37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

E lizabeth held her breath as she watched the scene unfold from her vantage point in the carriage. Sir Anthony Mortimer rode past the window, his horse's hooves splashing mud as he halted abruptly before Darcy's carriage. Through the narrow slit in the curtain, she could see him turning his mount to square off with the driver, his expression twisted with impatience.

"Turn this carriage back to Netherfield," Sir Anthony barked, his voice carrying over the rain-soaked landscape. His command was sharp, almost desperate, as though he had little time and even less patience.

Darcy's coachman, who looked to Elizabeth like a seasoned man who had seen his share of rough dealings, kept his seat atop the carriage, his back straight, his expression unyielding. "I am sorry, sir," he replied evenly, his voice steady despite the tension simmering in the air. "But I take my orders from Mr Darcy. He instructed me to remain here and ensure the road is cleared."

Sir Anthony's face darkened at the refusal, his lips curling into a sneer. "Darcy be damned," he snapped. "I have authority here, and I say you will turn this carriage around, or I'll—"

"With all due respect, sir," the coachman interrupted, a boldness in his tone that surprised even Elizabeth. "If you've authority, then perhaps you might order these workmen to get on with clearing the tree. That's what needs doing."

Elizabeth's breath hitched. She could barely make out her father's form beside her, his hand still firm on the pistol under the seat, ready to act if necessary. She glanced back at the scene outside, her pulse racing. For a moment, she dared to hope that Sir Anthony would be reasonable, that he would see the sense in the coachman's words. But that hope shattered in an instant.

Sir Anthony's hand moved swiftly to his coat, and in a flash, he pulled out a pistol, levelling it directly at the coachman. "I will not be defied," he hissed, his eyes wild with a mix of frustration and fury. The pistol glinted in the weak light, its barrel unwavering as he aimed it squarely at the coachman's chest.

Elizabeth stifled a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth to keep silent. Her father was scarcely managing better. His thumbs drew back the hammers on the flintlocks, but the muzzles dipped and wavered.

The coachman held Sir Anthony's furious gaze, his hands still raised in a calm display of surrender. The rain continued to drum against the carriage roof, adding a dull, rhythmic beat to the tension that thickened the air. Elizabeth could hardly breathe, her eyes darting between the men outside, her heart thrumming with fear and uncertainty.

Giles, Darcy's valet, took a tentative step forward, his voice as measured as his movements. "Sir Anthony, surely there is a more civil way to resolve this," he reasoned, his tone even, attempting to appeal to the gentleman's sense of decorum. "We are only following Mr Darcy's instructions. If you would permit us to clear the tree—"

"I said I will not be spoken to by servants!" Sir Anthony snapped, his pistol still trained unwaveringly on the coachman. "Turn this carriage about, or I'll shoot that wheel horse right here!"

The coachman glanced down at the horses, the rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He looked back up at Sir Anthony, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "A fine beast, that one," he said, his voice steady despite the danger. "Cost Mr Darcy eighty guineas, he did. Shall I tell him where to send the bill?"

Sir Anthony's face twisted in fury, the pistol in his hand shaking with the force of his anger. "Darcy will not be billing anyone for anything unless he cooperates," he thundered, his voice carrying over the steady rain. "And I have no intention of letting his servants run off to parts unknown until the man himself has agreed to my terms!"

Elizabeth could feel her father's steadying hand on her arm, holding her back as she fought the urge to throw open the door and confront Sir Anthony Mortimer herself. But they had agreed to remain hidden, to wait for a moment when escape seemed possible. Now, though, that moment seemed to be slipping further away with every breath she took.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but how shall we ‘run off to parts unknown' when the way is blocked?" the coachman replied.

Through the narrow crack in the curtains, Elizabeth watched as Sir Anthony's face grew redder, his patience clearly wearing thin. "I have had enough of your insolence!" he barked, snapping the muzzle of his pistol back toward the driver. "Turn this carriage around, now, or I will have your head for insubordination!"

The coachman, to his credit, held his ground, though Elizabeth could see the tension in his rigid back, the tightness in his grip on the reins. "I am afraid I cannot do that, sir," he replied calmly. "Mr Darcy ordered me to remain here."

