Page 9 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

“That’s where accounts differ, ma’am. Some say he was taken to London for medical attention. Others claim…” The woman trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“Please,” Elizabeth urged, pressing another coin into her hand. “I must know.”

“Others claim he did not survive the attack, ma’am. That his body was taken away in a hearse.” The woman crossed herself. “But it’s just talk, you understand. The sort of wild tales that follow any incident.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, forcing back the wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her. She could not afford to collapse now. Not with Wickham waiting to take advantage of any weakness .

“Thank you for your candor,” she said once she had mastered herself. “There is one more service you might perform for me, if you’re willing? For fair compensation, of course.”

The woman’s eyes darted to the purse visible on the dressing table. “What service would that be, ma’am?”

“Information about other guests departing for London this afternoon. Respectable travelers, preferably.”

Understanding dawned in the innkeeper’s wife’s eyes. “You’re looking for traveling companions. To avoid that gentleman downstairs.”

Elizabeth neither confirmed nor denied the observation. “Can you help me?”

“The Honywoods,” the woman said after a moment’s thought. “Elderly gentleman and his wife, with their companion. Traveling to London. They’ve engaged a post-chaise to leave soon.”

“And would they, do you think, be amenable to an additional passenger? One willing to pay her share, of course.”

“For enough coin, most travelers would welcome the Queen herself,” the woman replied pragmatically. “I can speak to them, if you wish.”

“Please do,” Elizabeth said. “And there is one final matter. Should Mr. Wickham, the gentleman who spoke to me in the parlor, inquire about my plans…” She hesitated, weighing the morality of outright deception against her increasingly precarious situation.

The woman saved her the trouble of finishing the thought. “I could mention hearing you speak of returning to your family home, rather than that ‘rest home’ he spoke of.”

“Yes, my home is in Hertfordshire, Longbourn, perhaps I have already departed, having met an acquaintance…”

“Of course,” the innkeeper’s wife agreed. “I’m not deaf, ma’am. I heard what that gentleman downstairs implied about your state of mind. My sister was placed in an asylum by a husband who found her inconvenient. I’ll not help another woman meet the same fate. ”

Relief flooded Elizabeth as she pressed more coins into the woman’s hand. “Thank you. Your kindness may well save my life.”

“I shall inquire with the Honywoods,” the innkeeper’s wife said. “Be ready at half past twelve. That is when they plan on departing. I shall have your trunk brought down.”

Elizabeth hastily repacked her trunk, stowing any of Darcy’s belongings into the still-damp interior.

He had left his travel desk, a wedge of sandalwood with a hinge and clasp to store writing paper.

It was inlaid with the Darcy family crest and held quills, ink, and sealing wax.

A few other personal items, a shaving kit, his dinner jacket, and a monogrammed handkerchief.

She gathered up the loose coins on the dresser and tucked her unfinished correspondence into the writing desk.

Tears rolled down her face as worry overtook her heart. Her husband, possibly injured, lying on a muddy road bleeding. Would someone help him? A good Samaritan? Or did they pass him by? Robbing him and leaving him unidentified? Alone, bereft? Like her.

Elizabeth waited until a soft knock came to her door. “Mrs. Darcy? They’re ready.”

A footman took her trunk and Elizabeth hugged Darcy’s travel desk as they crept down the back stairs to the kitchen.

“The gentleman—the one who came for you—he’s in the taproom with his friends,” the innkeeper’s wife whispered. “I’ve told him you’re resting until one o’clock as agreed.”

“And what of Longbourn?” Elizabeth asked.

“I mentioned to his companion that I’d overheard you speaking of your family home with great distress. Said something about returning there if your husband didn’t come for you. He seemed quite interested.”

The deception was in motion. Soon, Wickham would be searching in entirely the wrong direction.

“I cannot thank you enough,” Elizabeth said, pressing the woman’s hand .

“No need, ma’am. Just… be careful in London. Men like that don’t give up easily.”

A rumble of wheels outside announced the arrival of the Honywoods’ post-chaise. The innkeeper’s wife led Elizabeth through the kitchen door to where the vehicle waited, its horses stamping impatiently.

An elderly gentleman with kindly eyes peered out from the window. “Mrs. Smith, is it? We’ve room enough for you beside my wife. We’re pleased to have the company.”

So, this wasn’t the first time the innkeeper’s wife had orchestrated escapes. Elizabeth mustered a smile at the elderly couple.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Honywood. I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently.”

“No need, no need. Always happy to help a lady in distress.”

Elizabeth climbed into the carriage, finding herself seated beside an elegant older woman whose silver hair was arranged in a simple but fashionable style. Across from them sat a quiet, pleasant-faced woman whom Elizabeth took to be the companion.

“Are you in some difficulty, my dear?” Mrs. Honywood asked directly, her Yorkshire accent soft but distinct.

Elizabeth hesitated, then opted for a version of the truth. “My husband and I were separated by unfortunate circumstances. I find myself in need of safe passage to London, where my uncle resides.”

“And the gentleman at the inn? The one who seemed so interested in your movements?”

“Not a friend,” Elizabeth said carefully.

Mrs. Honywood exchanged a glance with her husband. “Say no more. We understand perfectly. Don’t we, Miss Porter?”

The companion nodded. “Indeed, we do, ma’am.”

Mr. Honywood rapped on the roof of the carriage, and they began to move. Elizabeth felt a wave of relief so powerful it nearly brought tears to her eyes. She was away from Wickham, at least for the moment. But where was her husband? She could only hope he found assistance .

“We’re bound for Gracechurch Street,” Mrs. Honywood said conversationally. “My husband has business with several merchants there. Where does your uncle reside?”

Elizabeth gave the address, and the Honywoods exclaimed that he was one of the merchants who bought their wool.

Elizabeth exhaled with relief. “It seems I have stumbled into the very best company I could hope for.”

“Providence,” Mrs. Honywood said firmly. “The Lord guides our steps, even when we cannot see the path.”

“We’re from way up north, a sheep farm in Yorkshire,” Mr. Honywood said by way of conversation. “Visiting relatives where it’s warmer. Hertfordshire was delightful.”

Elizabeth allowed herself to relax as the chaise pulled away from the Red Lion Inn.

She looked back at the building that had, in the space of a single night, been the site of her greatest happiness and deepest despair.

Somewhere on the road between here and London, Darcy had met with violence.

Whether he lived or had perished, she did not know.

But she had to keep her wits, so she let the Honywoods believe she was well, conversing with them about the landmarks and truly grateful they had taken her in their carriage.