Page 15 of The Lost Prophecy

Miss Elizabeth placed her spoon beside her bowl. “Then cider must constitute an apple course, and a gentleman may enjoy a balanced diet without ever inconveniencing his teeth.”

Darcy lowered his glass before a sudden burst of amusement betrayed him. Bingley was less successful. A loud laugh escaped his chest, and one sharp canine descended far enough to catch the candlelight. He covered the monstrous lapse by pressing his linen napkin to his mouth.

Miss Bingley examined Miss Elizabeth over the floral centrepiece, her eyes narrowed. “Our cook is accustomed to much more restrained appetites.”

Miss Elizabeth resumed her soup without missing a beat. “The fault is entirely mine. I failed to understand that dinner at Netherfield is principally decorative.”

Hurst conceded the point by cheerfully raising his glass to her. “Decoration is essential to civilised life.”

The strained conversation moved to Miss Bennet, the threatening weather, and the likelihood of Mr Jones returning in the morning. Miss Elizabeth ate enough to satisfy Mrs Hurst’s hovering hospitality but politely declined both puddings, whereupon Bingley ordered prodigious slices sent upstairs in case Miss Bennet awakened demanding plum custard in the middle of the night. Miss Elizabeth did not point out that an invalid who had barely managed chicken broth was unlikely to demand pudding before dawn. Her silence suggested that she had fully recognised the limits of reason where Bingley’s anxiety was concerned.

After dinner, the party returned to the grand drawing room. Miss Bingley took possession of the seat nearest Darcy and of her embroidery, Mrs Hurst opened her workbasket, Hurst carried his glass to a distant chair where he could pursue the consumption of liquid fruit without interruption, and Bingley stationed a chair where the ceiling above the blue chamber was widest. Miss Elizabeth wandered to the large book table and selected the first volume of The Mysteries of Udolpho.

Darcy noticed the familiar title. “Do you admire Mrs Radcliffe?”

She opened the volume and smoothed the page. “I admire any author who can persuade a sensible reader to fear a window curtain.”

Darcy waved a hand dismissively. “A curtain should not require four dense volumes to explain itself.”

Miss Elizabeth did not raise her eyes from the text. “The curtain is merely fulfilling its destiny while the people behave irrationally around it. It is not responsible for the explanation.”

Darcy leaned back. “Then it may be the most reasonable character in the novel.”

She studied him above the open pages, her dark eyes flashing. “You have read it.”

He conceded the point with a slight nod. “I have endured it.”

Miss Elizabeth smiled. “That is a severe description of voluntary reading.”

Darcy adjusted his cuffs. “I merely wished to discover whether the preternatural events truly deserved their reputation. Mrs Radcliffe permitted terror to flourish for three volumes and then summoned mundane reason at the conclusion to deny that anything extraordinary had ever occurred.”

Miss Elizabeth settled into the chair opposite him. “Would you prefer the ghosts to be convicted in a court of law?”

He met her gaze squarely. “I would prefer them to accept responsibility for their actions.”

“There are no ghosts, Mr Darcy.”

He held her stare. “That is precisely my complaint.”

Her bright, genuine laughter reached him before she lowered her eyes back to the book. Darcy knew he had spoken far more freely than prudence allowed, but the sheer absurdity of discussing the nonexistence of unnatural creatures while surrounded by five vampires proved impossible to resist.

Miss Elizabeth turned a page. “The final explanation does not erase the initial terror. Emily does not know that reason will arrive later and organise the castle. She experiences every sound and shadow without that comfort.”

Darcy watched the firelight dance in her hair. “Readers know perfectly well that Mrs Radcliffe must eventually restore order.”

She tapped the cover. “Readers, Mr Darcy, know that every novel must eventually end, but they continue to worry in the middle.”

Darcy rested his chin on his hand. “A rational person would investigate before surrendering to fear, do you not agree, Miss Elizabeth?”

She flipped another page with a decisive snap. “A rational person in a Gothic castle would pack her bags and leave before the second volume.”

Darcy permitted his mouth to curve in a small smile. “Then there would be no novel.”

“There might be a shorter and more sensible one.”

Miss Bingley abruptly lowered her embroidery, her voice loud and desperate to insert herself between them. “I have always admired Mrs Radcliffe. Her descriptions are very elegant.”

Miss Elizabeth closed one finger between the pages, turning politely to their hostess. “Which of her novels do you prefer, Miss Bingley?”