Page 38

ENAMOURED BY THE MASSES

D arcy stayed at home for the whole first week of March, cards mounting on the salver in the hall as he refused to see any visitor.

Bad enough that he had fallen in love with a woman who did not want him; that the whole world believed them betrothed and kept bloody asking him about it was unbearable.

His reclusive streak was broken when Bellamy knocked on his study door to announce that Hurst had come to see him.

“Shall I tell him you are not at home, sir?”

“No, show him in. I should like to hear what he has to say.”

Hurst entered with the look of a man who was not expecting a warm welcome. “I have spoken to Bingley,” he said, as he edged into the chair Darcy indicated for him to take. “Found him in a Copper Hell in St Giles, if you can believe it.”

“At this point, I could believe anything of Bingley,” Darcy replied.

Hurst regarded him searchingly. “Will you tell me what is going on?”

“Is that not a question you ought to be asking him?”

“I did. He was excessively vague, but the gist of the matter seems to be that he is avoiding you. And Caroline has got it into her head that there is some manner of rift between you. She is anxious that your friendship not dwindle.”

Darcy felt his lip curl. For two months, he had been in the crosshairs of the ton’s speculation as he searched for Bingley, whilst Hurst and his womenfolk had done nothing but bemoan his absence from a few dinners.

Only now that they thought they might lose their access to Pemberley had they bestirred themselves to intervene.

“In that case, you had better tell me where he is staying, for it will be impossible for us to work out our differences if I cannot speak to him.”

Darcy looked distastefully at the den of iniquity that was the Four Feathers coaching inn.

No self-respecting gentleman would choose to lodge here.

He refused to believe Bingley would, merely to avoid an awkward conversation with him.

Supposing there was but one way to find out, he entered by the nearest door.

The taproom was teeming—mostly with men, and most of them clearly drunk, but there were families present also, with wailing children in tow.

The din was intolerable. He edged between the tables towards the archway at the back signposted ‘Booking Office’.

His first indication of something amiss was a tug at his coat.

Looking around, he saw nothing untoward, but as he went on his way, he heard sniggering behind him, and someone say, “I told you it was him!”

It might have stopped at whispers and stares had another exterior door not opened and Elizabeth all but stumbled into the taproom.

Darcy was startled by the sight of her; she looked nothing short of harried as she looked around.

That her presence must be related to Bingley’s residency could be in no doubt, though what had induced her to come alone into such a place was beyond him.

He set out towards her, but before he could gain her attention, she, too, was recognised, and unlike him, her consequence was not such that it saved her from being approached.

Two women accosted her, all tittering delight, and though he could not hear what they said, he saw them point in his direction and Elizabeth look his way.

He could not tell what she made of his being there, but neither did he much care at that moment; his only thought was to get her safely outside before any trouble began.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, the situation went from disagreeable to alarming.

Palpable tremors of restlessness ran through the room as more people began to take notice of the disturbance and curiosity took hold.

Darcy pushed forwards, but the crowd between him and Elizabeth had swollen alarmingly, prurient insinuations about them being tossed about in the fray.

“Get out of my way,” he snapped at a toothless drunkard who was trying to raise a toast to him.

“Don’t mean no disrespect, Mr Darcy, sir. A swell what chooses one of us as his bride will always get a warm welcome in the Feathers!”

That raised a jeering laugh from elsewhere. “Miss Bennet ain’t nothing like you, you swag-bellied prat!” The man was shoved from behind, sending his ale splashing down another’s coat, and a tussle abruptly broke out in Darcy’s path.

He could hear Elizabeth repeating a strained plea to be allowed through; then he heard a man say, “Give us a token, love! My missus’ll never believe I’ve met you if I don’t take something to prove it.”

“I have nothing to give you,” Elizabeth replied. “But please send my regards to your wife.”

Darcy shoved past the tussling men, only to be besieged by several more.

“A ribbon’ll do!” came another appeal to Elizabeth. “Or a ’kerchief. Ain’t you got nothing in that pretty little bag of yours?”

