaze away from his wife and back to the footman. “Where did you find it?”
Clutching his hands together, the young man replied, “You told me to keep an eye out after the carriage, so I took to walking about the house before nightfall. To ensure no strangers lurked about.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, encouraging him along. “Is that when you found the tablecloth?”
The footman continued, “One night, I saw footprints and packed dirt behind the carriage house. It got me thinking.”
“A fine occupation I always encourage,” commented Mr. Bennet.
“I thought that maybe the man who cut the axle was the man I mistook for Mr. Hill the morn of the wedding.”
Mrs. Hill gave up all pretense of pinching his ear, and Mr. Bennet kept his quips to himself.
“This morning, such a feeling of dread overtook me, I could not sleep. Not knowing what to do, but needing to do something, I swept the flagstones and filled the buckets. Mrs. Hill likes it when I do that.”
Nodding her head, Mrs. Hill looked up at him proudly. Clearly, the way to her heart was through domestic work. “Please go on, Thatcher. Tell the Bennets where you found the tablecloth.”
“A sound made me peek through the back door. That was when I saw a man running away from the house like the hounds were on his heels.”
“Who was he? Did you see his face?” Darcy asked.
“It was Mr. Wickham.”
Silence swelled in the room.
Lydia’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, but no words spilled out. A truly miraculous machine.