Sir Anthony's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are all Darcy's servants so obstinate? No, no, man, you must be hiding something for him."

"I assume you sir, there is nothing!"

"Then you will not object to me seeing for myself, will you?" Sir Anthony swung down from his horse, tossing the rein to one of the workmen standing by.

"Sir, I must protest! You would not dare meddle with the gentleman's property!" The coachman had the pistol in his hand now, and Elizabeth shook her head, praying silently that he would not attempt to use it. Sir Anthony would surely fire first if the coachman made any effort to aim.

"I would not touch that flintlock if I were you," Sir Anthony warned as he stepped closer to the carriage. "If you do not wish to cooperate, perhaps I should see what is so valuable inside this carriage that you are willing to risk your lives to protect it."

Elizabeth's heart shuddered to a stop. She exchanged a quick, alarmed glance with her father. Mr Bennet gave her a slight nod, his expression dark.

The coachman, realising the situation was about to spiral out of control, made a last-ditch effort to divert Sir Anthony's attention. "Sir, there's nothing in there but some sensitive correspondence and Mr Darcy's personal effects. If you could just—"

But Sir Anthony wasn't listening. He was already at the carriage door, his hand reaching for the latch. The door swung open with a creak, and Sir Anthony's expression shifted from annoyance to surprise—and then to satisfaction—as his eyes fell on Elizabeth and Mr Bennet inside.

Sir Anthony leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in the unexpected sight. "Well, now," he said slowly, a sly grin forming on his lips. "Mr Bennet, isn't it? Hiding in Mr Darcy's carriage, no less. I wonder what business you have here. Were you planning to rally support from elsewhere before the election, perhaps? And who is this…?" His gaze shifted to Elizabeth, then quickly back to her father—no doubt tracing a resemblance. "Ah, the daughter, of course. Elizabeth Bennet." His smile widened, realisation dawning. "So, Wickham was right. It seems there is more between Darcy and your family than I was led to believe. This does complicate things. "

Elizabeth met his gaze with a defiant glare, her pulse quickening. "Sir Anthony, there is no need for this hostility. We are simply trying to make our way safely—"

"Save your breath, Miss Bennet," Sir Anthony cut her off sharply. "Appearances speak for themselves. And it seems to me you're in a rather compromising position, travelling in Mr Darcy's carriage, are you not?"

Elizabeth bristled at his insinuation, but before she could respond, her father spoke up, his voice steady but firm. "Sir Anthony, if it is leverage you seek, using my daughter in this infamous manner will gain you nothing but my deepest contempt. Release us at once, and we can discuss matters like rational men."

Sir Anthony chuckled darkly. "Oh, Mr Bennet, you misunderstand. I have no intention of letting you go just yet. In fact, I think it is high time we return to Netherfield and have a proper discussion—with Mr Darcy present, of course. I am sure he will be delighted to see his guests returned safely."

He stepped back and gestured to the coachman with his pistol. "Turn the carriage around. We are going back to Netherfield."

The coachman hesitated, but a sharp look from Sir Anthony—and the threat of the pistol still aimed squarely at his chest—left him with no choice. Slowly, he began to turn the carriage, the wheels creaking against the muddy road.

A s the carriage halted before Netherfield's entrance, Elizabeth's eyes darted to the grand doors, searching for any sign of movement. Sir Anthony's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he gestured for her and Mr Bennet to disembark. A shiver ran through her, partly from the damp chill of the morning air, but mostly from the cold dread settling in her stomach.

There was no sign of Darcy. Where was he? What had they done to him?

"Come along," Sir Anthony urged, his tone unnervingly light. "I believe Mr Wickham will be quite pleased to see what we've brought him."

Elizabeth glanced at her father. He gave her a brief nod, but his face was now greyer than she had ever seen. They had no choice but to follow, at least for now. Her mind spun, scrambling for any plan that could get them out of this situation. But each thought led back to the same question: Where was Darcy?

As they entered the foyer, Mrs Nicholls emerged from a side door, her expression carefully neutral. She looked at Elizabeth and Mr Bennet, her gaze sharp, almost calculating. Elizabeth felt a flicker of hope. The housekeeper had shown herself to be a decent woman before. Could she be an ally now?

