Page 49 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
ELIZABETH
W e planned our stops deliberately so that, by late Wednesday afternoon, we arrived at an inn in St. Albans where we would spend the night.
From there, it would be a short journey in the morning to reach Longbourn, then on to Netherfield, and finally conclude our day with the four-hour jaunt to London.
By evening, I would be settling into the second of my husband’s homes— my homes now, I reminded myself, though the thought still left me slightly breathless with disbelief.
As soon as we arrived, scarcely ten miles from Longbourn, I penned a brief note to Jane to confirm that we would call the following morning.
I had written to her the previous week to share our anticipated arrival, but uncertainty in travel—due to both the weather and the state of the roads—had prevented us from naming a precise date.
Fitzwilliam and I were shown to the best suite the inn could offer: two spacious chambers connected by a shared sitting room, occupying much of the upper floor. Although we had no intention of using separate rooms, Fitzwilliam had insisted upon reserving the full suite to ensure our privacy .
I had no concern for appearances and cared little what others might think of our sleeping arrangements, but so close to London, Fitzwilliam wished to avoid even the suggestion of impropriety.
Amongst the first circles of society, it was still expected—at least publicly—that husbands and wives maintained separate rooms. That we did not always do so was our concern alone.
The weather was fine enough that, after taking a few moments to refresh ourselves, and after changing out of our travelling clothes into more comfortable clothing, we took a walk through the market town.
I had been here a time or two on business with Mr. Bennet, and I remembered a particular bookstore that I had always liked. I steered our steps in that direction, and we soon became lost in our search for some treasure or another.
To my surprise, as I turned a corner in the shop, I caught the faint sound of my former name—or what I thought was my name—carried in from just outside.
“The housekeeper wrote back—said Miss Bennet’s no longer there,” said a woman with a light Scottish burr.
Her voice was careful, deferential, the practised cadence of a servant educated just enough to serve in refined households.
It stirred something in my memory—I thought I recognised it, but I could not be sure.
“What do you mean, she is no longer there ?” came the reply, sharp and commanding. The second voice was clipped, imperious, laced with impatience and clearly accustomed to obedience. Whoever she was, she did not appreciate being kept in the dark or her plans going awry.
“She didnae explain, ma’am,” the first woman murmured, now audibly uneasy.
“Well, that is not good enough,” the other snapped.
Her voice dropped in tone, sounding more like a hiss.
It was clear, even through the wall, that the lady was barely holding on to her fury.
I imagine her hand formed tightly in a fist, or perhaps she clutched something in her hand and twisted it.
The idle thought made me smile, but the next words erased the smile from my face.
“You will find out. Darcy could not possibly have found her so easily already, and she has not been there nearly long enough for the gossip to have worked.”
I edged closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the speakers through the window, but they stood just out of view. All I could discern was that both were women—and I now strongly suspected the first voice belonged to Isla, the maid who had accompanied me to Scotland.
As they turned to go, I caught a flash of Isla’s red hair beneath her bonnet and, beside her, the unmistakable elegance of fine clothing—a once-fashionable pelisse cut from fine wool, and the unmistakable posture of wealth.
I could not see that woman’s face, nor anything that would distinguish her from the dozens of well-dressed ladies walking the London streets—but something about her manner made my skin prickle with unease; that, and the fact that she was not in London but was in St. Albans and had mentioned both my former name and that of my husband.
I watched them for as long as I could, although they soon disappeared from view, then turned at once to find my husband.
“Fitzwilliam,” I whispered urgently, tugging at his sleeve. “I just saw Isla. I am certain it was her.” Without waiting for his reply, I recounted the conversation I had overheard, watching as a deep furrow formed between his brows.
“What else can you tell me about the other woman?” he asked, his tone low and thoughtful. “Are you certain you have never heard her voice before?”
I shook my head. “Not certain, no. But she was taller than I am, and from her voice and the way she spoke, I believe she is older—perhaps near in age to my parents. Her clothing was elegant, but not too fashionable. It suited someone of… of a matron’s age, I think. Someone with money, certainly. ”
He was silent for a moment, clearly thinking through the implications.
“We should enquire at the inn—or have one of the staff do so discreetly—to see who else is staying there,” he said at last. “And I wonder if we can have the innkeeper amend the registry. If our names are listed as Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, it would not take much for someone to discover us.”
I glanced around nervously, then looked up at him. “So far, only our sisters, the Gardiners, and your Aunt Matlock know we are already married. Is that correct?”
“Yes. My aunt knows, but we agreed not to announce it more broadly until after our arrival in town—after you had had a chance to meet her and obtain a new wardrobe with her help.”
I nodded, frowning slightly. “Does the inn’s register list both our names, or only yours?”
“I do not know,” he admitted. “Morris handled the arrangements—his coach arrived ahead of ours, and I did not tell him how to sign the book. I have never thought about how he registered me in the past.”
“Then you must ask him,” I said, glancing towards the window as if the woman might reappear at any moment.
“If he signed under an assumed name, all the better. But if he used your own, we should act quickly. Whoever that woman is, she may be searching for me and is a part of the plot to keep us separate. She mentioned the speculation about us in London and that it was too soon for you to have found me.”
Fitzwilliam seemed to consider this for several moments. “And you mentioned that she was with Isla, and that they had been in contact with Mrs. Mackenzie?” he said finally.
“Yes,” I replied, anxious to learn what he may be thinking.
“Let us go see,” he said. “We can enter through the back of the inn and look to see if there is anyone in the common room I may know. Although, I suppose if the lady were as imperious as you say, it is likely that she has insisted on a private parlour, and since it is likely she has left a bad impression, it may not be difficult to discover information about her.”
I nodded along, and we continued walking towards the inn, but then I stopped suddenly when an idea occurred to me. “Would Isla’s brother—what was his name?—recognise your coaches in the stables?” I asked. “Or any of your servants?”
“Graeme Dunbar,” he answered, almost mechanically.
“I do not know, but we are using a different carriage than the one I had at Netherfield. After all my searching for them, I am astonished that the Dunbars might turn up here, but it does make sense that they would be with whoever was responsible for taking you to that cottage.”
Hoping to avoid drawing unwanted attention, we entered the inn quietly through the back entrance.
We did not encounter anyone who might have been the lady I had overheard earlier, although I doubted I would have recognised her even if I had.
The maid, Isla, was another matter entirely—I would have known her at once—but she, too, was nowhere to be seen.
Fortunately, Morris had, at Fitzwilliam’s instruction, taken to using his own name when registering for lodgings during the months of their search.
It was a precaution meant to shield Fitzwilliam’s identity and avoid drawing notice from anyone who might have been inclined to gossip.
Likewise, since our marriage had not yet been formally announced, Morris had continued the practise for this journey as well.
We were both relieved to know that, at the very least, our names did not appear in the inn’s registry.
Whoever the mysterious woman was, she would not be able to find us through that route.
Yet that also meant identifying her would prove more difficult—especially if she was not someone either of us knew .
After discussing the matter, we agreed to dine privately in the sitting room between our chambers and do what we could to learn more about the woman without being seen.
Despite our enquiries, no one amongst the inn’s staff could identify her.
She had apparently stopped only briefly and had not shared her name or destination.
Fitzwilliam grew more certain that the man travelling with her was the missing stable hand from Netherfield. One of his footmen had described him as nearly identical to the man they had been trying to trace ever since he had left Hertfordshire in November.
However, since it seemed there was no more information to be gleaned that evening, we turned our attention to what lay ahead: the confrontations that would unfold in the morning.