There were calls from other, better-bred bystanders for her to be left alone, but it only inflamed the situation.

“Oi!” someone shouted—more loudly, more drunkenly. “I saw her first! If anyone’s to receive a token, it ought to be me!”

Elizabeth was promptly swamped by a crowd of scuffling, angry people, tugging at her reticule and coat.

Disbelieving the madness unfolding around him, Darcy shouted at them to desist and forced his way towards her, but not in time to prevent somebody from snatching her bonnet, tugging her head backwards before the ribbon snapped, and drawing a sharp cry from her lips.

With his heart hammering, Darcy elbowed two men out of his way and reached over the head of a woman to grab Elizabeth by her upper arm and pull her towards him.

She came without argument, frowning at the heaving crowds with angry bewilderment.

Seeing how many people stood between them and the exit—a good number of them now brawling—Darcy directed Elizabeth towards the rear of the building.

As they passed beneath the archway, a man in the shadows whistled quietly and opened a door off to the side.

“Wait in here ’til it calms down if you like.”

Darcy did not hesitate. He propelled Elizabeth in first, then passed the man the first coin his fingers touched in his pocket and stepped in behind her. The man looked in surprise at his unexpected boon, grunted, and closed the door, plunging them into gloom.

There was but one tiny and besmirched window, which greedily swallowed all but the weakest dribble of daylight, but from what Darcy could see, they were in a storeroom of some manner, with barrels and crates stacked against every wall.

It smelt damp, and the floor was sticky beneath his feet.

A fitting climax to the whole sordid business.

How was it possible that one spurious rumour could spiral to the point of bodily endangerment?

“Are you hurt?” he asked Elizabeth.

She replied that she was not, adding, “But I do not see how locking ourselves together in a cupboard is going to help persuade anyone that we are not up to anything.”

He stared at her, incredulous. The last thing he had expected was to be upbraided for his efforts to protect her.

To save him the trouble of replying, the commotion from the taproom spilled over into the passage beneath the arch.

The pounding of boots could be heard, along with shouts of “Which way did they go?” and “Was it really them?” interspersed with the distinctive sounds of fighting.

“It might help keep you safe from that ,” he replied tersely. “This is no place for a gentlewoman, Miss Bennet.”

“I shall have no claim to gentility left if I cannot find my mother. I apologise if I have made matters worse, but I was told she was here and knew not how long she might remain. I did not have time to arrange for an escort.”

They had been speaking quietly, but perhaps not quietly enough, for the door handle rattled and someone shouted, “In here!” Darcy braced his hand against the door to guard against any intrusion and held it thus until he heard someone shout over the racket for whomever was there to move along.

He exhaled. “You believe your mother is here, then?”

Elizabeth nodded. “A friend found Mrs Randall’s address for me.

Today was the first opportunity I had of calling there without my family’s knowledge, but as ever, my mother was out.

Mrs Randall’s maid said she was meeting a friend here.

I came directly.” After a pause, she said disconsolately, “May I take it from your presence that her ‘friend’ is Mr Bingley?”

“Hurst informed me he is staying here, so it would seem likely.”

The continuing brawl briefly peaked on the other side of the door, the language of those involved positively barbaric.

“These people are savages!”

“They are no worse than your people,” Elizabeth replied in a harsh whisper. “It is their insidious gossip that has excited the imaginations of the whole world. Were it not for their pictures and newspaper articles, nobody here would know who either of us was.”

Darcy could not disagree. He had already come to the same conclusion and was only sorry to discover that Elizabeth had seen the caricatures and gossip columns herself. It had been a vain hope that she would not.

“They are all hypocrites,” Elizabeth whispered furiously.

“Mr Redbridge is married, too—did you know that? What a joke! I have been out of my mind with shame over what my mother is doing, but apparently it is only her relative poverty and her sex which makes her behaviour disagreeable. If she were wealthy, and a man, her marriage vows would evidently have more latitude. All of this has come about because I tried to protect my family from the contempt of a society which, it turns out, is equally starved of morals and seemingly proud of it! Who would want any part of it?”