Chapter Nineteen

Elizabeth had been mortified by her mother’s behavior. It showed Mrs. Bennet still held her initial bad opinion of the gentleman, formed after his unfortunate behavior the Assembly. Elizabeth recalled how just that morning during her patrol, she had realized the extent to which her own opinion of Mr. Darcy had changed. But her extended amble through the woods between Netherfield and Longbourn had not brought her any closer to a resolution of her feelings for the gentleman. His compliments and attentions to her were both pronounced and confusing. However, his reticent reception of her family was vexing, if less objectionable than the superior sisters’ thinly veiled contempt.

Jane woke in time for Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst to pay their daily pre-dinner call to her room. They were surprisingly civil and only mentioned how glad they were that Jane had enjoyed the comfort of her mother’s presence. Elizabeth took her evening meal in Jane’s room and appraised her of the happenings of the past few days. Her sister was saddened by the deaths and injuries sustained during the attack. After a few hours, Jane drifted back into her healing sleep.

Elizabeth then joined the party in the drawing room. The loo table did not appear this evening. Instead, Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each.

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”

He made no answer.

“You write uncommonly fast.”

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!”

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”

“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you. But I always mend my own.”

“How can you contrive to write so evenly?”

He was silent.

“Speaking of letters,” Miss Bingley started, in what Elizabeth saw as another attempt to gain the room’s attention, or at least one occupant’s consideration, “I have just this morning received a missive from Miss Grantley. In it she shares the latest from the Coterie. Lord Alvanley plans to put forward a bill that will forbid public disclosure of any person’s gift, once it has been verified to exist by a panel of three augers. In essence, he proposes to end the vulgar practice of so-called gift blowing. I must say I heartily approve of the idea. It is gifts that separate us from the others, but all gifted are gifted. No one really needs know more.”

“Lord Alvanley is a fool.” Mr. Darcy’s blunt statement surprised Elizabeth. If the famous dandy ever heard of it, such an insult could engender a duel. “There are gentlemen that make me think that mere possession of a gift is not a good enough reason to have a voice in government. The good Baron is a prime example. He flaunts his position, while fulfilling none of the accompanying duties. It is not a matter of disclosure or secrecy; it is how you use your gifts that is important. It’s how you help your fellow man with whatever gifts, or other abilities, you have. Something I think our Lord Alvanley knows nothing about.”

Miss Bingley looked like this was not the sort of attention she was seeking and immediately changed the subject.

As the evening progressed Mr. Darcy applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way, which she politely and more earnestly refused, the hostess seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great man; and yet his behavior had hinted that she may have somehow gained his approbation. She was certain that it could not be a serious inclination. She felt she should behave in such a way as to assure him she had no expectations of him, nor was she willing to pursue any sort of improper affair, should he feel her so far beneath him as to forgo the protections of propriety. She did not think him so lost to decency, but she had heard tales of how great men sometimes treated poor country maidens.

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After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the fare with a lively Scotch air. Soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Elizabeth, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

She smiled but made no answer. He repeated the question, sounding surprised at her silence.

“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before. But I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say yes that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste in activities, as you have said before that you dislike dancing. But I always delight in overthrowing those kinds of schemes and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all. Now despise me if you dare.”

“Indeed, I do not dare.” With the same hint of a smile, she had though she had seen before.

Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him with her refusal, was amazed at his gallantry.

Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.

The next morning a uniformed messenger brought an urgent communique from Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth saw him open it then blanch. She walked to his side. “What has happened?”

“It is from Mr. Denny, and Sir William. Last evening a group of men with identifying papers from the Alien Office arrived and removed the prisoners.”

“That was expected, was it not?”

He nodded and continued. “This morning, another group of agents, also bearing warrants from the Alien Office arrived to collect the prisoners. They assure Sir William that no other group was sent. He asks that we come meet with them. Your father will be joining us.”

“I’ll be ready in just a moment.”

“I’ll collect Charles. He was at the Alien Office two days ago. He may be able to shed some light on the situation.”

The three left Netherfield in a carriage. They arrived at the Mayor’s office to find Mr. Bennet had preceded them. Elizabeth greeted her father in a subdued manner. The morning did not promise to deliver good tidings.

