“Am I not staying indoors to avoid being seen? How am I supposed to receive callers if I am feigning to be dead?”
Papa scratched his chin. “Yes, that is inconvenient for her.” He pushed his spectacles down, peeking at her over the rims. “Her manners are so agitated, I could not bring myself to tell her. She said her call is of an urgent nature, that she simply must speak with you.”
“Goodness gracious.” Elizabeth uncurled from her perch, setting the novel on top of the cushion to wait for her return. Pity it would not keep her seat warm. “How is our plan to keep me safe from Wickham to meet with any success if we cannot even properly fake my demise?”
“Miss de Bourgh arrived alone in a hired cart. Why would she defy propriety — and, no doubt, her mother — unless the reason for her call is of great import?”
Good points, all of them. “If you do not object, might I receive her here? With you and Dr. Sculthorpe?”
He raised his eyebrows. “She does not appear dangerous. If the lady is hiding some weapon on her person, I doubt her strong enough to lift it.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “If the reason for her call is so important, I would rather not be the only person to hear what she has to say. In case you have forgotten, I am not yet in full possession of my mental faculties, and I do not quite trust my memory well enough to relay the details to you later.”
Papa did not laugh at her joke. Not even a smile. He patted her shoulder. “Patience, my dear girl. It willcome. And perhaps Miss de Bourgh will help jog your memory.”
She swallowed and blinked, regretting her poorly timed joke. “Then you had best see her in.”
Miss de Bourgh did, indeed, appear agitated. Elizabeth soaked in her appearance and manners, from her drawn face and brittle frame to her cowed posture and apprehensive air. No memories resurfaced, but Elizabeth did not know if that was due to her amnesia or previous lack of conversation with the lady.
Too anxious for tea, Miss de Bourgh got straight to the point. “My mother wrote to the director of Bethlem Hospital. She has convinced herself she is doing you a service and sparing Darcy.”
Sculthorpe cursed under his breath.
“Are you familiar with the gentleman?” Miss de Bourgh asked.
“It brings me no pleasure to say I am. We worked together for a time but had a falling out over methods. Dr. Slade is cold, unfeeling. He believes nothing should stand in the way of science. Not compassion. Not decency. Not human dignity.”
“How convenient that I am no more, then,” Elizabeth mumbled, explaining before Miss de Bourgh swooned. “I am not a ghost, nor have I gone mad. I am merely frustrated to be stuck indoors when I would rather enjoy the pleasant weather out of doors. We must allow my attacker to believe her … or his … latest attempt has been successful, and so I have ensconced myself in my father’s book room.” When her explanation did little to ease her caller’s nerves, Elizabeth explained the calamities which had recently befallen them.
Miss de Bourgh’s complexion paled, a feat which Elizabeth would not have believed possible had she not seen it with her own eyes. Blue and green veins crawled and pulsated under the lady’s skin. “I realize my mother has given you no reason to sympathize with her and every reason to suspect she is behind these attempts, but I cannot condemn her nor deem her responsible.”
Elizabeth was not so easily convinced. “Did she send her letter by post or messenger?” she asked.
“Post. Mr. Collins sent it.”
Papa growled. “If Darcy does not flog his hide, I will!”
Charlotte’s husband or not, Elizabeth would not spare Mr. Collins from either gentleman.
“Miss de Bourgh, you do well to defend your mother. Any loyal daughter would do the same,” began Elizabeth. “However, please do not take offense if I have to wonder if she might have hired someone to interfere in her stead?”
The lady squeezed her hands together, her knuckles white. “My mother is strong-willed and overbearing, but she is not cruel.”
Elizabeth was not so certain, but she would notcontradict the daughter when she had risked her mother’s ire by driving to Longbourn.
“I know you do not believe me, Miss Bennet, nor would I if our roles were reversed. I have no better proof than my own word, which is as useless to you as it would be to anyone. I wish to be of assistance if I may in some small way, but I realize how unqualified I am in presuming to help you.”
The tremble of sincerity in Miss de Bourgh’s tone, the way she belittled herself as though she held no more esteem for herself than a frayed ribbon, stirred Elizabeth’s compassion. “You do not give yourself enough credit. It took a great deal of bravery to hire a cart and drive here on your own to warn me when you have not been given leave to act independently.” Elizabeth did not remember Lady Catherine clearly, but she sensed she was an imposing figure.
Miss de Bourgh smiled softly, her wide eyes glistening. “I dream of more independence.” She pressed her lips together, her owlish eyes showing how deeply she regretted expressing her own opinion aloud.
Elizabeth could not allow for Miss de Bourgh to regret her boldness when she ought to be encouraged. Gesturing at the bookshelves surrounding them, she said, “Book rooms are for dreaming, Miss de Bourgh. You are in the safest place in the world.”
Her caller nodded, the color of her knuckles warming to a pinker hue.
Papa took his cue. “It is also incomplete without acup of tea and a plate of cake. I will rouse Mrs. Hill to see what Cook has hidden from Lydia in the pantry.” He caught Sculthorpe’s eye and, in an effective-if-not-subtle gesture, he jerked his head toward the door.
Once they were alone, Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice light, conspiratorial. “What would you do with more independence?”
