Could Mr. Bennet have heard of the second attempt on Mr. Darcy already? “What news?”
Mary smiled, obviously pleased to know more than Elizabeth. “He said he recently received a letter, and that his first inclination was to wait a fortnight to answer it, for he thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring well-thought through attention, but that the attempt to abduct Mr. Darcy in the very light of day in the middle of Meryton reminded him of his own mortality, and so he replied with alacrity. His correspondent proved equally quick.” Mary’s eyes gleamed with excitement.
“What correspondent?” Elizabeth asked, for her sister had yet to impart any actual news. Certainly, none that would see their mother looking for Elizabeth.
“This morning at breakfast, while you were out nursing some horrible fox, Papa informed us that our cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when Papa is dead, may turn us all out of this house as soon as he pleases, will arrive here this very afternoon.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “Mr. Collins is coming here? Why?”
“Mama said to count the silver, no doubt, but she has us all scurrying about to make ready.” Mary lifted her chin. “I was sent to find you. You are shirking.”
A maid skirted them, squeezing between Mary and the large kitchen table, and reminding Elizabeth of all the ears about them. “Then I best be quick.”
“You are still going back out?”
“I am.” Elizabeth went to the table and took up a loaf left over from breakfast.
Mary appeared at her elbow, her eyes once again thin with suspicion. “Foxes do not eat bread.”
“I do, and I missed breakfast.” With a grin, Elizabeth also hoisted a pot of undoubtedly cold tea, then hastened back in the direction of the scullery. She dared not go any deeper into thehouse, but she could secure a blanket from the stable. Not so fine as that to which Mr. Fox was undoubtedly accustomed, but he would appreciate the extra warmth.
“I am going to tell Mama why you are not helping.”
Not troubling to look back into the bright, hectic kitchen, Elizabeth called, “I assumed you would,” and slipped through the scullery and away.
Chapter Sixteen
Leaving his mount with a footman, Darcy took the front steps of Netherfield Park’s manor house two at a time. Autumnal gusts clawed at his hat, heralding a change in the weather and running a shiver down his spine. Though the hour was still early, the door opened to the expressionless face of the so-called butler with his too-military stance, revealing the warmth within.
Entering, Darcy began stripping his outerwear as he asked, “Where may I find my cousin?” He did not care to refer to Richard as ‘Mr. Darcy’ if at all avoidable.
The butler exchanged a look with the underservant to whom he passed Darcy’s gloves and hat before replying, “I could not say, sir.”
A prevarication if Darcy had ever heard one. They were here to know where Richard was at all times, to safeguard him. “The cellar, then?”
The man’s grimace was all the confirmation Darcy required. He turned and made his way deeper into the house.
Though unfamiliar with the location of Bingley’s leased cellar, Darcy had fair knowledge of the general layout of most stately homes. Before long, he located a doorway flanked by two men garbed as footmen. Shoulders back, he marched forward.
“Sir, this door leads to the cellar,” one said, stepping in front of Darcy.
“I am aware.” Although he hadn’t been sure until the man spoke.
“Ah, I am not certain you are meant to go down there, sir.”
Darcy looked the man up and down. “Have you been ordered to keep me from entering the cellar?”
“Well, no, sir.”
“Then I suggest you permit me to pass.”
The man barring Darcy’s way looked over his shoulder. The second so-called footman shrugged. Both moved out of the way. After a moment’s hesitation, the first pulled open the door. Darcy trotted down the wide, well-lighted staircase, making no effort to mitigate his growing frown.
He came out into a large room, various bundles of linens and articles of furniture piled against the walls to make space for a table in the center, behind which sat a clerk wearing footmen’s livery. The man, perhaps five years younger than Darcy, looked up from the open ledger before him, his hand poised to dip a pen in ink. Behind him, to either side of a hallway, stood two more of Richard’s men, armed with cudgels.
The clerk blinked twice. “Mr.… Ah, that is, Colonel Fitzwilliam, you are not meant to be down here, sir.”
In the door-and-sconce lined hallway behind the man, fresh, unpainted planks and what were undoubtedly new brackets barred nearly all sixteen doors, drawing Darcy’s stunned gaze. How many prisons did Richard require? Were the rooms all in use, or merely prepared?