"Ah, you are the housekeeper," Sir Anthony said brusquely, hardly sparing her a glance. "Tell your master I am returned."

Mrs Nicholls hesitated. "The master called for his carriage an hour ago, sir. I do not know how long he intends to stay away."

Sir Anthony scarcely troubled himself to conceal his impatience. "Very well. We shall await him in the drawing room. Let Mr Wickham know as soon as he returns that I have brought him a rather… valuable surprise."

Mrs Nicholls inclined her head, her eyes darting quickly to Elizabeth. There was a fleeting look of understanding there. "Of course, sir," she replied smoothly.

Elizabeth felt a faint stir of relief. Did Mrs Nicholls grasp the seriousness of the situation? The housekeeper discreetly gestured to a younger maid, a girl who moved with quick, practised steps. The maid's eyes flicked from Elizabeth to Mrs Nicholls, and without a word, she slipped away into the shadows of the hall.

Sir Anthony did not appear to notice. He continued to usher Elizabeth and her father into the drawing room, rambling about Wickham's plans and the need for their "cooperation."

Elizabeth scanned the room as they entered. It was empty. No sign of Darcy. A wave of panic rose in her. Where could he be? She needed to find him, to see for herself that he was unharmed.

Her father squeezed her arm gently, his touch steadying. "Stay calm, Lizzy," he murmured, his eyes locked on Sir Anthony.

But calm was the last thing she felt. She cast another glance at Mrs Nicholls, who seemed to be moving more slowly now, perhaps trying to distract Sir Anthony. Was she stalling for time? Was this a signal that help was coming?

Moments passed, each one dragging like an eternity. Then, she caught sight of the younger maid returning, her movements even more urgent, though still quiet and deliberate. She whispered something into Mrs Nicholls's ear. The housekeeper's face remained composed, but Elizabeth could sense a shift.

Mrs Nicholls turned back to Sir Anthony with a professional smile. "Sir, may I suggest that we have tea brought in while we await Mr Wickham?"

Elizabeth's frustration swelled as she was ushered into the drawing room, her eyes darting frantically about for any sign of Darcy. Sir Anthony's face was a mask of irritation, clearly displeased that Wickham had left without warning. Elizabeth tried to focus, to think clearly, but her mind kept circling back to Darcy. She couldn't bear the thought of him suffering alone, potentially at Wickham's mercy.

Mrs Nicholls appeared some minutes later with a silver tea tray, her face carefully composed. She poured the tea with a practised hand, but Elizabeth saw the fleeting look she cast in her direction—a glance that held far more than mere concern.

"Miss Bennet," Mrs Nicholls said softly as she offered her a cup, "perhaps a bit of tea will settle your nerves."

Elizabeth shook her head, her voice coming out in a harsh whisper. "I do not need tea, Mrs Nicholls. I need to know where Mr Darcy is."

Mrs Nicholls poured the tea with a steady hand, but Elizabeth could see the worry etched in the lines around her eyes. As she placed the cup in Elizabeth's trembling fingers, she leaned in just enough to whisper, "Miss Bennet, Mr Darcy is unwell. He is in Mr Wickham's study. We have summoned Mr Jones, and he is with him now."

Elizabeth's heart leapt into her throat. "I must see him," she whispered back urgently, her fingers gripping the teacup so tightly she feared it might shatter.

Mrs Nicholls shook her head, a faint, almost imperceptible movement. "No, miss," she whispered softly, casting a cautious glance towards Sir Anthony. "It would be too great a risk. Mr Jones is doing all that can be done."

Frustration coursed through Elizabeth. Every instinct screamed at her to run to Darcy, to be at his side. But Mrs Nicholls' warning stilled her. She glanced at Sir Anthony, who was pacing by the window, muttering under his breath. He had not yet figured out the exact nature of her connection to Darcy yet, but she could see the calculating look in his eyes as he glanced her way, as if piecing together a puzzle.

Finally, Sir Anthony turned his gaze fully on Mrs Nicholls. "You, there… housekeeper, whatever your name is," he barked, his tone sharp and commanding. "Where is Mr Darcy? If he is still somewhere in this house, I demand to speak with him. "

Mrs Nicholls gave a small curtsey, her face composed, betraying nothing. "I regret, sir, that Mr Darcy is not well enough for visitors," she said calmly, but Elizabeth could see the subtle shift in her stance, a protective determination beneath her servant's demeanour.

