Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

H ours later, the storm had yet to abate, so Elizabeth and the Gardiners were invited to remain for dinner. There was little hope that they would make it safely back to the inn afterwards, so they were assigned bedchambers in anticipation of staying overnight as well.

Unfortunately, with all their clothes back at their lodgings, they were in no way prepared to dress for the meal. The Gardiners, being similar in stature to the Hursts, experienced no difficulty in borrowing something suitable, but Elizabeth did not fare so well. Miss Bingley—not that she was inclined to supply her self-appointed rival with any of her precious gowns—was significantly taller and a great deal thinner than she, Mrs Hurst rather plumper, and Miss Darcy was somewhere in between the two yet still somehow vastly different from Elizabeth. Given her choices, she had determined Miss Darcy's offering to be the best possible fit.

Even so, Miss Darcy was taller than Elizabeth; thus, the lovely evening gown so graciously loaned to her dragged on the floor as she moved. She attempted to alleviate this condition by gathering fistfuls of extra fabric and lifting it upwards, freeing her feet to walk unencumbered, but there remained a slight train of white that followed Elizabeth everywhere. She hoped she would not ruin the dress before she could return it.

Elizabeth paused to appraise her appearance in the mirror above her dressing table before she descended to dinner. She appeared pale and fretful, but her hair had been neatly arranged by Miss Darcy's lady's maid—another generous loan—and she was swathed in richer fabrics than she was generally accustomed to. The dress was pure white satin with delicately embroidered indigo forget-me-nots and anemones descending the skirt along the front panel. Otherwise, it was largely free of ornamentation, save for a whisper of eyelet lace around the neck, puffed sleeves, and hem. In short, the perfect garment for a sheltered maiden such as the genteel and delicate Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley yet not entirely suited to Elizabeth herself. Perhaps it was because she was several years older than the girl who owned it, or it might be the greater knowledge of herself and the world she had gained over the past year in her interactions with Mr Darcy.

"Or," she admitted to her reflection with a self-deprecating huff, tugging at the snug bodice to rearrange her…self, "perhaps it is just too tight!"

Thoughts of Mr Darcy, who at last report was still out in the swirling tempest that had descended upon Pemberley, dropped the smile from her face in an instant. Was he well? Had anyone gone out to look for him? The household remained calm, so she hoped there was no cause for alarm, but…

Creak .

Elizabeth looked to the door that would open out into the corridor, her increasingly wary mind wishing to be sure that it was as closed as the maid had left it before returning to Miss Darcy. The opening remained sealed, and she released a tense breath.

Perturbed by the noise and her own thoughts, Elizabeth decided that it was time to go down to dinner, ready or not. Even Miss Bingley would be welcome company when compared to the spectres that supposedly haunted these hallowed halls.

"Then again, perhaps not," she muttered to herself as she turned the knob and released herself into the corridor.

Outside her assigned chamber, all was as quiet as it should be. There was no one about, the other guests having noisily passed her door as she finished stuffing her bosom into her dress; even the servants had apparently found work elsewhere. The only sound that reached her ears was the soft pitter-patter of her own slippers upon the carpet. Amazing how, in a house so full, I should frequently find myself completely alone.

Pit-pat-squish, pit-pat-squish, pit-pat-squish.

Elizabeth halted in the middle of the hall, arrested there by the sound of approaching footsteps. There was something strange about them; they sounded…wet, like her muddy boots on Longbourn's kitchen floor.

Her imagination seized upon the image of a ghastly pale figure, dripping lake water as she stalked the halls, willow vines tangled in her long, silvery tresses. A chill suddenly accosted her, raising the fine hairs on her bare arms.

Elizabeth shook the notion away and scurried forwards, intent on reaching the stairs quickly and returning to the comfort of people down below. The hem of her borrowed gown hissed against the weave of the carpet as it skimmed over the floor at an accelerated pace. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, refusing to even so much as glance at a door or window as she passed them. If she could but?—

"Oh!" Elizabeth exclaimed, colliding with something solid with a wet smack and bouncing backwards. She landed on her bottom, her skirts flaring around her as she descended to the floor then resettling in a haphazard fashion. Above her, a figure swathed in shadow loomed.