Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(47)

“Come, sit up. Tell me everything.”

She did so and gave Jane the full story, including Collins’s flirtation with Charlotte, which had gone from horrifying to indecent considering the recent turn of events. Jane, however, did not seem quite as indignant as Lizzie felt.

“Collins has shown us his nature,” she said, as if relaying the afternoon’s weather. “He’s led by the promise of fortune and standing, and an alliance with Charlotte could not give him either of those things. Clearly, she deserves someone who will appreciate her. But I’m worried, Lizzie—what if your rejection has soured Collins’s relationship with the family?”

“Why is that my fault?” Lizzie protested. “Why not blame Collins for proposing when I’ve never given him any indication I was interested? Quite the opposite, in fact!”

“Because that’s not how the world works,” Jane murmured.

“I know.” Men can choose; women may only refuse.

“Mama is going to be so upset,” Jane added.

“You won’t tell her?”

“Of course not. But Lizzie, she’ll find out. Collins shall go to her and Papa to ask them to convince you, or . . . I don’t know. But when have you ever known Collins to keep quiet about anything?”

Lizzie flopped back down on the bed and sighed.

Jane stroked her hair. “Papa won’t make you marry him. Mama will be quite angry for a while, but you can trust Papa.”

Lizzie nodded, but doubt crept in. She knew that he’d always said that he would not force her to marry. However, that was all before she had disobeyed him and he had banished her from Longbourn & Sons. What if he was so frustrated with her that he decided to marry her off so she would become another man’s problem?

“I was going to tell you when you came into the room,” Jane said, reaching for something in her pocket. “This came for you. From your informant.”

Jane handed her a tiny bit of butcher paper, and Lizzie eagerly unfolded it to reveal a pencil drawing, quite good, of what was unmistakably the corner of Gracechurch Street and Lombard. In the corner was a drawing of a watch, its hands set at ten o’clock.

Half past nine the next morning saw Lizzie at the appointed intersection, straining her eyes through the morning fog to find Fred’s short figure. She was almost able to forget about Collins and his horrid proposal in anticipation of Fred’s news.

She didn’t have to wait long. He came sauntering down the street with the grace of a cat. “Morning, miss.”

“Did you find it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just as I thought, miss. None of the reputable places will talk to me, and no place else will cop to buying a stolen watch. If your bloke sold it himself, he did it quiet-like.”

Lizzie wilted with disappointment. She’d hoped Fred’s drawing of the clock meant he had found it. With only two days left, all she had were theories and conjectures. Perhaps she could find another case to prove her worth to her father, but could she do it before he hired that Eton-educated, pompous man he had interviewed the other day? Not to mention she hated the thought of looking like a failure to Darcy. . . .

“I tried to pass along a message to that maid,” Fred continued. “Only, turns out she’s no longer at the Hursts’.”

That gave Lizzie pause. “Abigail left for another position?”

“No,” Fred said slowly. “She was sacked.”

“Oh.” Lizzie’s first feeling was horror—had she caused Abigail to lose her job?

Fred continued. “The kitchen maid told me it happened the day before last, and get this, miss—she said that when Abigail left, the butler demanded to search her belongings.”

“That’s not unusual, Fred. Oftentimes the butler will ensure the staff is not making off with something valuable if they feel like they’ve been unfairly dismissed.”

“Aye, but she said that the butler was looking for Mr. Hurst’s watch—apparently Mr. Bingley’s solicitor is after it.”

“Oh.” Darcy! Had Lizzie tipped him off? “I have to speak to Abigail at once. Do you have an address for her?”

“The kitchen maid said she took a bed at a rooming house on Thames Street.” Fred gave her directions.

“Thank you, Fred,” Lizzie said, and she tipped him a coin. He grinned and started to slip away, but Lizzie called him back. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re an exceptional artist.”

The boy smiled but then quickly shrugged it off. “It’ll do, since I don’t know my letters.”

Lizzie knew none of the street children were educated, but Fred had potential. He was clever and savvy, and who knew where he could apply his artistic abilities if he could read and write? “I could teach you, if you like.”

Fred’s features furrowed in suspicion. “You don’t have to, miss.”

“I know,” Lizzie said. His rejection hurt, just a little. “But I could, if you ever wanted.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that literacy was freedom, nothing short of everyday magic. But something held her back—the memory of Charlotte telling her she was naive. She hesitated, and in the uncomfortable moment that followed, Lizzie realized she couldn’t force Fred to accept, any more than she could force her own views on suitors and marriage on Charlotte. So she opted not to say anything more, hoping he’d agree. When Fred realized she wasn’t going to insist, he nodded and said, “I’ll think on it, miss.” And then he was gone.