An (Un)believably Artful Theft (Love’s Little Helpers #4)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

E lizabeth lengthened her stride and quickened her step. The clouds were dark and heavy with rain. Mama was so certain the downpour would begin before dinner that she had denied Jane the use of the carriage to convey her to Netherfield Park. According to her, when Jane arrived for tea soaked through, she would inevitably receive an invitation to stay the night, thus guaranteeing that Mr. Bingley would see her. If Miss Bingley thought herself clever to arrange Jane’s visit when her brother was absent, she was a fool for underestimating Mama!

Reaching the stone path leading to the front door of the hunting lodge, Elizabeth turned to confirm that she had not been followed. Reassured that it was safe, she pushed the worn door open and let Remy inside. The squeak of the hinges was a welcome sound that narrowed her focus and signaled it was time to create. It was cold, but she did not feel it. Taking off her redingote, she draped an old blanket over Remy, donned her apron, and lost herself in a world of color and hope.

Hours later, the first drops started to fall, and Elizabeth raced home with Remy. She needed to bathe him before he would be allowed beyond the kitchen, but there was no sense in making the chore more difficult by adding muddy fur to the task.

She found her mother watching the clouds through the window, mumbling to herself that if they would rain, they could at least have the decency to do a proper job of it. She was still there when Elizabeth emerged from the still room with a clean Remy. When the time came for Jane to depart for Netherfield Park, the rain was merely a slow and light drizzle—soft enough for Elizabeth to hope her sister would not arrive dripping wet. Unfortunately, Jane had not been gone more than five minutes before the heavens opened and the rain poured in earnest.

Mama had punch made in celebration.

Nobody would expect Jane to venture out to return home in this downpour. At the least, she would have to spend the night. If she were really fortunate, she would catch a mild cold or gently twist her ankle when she dismounted from her horse, thus extending her stay by necessity. Elizabeth hoped for no such thing, but their mother certainly did. Mama would presume on the Bingleys’ hospitality, forcing Jane to do so in a blatant fashion that would mortify her.

Unable to retreat to the lodge to continue painting, Elizabeth grew increasingly restless with each minute. She calculated how much she needed to accomplish before Uncle Philips’s next trip to London and retired to the privacy of her room, where she opened her sketchbook.

Mr. Darcy’s intent gaze stared back at her—somber with a hint of blitheness, aloof but capable of warmth, mysterious but not by design, tormented but not without hope…

It was her best work to date, though she had sketched him from memory. The depth of emotion in his eyes was emphasized by the firm set of his lips. This was a gentleman who pursued his purpose to its completion, who felt deeply and completely but had learned restraint. The memory of his booming laughter made her smile.

She hoped to see him again soon so that she might study the lines of his nose and the angle of his jaw, the height of his brow. She feared she had made his features too symmetrical. With the exception of her dear sister Jane, Elizabeth knew that most people were not so equally balanced. Her own features were uneven—one eyebrow arched higher than the other, and only one cheek dimpled when she smiled—but she liked to think that the differences added character. Not that Mr. Darcy lacked character. She traced her fingers over the light and shadows of his face, careful not to smudge the charcoal.

On the next page, she began to sketch Miss Darcy. She, too, had a look of melancholy about her. There was a gauntness to her face and figure which bespoke of a recent hardship. Did that account for the gravity in her brother? That he doted on his sister was apparent; Elizabeth had noticed how he watched Miss Darcy’s reactions, his gaze alert to protect and encourage.

She was too given to happiness and humor herself to allow for much sorrow in her sketchbook; therefore, Elizabeth curved Miss Darcy’s lips and tilted the corners of her eyes upward, duplicating the girl’s expression when Remy had showered Archie with pond water.

It was a pleasant memory, and it led to pleasurable dreams. She awoke the following morning as the first rays of the sun touched the horizon, eager to work. Donning her walking dress and redingote, she tiptoed downstairs to take Remy out for his morning walk before the household stirred. With Jane at Netherfield Park, Papa in his study with his new painting, Mary memorizing sermons, and everyone else planning to celebrate Jane’s success with new trim for their gowns, nobody would notice Elizabeth’s absence.

She painted without the slightest distraction of conscience for three glorious hours before she cleaned and stored her things to return to Longbourn. One more day like this, and Elizabeth’s goal of doubling her production did not seem so out of reach!

Exhilarated and light with success, she nearly tripped over Remy when Mary met them at the back door, a note in her hand. “This arrived from Netherfield Park. Jane has taken ill.”

Elizabeth’s heart plummeted. She took the page with Jane’s pretty handwriting covering the page, devouring the words for any clue to her sister’s true condition. Jane would never ask directly for Elizabeth to come to her, but the fact that she had written at all convinced Elizabeth that she must do so. Within a quarter of an hour, she would depart for Netherfield Park.

“Mama returned early from the shops,” Mary whispered. “She has been wondering where you are. I told her that the break in the weather can only mean you would tarry longer out of doors, but she has been growing increasingly insistent.” She led Elizabeth down the hall toward the drawing room.

“Thank you, Mary,” Elizabeth said, squeezing her hand. She felt she ought to say much more, but her sister merely smiled, pressed her cheek against the book she cradled in her other arm, and pushed Elizabeth inside the drawing room.

“There you are, Lizzy! I have been at my wit’s end with worry over you! Well, at least you are here now. Poor Jane is unwell. The good news is that Mr. Bingley insists she must stay at Netherfield Park until she is recovered.” She waved her handkerchief like a flag in a parade, her voice triumphant.

Papa turned away from the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He winked at Elizabeth. “Yes, dear, it is a tragedy for which we could not be happier.”

“I wish it was me!” Lydia whined.

Papa chuckled. “I suppose pallid complexions and red, swollen noses are the way to a gentleman’s heart. Be that the case, Jane will be engaged by the end of the week.”

“She will be if I have anything to do with it!” Mama agreed.

“But Mama, what if she is truly ill?” Mary asked.

Mother waved off her concern. “She was well enough to write. Young ladies do not die of a cold.”

Lips pinched in disapproval, Mary looked about to launch into a recital of one of Fordyce’s sermons when she seemed to think better of it. Instead, she walked stiffly to the writing desk, pulled a book from her pocket, and began to write. It was a handsome diary, and from what Elizabeth could see, Mary had already written several pages in it. Well done, Mr. Goode!

The warmth of the fire had only just begun to thaw Elizabeth’s limbs, but Jane needed her. Besides, it looked as though it would rain again soon. One soaked-through Bennet was careless, but two of them would seem particularly contrived.

Her father turned back to the window. “I hope the fields drain better than they did last year.” His comment, made without any apprehension, gave Elizabeth pause. How could he be so complacent when Longbourn was in peril? When Jane was ill and nothing was secure? He had been exceptionally agreeable to Mama since his return from London.

Elizabeth might have pondered the matter further, but she needed to leave. Mama tried to delay her departure, no doubt hoping that rain would drench her second eldest just as it had her eldest daughter the previous day. But Elizabeth managed to keep to her original plan and leave before fifteen minutes had passed. If she gave a second glance to her reflection before donning her second-best gown with a ribbon she borrowed from Kitty, she did not tarry about it. She left Remy with the cook on strict orders to keep him indoors lest he muddy his newly washed coat.

Basket in hand full of remedies to comfort Jane and her pocket heavy with her sketchbook, Elizabeth set out at a brisk pace, one eye on the stormy clouds overhead and the other on the slippery, puddle-riddled path at her feet.