Page 23 of The Lost Prophecy

Jane settled lower against the pillows. “You should go outside for a little while. You have scarcely left this room since you arrived.”

Elizabeth stretched. “I left it exactly long enough to be pursued by tableware.”

Jane’s expression became gently doubtful. “You were tired, Lizzy. Perhaps you misunderstood.”

“I was fully awake, and the punch bowl was determined.”

Jane smiled weakly. “Perhaps Netherfield has unusual customs.”

Elizabeth huffed. “That specific explanation has been offered for everything except the punch bowl, which has been attributed to science.”

Jane pressed her lips tightly together, although laughter escaped them. “Go for your walk, Lizzy. Mrs Nicholls will remain nearby, and I promise not to receive any musical instruments while you are gone.”

Elizabeth waited patiently until the housekeeper returned, then collected her bonnet after descending by the correct guest staircase. The morning had cleared at last, leaving the grounds damp under a pale sky. She followed the gravel path beyond the terrace, remaining within sight of the house while she stretched limbs stiffened by sleeping on the small cot.

Fresh air ought to have settled her thoughts. Instead, the peculiarities of Netherfield followed her. People who never ate, rooms without mirrors, bodies that became unnaturally still, a punch bowl capable of independent travel, and Mr Darcy, who seemed to know the explanation for everything while providing true answers to nothing.

Loud hoofbeats interrupted the internal catalogue.

A black stallion emerged from beyond the trees, advancing like a storm given hooves. The animal was truly enormous, its coat almost blue under the weak sunlight, and its long mane flying behind a head constructed of massive proportions. Mr Darcy sat in the saddle, one gloved hand controlling enough muscle and bad temper to flatten the shrubbery.

Elizabeth moved swiftly from the centre of the muddy path, but the horse noticed her and altered its course.

Mr Darcy drew sharply on the reins. The stallion stopped several feet away, struck the wet ground forcefully with one hoof, and released a huge cloud of breath through flared nostrils. Elizabeth resisted the sensible impulse to retreat farther. Predatory interest did not improve merely because it belonged to a well-bred horse.

Mr Darcy dismounted and kept a firm hold on the bridle. “Miss Elizabeth, you should not stand so near him.”

“I was farther away until he corrected the distance.”

Mr Darcy tightened his grip. “He is not accustomed to strangers.”

“He has a very direct method of introducing himself,” Elizabeth said.

The stallion stretched his neck towards her. Mr Darcy shortened the reins, but Elizabeth held out one gloved hand before he could object. The animal inspected her fingers, breathed against them, and lowered its head.

Mr Darcy studied the horse with deep suspicion. “That is unusual.”

Elizabeth smiled brightly. “Perhaps he has mistaken me for someone tolerable.”

His eyes returned instantly to her face. The reference landed between them, and the slight ease that had begun to form vanished beneath the memory of the assembly.

He released a slow breath, although no trace of it appeared in the freezing air. “His name is Behemoth.”

Elizabeth examined the stallion’s shoulders. “For once, exaggeration has been avoided.”

Mr Darcy did not smile. “He was named long before his disposition became apparent.”

Elizabeth stroked the animal’s neck. “What would you have called him afterwards?”

Mr Darcy considered the horse, which had begun searching her glove for concealed offerings. “The name remained perfectly sufficient.”

A genuine laugh escaped her. Mr Darcy’s mouth shifted slightly in response, but gravity returned before the expression fully formed. He stroked Behemoth’s neck once, gathering his thoughts beneath the movement.

His voice lowered. “How is Miss Bennet this morning?”

Elizabeth turned to him. “Her fever broke during the night. She has eaten and is resting comfortably. Thank you for your concern.”

Relief altered his face before he mastered it. “Bingley will be pleased. He has been attempting to manage her illness through volume.”