Page 38 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

LADY CATHERINE’S GENEROSITY

Elizabeth’s arms ached from Hobbs’s rough handling, but her mind raced faster than the raindrops pelting the carriage roof.

They had been stalled at the flooded bridge for nearly an hour, the jumble of vehicles barely moving as guards allowed only one carriage to attempt the crossing at intervals that felt interminable.

Wickham’s impatience grew with each passing minute. He drummed his fingers against the leather seat, periodically consulting his pocket watch with increasing agitation.

“We’re losing valuable time,” he muttered, peering through the rain-streaked window at the line of vehicles ahead. “At this rate, we won’t reach Huntingdon by nightfall.”

Elizabeth noticed how his eyes darted nervously whenever another traveler passed too close to their carriage. She filed the observation away. Wickham feared recognition, a weakness she might exploit.

“This is intolerable,” he continued, his handsome face twisting with frustration. “Lady Catherine’s fancy coach is worthless if we remain trapped in this queue.”

The mention of Lady Catherine sparked an idea in Elizabeth’s mind—desperate, perhaps mad, but what did she have to lose?

“The de Bourgh coach should have precedence,” she said carefully, as if thinking aloud. “Is it not the grandest equipage here?”

Wickham snorted derisively. “Precedence means nothing in this rabble. They’ll not move for anyone.”

“They might,” Elizabeth ventured, “if properly approached.”

“And how do you propose to accomplish that?”

Elizabeth straightened her spine, gathering her courage. “I could speak to the drivers ahead of us. As Lady Catherine’s lady’s maid.”

Wickham stared at her. “Why would they care?”

“Consider the other carriages,” Elizabeth said, improvising as she spoke. “No doubt the occupants would prevail upon themselves to curry Lady Catherine’s good will. One word from her could open invitations to the highest of society.”

“Who cares about society when stuck in a deluge?” Wickham’s pout might have looked adorable on a four-year-old.

“Oh, Georgie, how little do you know about the habits of society,” Elizabeth said. “I find it hard to believe you grew up in the Darcy household and do not understand the snobbishness of influence in these rarified circles.”

“What do you propose?” A gleam revived in Wickham’s demeanor, sensing an advantage he had yet to avail himself of.

“I could poll the carriages and request they make way for Lady Catherine. I will act as her lady’s maid and inform them that Lady Catherine is ill and requires to cross first.”

Jenkins, listening from his position in the driver’s seat, cleared his throat skeptically. “Begging your pardon, but no one’s going to move for a lady’s maid, miss. Not even Lady Catherine’s.”

“I disagree,” Elizabeth replied, raising her chin with a confidence she did not entirely feel.

“A lady’s maid to someone of Lady Catherine’s consequence carries significant authority among the serving class.

Coachmen will listen, particularly when reminded that their masters would not wish to inconvenience Lady Catherine de Bourgh. ”

Hobbs shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a risk. She could run.”

“To where?” Elizabeth gestured at the sodden landscape visible through the window. “Into a flooded field? Besides, would it not draw more attention if I attempted to flee? Far better to return successfully and continue our journey.”

Wickham narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “And why would you help expedite our journey to Gretna Green?”

Elizabeth allowed a hint of resignation to color her voice. “I merely wish for a dry bed tonight rather than being trapped in this coach. The smell of wet wool is becoming quite oppressive.” She wrinkled her nose in Hobbs’s direction.

“I still don’t like it,” Jenkins grumbled. “What if someone recognizes her?”

“An excellent point,” Elizabeth interjected before Wickham could respond. “Unlike yourselves, I am not a wanted person. I have no unsavory history that might be recognized.”

Jenkins and Hobbs exchanged quick, alarmed glances that confirmed Elizabeth’s suspicion. These were not merely Wickham’s hired help—they were men with reasons to avoid scrutiny.

“She has a point,” Wickham said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Elizabeth. “But how can I trust you won’t betray us?”

“Simple self-interest,” Elizabeth replied with calculated pragmatism.

“I am a practical woman, Mr. Wickham. My reputation is already compromised by our departure together. Whether willingly or unwillingly matters little to society’s judgment.

My only sensible course is to reach Scotland and secure the protection of marriage. ”

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she maintained a calm, logical expression that seemed to sway Wickham.