“Thank you for coming.” Sir William looked a decade older than she had ever seen him. “We must determine who our current guests are. And, if they are the legitimate agents of the Alien Office, we need to identify who the men that took the prisoners last night were. Have you any suggestions for establishing their bone fides?”

Mr. Bingley stepped to the door to the chamber where the men in question were waiting. He nodded to one in obvious recognition then turned to the room. “I saw this gentleman in Mr. Wickham’s office just yesterday, though I will admit his name escapes me completely.”

“We were not introduced, Mr. Bingley.” The man who walked into the room was dressed for travel with a driving cloak boasting a plethora of capes and dusty, knee-high boots. “But we did meet, and Mr. Wickham did send me to transport your prisoners to London. Now I am told they are already gone. Perhaps you can explain this.”

“May I see your papers, please?” Mr. Bennet asked. The still unnamed man silently handed them over. Her father smoothed them onto a table and examined each sheet closely. At one point he nodded his head. He turned to Sir William. “Did the men who took the prisoners leave any papers?”

Frowning, Sir William pulled a packet out of a cubby on the wall and handed it over. Mr. Bennet examined it just as closely as he had the previous papers.

“These are forgeries.” He pointed to the second packet. “Very good ones, but they were created by a Frenchman.” He pointed to the first papers. “This has Wickham’s signature.”

“I don’t see a signature from him.” Sir William said, searching the document more closely.

“It is a mental signature.” The others looked at her father in astonishment. “He knew I would be here and sent this for me.”

“This is all very good,” stated the gentleman from London, “but now that you know who we are, we still have the question of what happened to our prisoners. What did you mean by a Frenchman, Mr. Bennet?”

“The man who penned this warrant was from France. His task was exacting and demanded so much concentration as to infuse the paper with his mental essence. It is enough for me to detect the difference between an Englishman and a frog, but not enough to give me his face or name. I can tell he was working from an original document.” He paused, then said more seriously. “It is very possible you have a traitor in your office.”

At that moment a militiaman entered with a message for Mr. Denny. He read it and cursed.

“Mr. Denny, contain yourself. There is a lady present.” Mr. Darcy barked. “What is amiss? If you can tell us without resorting to further profanity.”

“My sincerest apologies, Miss Bennet.” He offered a bow in her direction. “I sent a patrol to the Triple Creek Freehold, to determine if the escapee might had returned there. Instead, they found the body of Alan Dash. He had been … forgive me … mistreated.”

“The false agents?” Elizabeth posited. Several others nodded.

“It fits.” Mr. Darcy added. “He was the newcomer to their ranks, thus likely the most vulnerable to turning on them.”

“Or perhaps once they left the neighborhood, his usefulness was at an end.” Mr. Bennet countered with uncharacteristic ruthlessness.

“So, they are gone.” Sir William’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“Not yet.” Elizabeth disagreed, garnering the attention of the room. “We know where they were fewer than twelve hours ago. It did not rain last night. Perhaps we can still pick up their trail and find them before they hit the Metropolis.”

“Or the coast,” interjected the nameless agent.

“Either way, we have to try.”

“I agree. Miss Elizabeth, may Bingley and I accompany you. You and I have worked well together, and Bingley can act as our communication channel, as well as offering more support should the need arise.” This caught the attention of the agent. He looked at Elizabeth in open appraisal.

“Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.”

They sped to the freehold only to find a scene out of Dante’s nightmares. Flames were everywhere. The squadron of militiamen were lying in burning pyres. Darcy sent the same gravity construct he had used in Meryton to start absorbing the flames. Bingley raced to begin moving the men from the pyres. Elizabeth moved to stabilize those she could. In the end, together they managed to save three young men.

The militiamen told the tale of how the redheaded young woman, surrounded in flames, came out of the sky and attacked them just after they had sent the messenger to the Lieutenant. Their description identified her as the same firebrand Mr. Darcy had fought in Meryton. It seemed she could fly. Worse, her flames destroyed any tracks the others may have left.

All but one of their enemies had gotten away.