Sir Anthony's eyes narrowed, flicking between Mrs Nicholls and Elizabeth. Elizabeth's pulse quickened, her mind racing. She needed to find a way to reach Darcy, but she couldn't act rashly—not yet. She took a deep breath, her gaze locking onto Mrs Nicholls, silently pleading for a chance to slip away.

Mrs Nicholls straightened, her eyes darting toward the hallway where more commotion could be heard. "If you'll excuse me, sir," she said with another curtsey, "there appears to be a disturbance in the scullery. I must attend to it."

Elizabeth's eyes followed Mrs Nicholls as she moved toward the door, her mind whirring. The housekeeper was up to something—she had to be. And if Elizabeth had any hope of reaching Darcy, she needed to seize the opportunity.

As Mrs Nicholls slipped out of the room, Sir Anthony's gaze sharpened, fixing on Elizabeth with a cold, calculating stare. He took a step closer, his lips curling into a thin smile. "Miss Bennet," he began, his tone deceptively smooth, "it strikes me as rather curious to find you and your father in Mr Darcy's carriage. And at such an inconvenient time. What exactly is your connection to Mr Darcy?"

Elizabeth straightened, trying to maintain her composure under his scrutinizing gaze. "Mr Darcy is a friend of the family, sir," she replied evenly, willing herself to stay calm. "We were merely returning from a… visit."

"A visit?" Sir Anthony's eyes narrowed, his scepticism clear. "And does this visit have anything to do with your father's recent interest in the election? Or perhaps you have been led to believe Mr Darcy has intentions toward you?"

Mr Bennet, who had been quietly observing the exchange, interjected with a dry laugh. "Ah, Sir Anthony, always quick to the point, I see. As for my interest in the election, it is no secret I am fond of a bit of political theatre. Though I must confess, your particular act has grown a touch stale."

Sir Anthony's expression darkened, but he turned his attention back to Elizabeth. "And what of Mr Darcy's intentions? I would think a gentleman of his standing would have better things to do than meddle in local politics unless there is something—or someone—keeping him here."

Elizabeth bristled at the insinuation, but before she could speak, her father cut in again, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Ah, intentions! A word that can mean so much or so little, depending on the context. I would wager Mr Darcy's intentions are far nobler than yours, Sir Anthony. But then, that would not be saying much, would it?"

A flash of anger crossed Sir Anthony's face, and he stepped closer to Mr Bennet. "You mock me, sir, but you forget your position. I could easily have you arrested for trespassing—or worse. It is not your place to question my motives."

Mr Bennet met his glare with a wry smile, unperturbed. "And yet, here I am, doing just that. You see, Sir Anthony, I have a remarkable talent for not knowing my place."

Sir Anthony's patience was wearing thin, and he turned his focus back to Elizabeth, his eyes narrowing. "Miss Bennet, you will tell me what I want to know. What is the matter with Darcy? Why is he so determined to meddle in matters that do not concern him?"

Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken, but she kept her expression steady. "I am afraid I cannot answer that, sir. Mr Darcy's actions are his own."

Sir Anthony's face twisted with irritation. "Very well," he snapped. "If you will not speak, perhaps your father will reconsider his position. It would be in your best interest to ensure that Mr Darcy withdraws his objections to Sir Anthony's candidacy. I can be quite persuasive when I need to be."

Mr Bennet's eyes flashed with defiance, but he merely smiled. "Persuasive? Is that what they are calling it these days? I always thought it was called something else. Perhaps you should save your breath, Sir Anthony. I doubt Mr Darcy is inclined to take advice from someone like you."

Sir Anthony's eyes blazed with fury, but before he could respond, a loud shout echoed from down the hall, followed by the acrid smell of smoke. Servants began rushing past the open door, their voices raised in alarm. Sir Anthony cursed under his breath, his attention momentarily diverted.

Elizabeth's heart quickened. This was her chance. She turned to her father, giving his hand a quick, urgent squeeze. They had to move, and they had to move now.