“Very well,” he said after a moment’s consideration. He reached into his coat and withdrew a bulging envelope sealed with Lady Catherine’s distinctive crest. Breaking the seal, he counted out several coins. “This should suffice for your… diplomatic mission.”

“How generous,” Elizabeth murmured, eyeing the substantially thicker stack of notes he returned to the envelope before tucking it back into his coat pocket. “Though if I am to represent Lady Catherine’s household, even indirectly, I should appear somewhat more presentable.”

Wickham surveyed her disheveled appearance with a critical eye. “You hardly look the part of a lady’s maid at present. Your dress is torn, and you’ve lost your bonnet.”

Elizabeth touched her tangled curls self-consciously.

“A simple matter to rectify. Lady’s maids are not expected to be fashionable, merely neat.

With your handkerchief to tie back my hair and perhaps your coat to conceal the worst of the damage to my gown, I shall present a sufficiently respectable appearance. ”

Hobbs reluctantly surrendered a grimy neckerchief, which Elizabeth used to bind her hair into a severe style. Wickham’s coat, though too large, covered her torn sleeves and muddied skirts when draped over her shoulders like a cloak.

“Keep to the shadows,” Wickham instructed as Jenkins opened the carriage door, admitting a blast of wind and rain. “And remember—I shall be watching your every move.”

“How reassuring,” Elizabeth murmured, stepping carefully into the downpour.

The rain soaked her almost instantly, plastering the borrowed coat to her shoulders and sending rivulets of water down her face. Perfect, she thought—the weather provided additional concealment for her bruised wrists and tear-stained cheeks.

She moved with the brisk efficiency she had observed in Lady Catherine’s maid—a woman whose perpetually harried expression suggested serving her ladyship was akin to managing a particularly demanding regiment. She approached the nearest carriage, rapping sharply on its window with her knuckles.

“Good day to you,” she called, pitching her voice into the nasal tones of a servant accustomed to authority over lesser domestics. “I represent Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park. Her ladyship’s carriage requires passage with all haste.”

The window lowered slightly, revealing the skeptical face of a gentleman’s valet. “And why should that concern us? We’ve been waiting longer.”

Elizabeth drew herself up, channeling every ounce of imperious dignity she had observed. “Surely your master would not wish to inconvenience so distinguished a personage as Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“My master inconveniences whom he pleases,” the valet replied tartly, “and has no acquaintance with any Lady Catherine.”

Elizabeth leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Consider, sir, that your master might wish to cultivate such an acquaintance. Lady Catherine’s influence in London society is considerable. A small courtesy now might open doors previously closed.”

The valet hesitated, visibly weighing this logic.

Elizabeth slipped a half-crown into the valet’s palm. “For your trouble. And perhaps to refresh the coachman’s memory as to the proper order of carriages.”

The valet’s fingers closed around the coin with practiced discretion. “I shall speak with him directly. Lady Catherine’s carriage should indeed receive proper consideration.”

Elizabeth moved to the next carriage, and the next, repeating her performance with variations tailored to each audience—appeals to charity for a clergyman’s family, suggestions of mutual acquaintance for the gentry, and for all, the discreet press of silver into waiting palms. Her small purse of bribes dwindled rapidly, but the results were immediate.

Carriages shifted, making way for the grand de Bourgh coach to advance.

All the while, she worked her way down the line, methodically increasing her distance from Wickham’s watchful eye. The rain provided excellent cover, as did the clusters of travelers who had emerged from their vehicles to stretch their legs despite the downpour.

Her heart leapt when she spotted a familiar crest on a carriage in the middle of the queue—Bingley’s family emblem, a beehive surrounded by industrious bees. Could it truly be so simple? Had her rescuers already found her?

Elizabeth glanced back toward Lady Catherine’s coach.

Impatient, Wickham stepped from the carriage, his expression growing increasingly suspicious as he tracked her progress away from him.

Their eyes met, and something in her demeanor must have betrayed her, for his face contorted with sudden understanding.

Elizabeth abandoned all pretense. Gathering her sodden skirts, she ran toward Bingley’s carriage, slipping and sliding in the mud.

“Help!” she cried, her voice nearly lost in the drumming rain. “Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!”

The tall figure she spotted earlier staggered into motion, one arm cradled protectively against his chest, the other gripping a walking stick. Darcy.

“Elizabeth!” His voice cut through the storm, raw with emotion.