Page 92 of Cousin Conundrum

What Kitty didn’t know, was what she ought to do. Now that they were here, the Archers would remain, would they not? At least for the night? She’d watched Cat and Mabel enter the farmhouse with their pistols hidden behind their backs. Then, a short time later, they’d opened the door and the other Archer women had marched in Jane, Elizabeth, Miss Bingley, and Mrs. Hurst, all with their hands tied behind them. Since then, only Johnny had come out.

Logic said Kitty should go get help. Run back to Netherfield Park at all speed. Or possibly to Longbourn? But, no, what would Mr. Bennet do? Knowing him, he would not even believe her. She needed…she needed Mr. Fletcher. Would he be back from searching for the Archers yet?

If she walked away now, would they still be inside the Walters’ farmhouse when she came back, or would they have vanished, as the Peacock always did, without a trace?

Indecision filled her, but when she began to shiver so hard she feared she’d rattle the pines, that decided her course. The next time Johnny circled behind the house, Kitty backed deeper into the trees, then deeper still. They raked at her, tugging her gown and hair, but she ignored them, walking slowly backward until she could no longer catch even a flicker of light behind the farmhouse’s shutters, nor glimpse the gray snake of the woodsmoke coiling above through the leaves.

Then she turned and ran, her skirt clutched high and her slippers skidding. She tripped, grabbing a tree to stay upright, the rough bark gouging her palm. Pushing off, she was running again. Every moment she didn’t bring someone back to help was a moment for the Archers to take Jane and Elizabeth and slip away. Kitty would not let those women have her sisters, or Mr. Bingley’s.

She retraced her steps to Netherfield Park, it being closest, and relief filled her to see light in the windows. She pushed forward, not so much running now as staggering, a fist pressed into the cramp in her side. After a moment, the clamor of hounds reached her through the roar of her gasps for breath. As she drew near, they resolved into a milling pack. They were a good idea, but the Archers were not rabbits, and the dogs seemed uncertain what to do.

Kitty stumbled forward across the final field.

“Halt,” a voice called. “Who goes there?”

“Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fletcher, there’s someone out there.”

A commotion rose, and soon men rushed forward, two holding torches. Kitty stumbled to a halt, folding forward, gasping for breath. She braced her palms on her thighs, wincing at the sting. She’d forgotten she ripped the soft flesh of one open on a tree trunk.

The men in between those carrying torches resolved into Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fletcher. The latter began to run, pulling away from the others. Reaching her, he grasped her by the shoulders, his hands bracing her, giving her the support she needed to remain upright.

“Miss Kitty.” Fiercely, he pulled her to him, then quickly set her away again as the others reached them, his hands on her shoulders once more.

“Where is Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy demanded.

Kitty sucked in a wheezing breath. “Walters. Walters’ farm.”

Mr. Darcy whirled, appearing for all the world as if he would charge off at once.

Releasing Kitty, Mr. Fletcher caught his arm. “We need a plan. Give her a moment. We need to know what she knows.”

Jaw muscles rippling, Mr. Darcy nodded.

Spots swam before Kitty’s eyes. She’d never run so far. In truth, she hardly ran at all. Perhaps that was something she should rectify at some point in the…the darkness started to swarm inward. The ground tilted.

Strong hands closed on her shoulders once more. “Come. Let us get you inside. We need you to tell us what you saw, but you can do so seated. Your skin is like ice.”

Funny, because she felt very, very warm. Warm from running, and extra warm when Mr. Fletcher wrapped an arm about her, helping her move forward. Kitty would like to be strong. A strong woman who earned a living could walk into the house on her own, but now that she’d stopped running, her legs didn’t want to move anymore. They hardly wanted to hold her upright.

They reached the drive and she stifled a yelp, crushed stone stabbing her soles. She must have made some sound, though, because Mr. Fletcher halted her.

He dipped down. “Bring a torch near.”

Several of the men obeyed.

Mr. Fletcher let out a low oath. “You have run through your slippers. Your feet are bleeding.”

Had she? That explained why they hurt so very much.

He scooped her up as he stood, and carried her into the house.

Kitty could only imagine what a sight she must be. Bloody hand. Bloody feet. Her hair torn from her chignon by tree limbs, sticking this way and that. Somehow, she could not quite care. She almost had her breath back now, at least enough of it to speak with, and she had to tell them about Jane and Elizabeth.

Mr. Fletcher turned into the first room, a cozy little parlor, orders spilling from him. “Bring candles. Light a fire. Someone get some tea.” He set Kitty on a sofa, then dropped down before her, taking her hands.

Other men, including Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst, crowded in behind him. Mr. Hurst looked ready to weep, and Mr. Darcy glowered as if one wrong word would cause him to resort to violence.

“Miss Kitty.” Mr. Fletcher lightly squeezed her hands.