Darcy

St Albans, Hertfordshire

D arcy had risen before dawn, his back sore from the night spent on the hard floor.

He dressed quietly, careful not to wake Miss Bennet, and took up a small volume of Cowper’s poetry he had found in the common room while she had refreshed herself the evening before.

He stationed himself by the window, the book open though his eyes often wandered beyond its lines.

He heard her stir behind the screen and turned a page he had not read, not wishing to cause her embarrassment.

“Good morning, Mr Darcy,” she said eventually, her voice polite but still edged with drowsiness.

He rose at once. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. I trust you managed some rest?”

“As much as the circumstances allowed,” she replied. “And you, sir? The floor can’t have been forgiving.”

“I’ve endured worse,” he said lightly. “I’ve arranged for breakfast in a private parlour, so we might draw as little attention as possible. Shall we?”

She smiled and walked to the door. In the parlour, a modest table awaited them—bread, cheese, butter, and some dried meats. Hardly a feast.

“Will this suffice?” he asked. “I might request eggs, if you prefer—”

“No, truly, this is quite enough,” she said quickly. “It’s much the same as what I take at Longbourn.”

“At Pemberley, breakfast is a rather grander affair,” he admitted. “But when travelling, I’ve always preferred simpler fare. In truth, I wouldn’t mind it more often at home—though if I requested only bread and cheese, Mrs Reynolds might summon a physician.”

“She is the housekeeper?” Elizabeth guessed.

“She is. Nearly thirty years in her post.”

“If a change in breakfast unsettles her, I wonder what she’ll make of a sudden wife.”

He chuckled. “I shall write to her in the carriage and prepare her. She’ll recover—eventually.” He buttered a slice of bread. “This reminds me of my Cambridge days. The kitchens kept odd hours, so when I rose early to fish, this sort of fare was often all I could obtain.”

“You enjoy fishing?”

“Very much. There’s a quiet by the water at dawn that I’ve found nowhere else.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “My father says the same. I’ve never understood the appeal of standing still in wet grass.”

“The stillness is the point,” Darcy replied. “One thinks more clearly when no one demands a reply.”

“Or one simply falls asleep on one’s feet,” she said with a mischievous glint.

He laughed, surprised by the ease of it. “A useful talent at most society balls.”

Their shared laughter drew them into a new, unspoken familiarity. He hadn’t laughed so freely with anyone beyond Bingley or Georgiana in years.

***

Within the hour, they set out. The innkeeper’s wife sent them off with a basket of provisions. Darcy settled opposite Elizabeth but could not help watching how the morning sun lit her features. Despite fatigue and the strain of flight, she carried herself with calm grace.

Their conversation resumed easily.

“There’s a lovely path near my home,” she said. “It passes Netherfield Park. I’m using it as the setting in my current story.”

His head lifted. “Netherfield?”

“Yes. Do you know of it?”

“I’ve not visited, but my friend Bingley has recently rented the estate—with hopes of purchasing. Is it very near Longbourn?”

“Only three miles. How curious.”

“Indeed,” Darcy said, thoughtful. “Had we not met at the park, we might’ve been neighbours.”

“Neighbours? Did you mean to take up residence as well?”

He laughed. “No—but Bingley asked me to visit and advise him. He’s new to such matters.”

“How kind of you.” She smiled sincerely. “You’ll like Netherfield when you see it. It has a rather Gothic feeling to it. It reminds me of the setting in Udolpho.”

“Ah, yes. I am not one for gothic romances, but Mrs Radcliffe has a true gift for creating mood.”

“Udolpho is unmatched, I agree,” Elizabeth said. “Though The Italian has its merits.”

“You surprise me, Miss Bennet. I’d have thought you too pragmatic for tales of ghosts and secret passages.”

“Perhaps it’s because I’m thus that I enjoy imagining the opposite. But I favour stories where the seemingly supernatural has a rational cause.”

“As opposed to genuine ghosts?” he asked, amused.

“Exactly. Fiction may entertain, but real-life spectres try my patience.”

Her wit charmed him. Their conversation was the most invigorating he had enjoyed in years.

As the afternoon wore on, the carriage rocked steadily along the rutted road. Miss Bennet extracted a leather bottle of small beer from the provision’s basket. She took a modest sip and lowered it to her lap.

“Would you care—” she got no further because a sudden jolt threw the carriage sideways, and her hand slipped. The bottle pitched forward, sloshing its contents across her skirt and onto the seat.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, holding the dripping bottle away from her lap.

“Are you hurt?” Darcy asked, already rising.

“No, just damp,” she said with a laugh, inspecting the spreading stain. “It seems my small beer has declared war on my gown and the seat.”

He reached behind him and retrieved a cloth from a side pocket. “Here, sit beside me while this dries,” he said and removed his coat from beside him.

She hesitated, then nodded and stood carefully as the carriage rocked again. He steadied her with a hand to her elbow as they swapped places.

“Thank you,” she murmured, dabbing at the cushion while settling beside him.

Now closer than before, they both sat a touch more rigid, the earlier ease between them unsettled by proximity. Still, within a few minutes, they settled once more and when Miss Bennet yawned again, he smiled.

“You should rest,” he said. “We still have far to go.”

“Conversation keeps me alert,” she replied, though her eyes betrayed her fatigue.

“Then I’ll read,” he offered, retrieving Cowper. “With the innkeeper’s permission, I brought it.”

“An excellent choice,” she murmured, settling again.

He read a few stanzas aloud, his voice low and steady. Soon, her breathing slowed. When he glanced over, she had succumbed to sleep, her head tipped gently towards him.

Another bump in the road—then, with no ceremony, her head came to rest on his shoulder.

He froze.

To move would wake her, yet propriety screamed for distance. But she had known nothing but tension these past days—leaving her family, escaping an unwanted marriage, hurtling towards a new life with a stranger. If rest found her now, he could not deny her that.

Her warmth against him felt strangely right. He tried not to dwell on it.

A half hour passed and then she stirred, realising their position. She straightened with haste. “I beg your pardon—I did not intend—”

“No need,” he said at once. “The carriage swayed. I was nearly tipped onto the floor myself. I hope you slept well.”

She nodded, flustered. He retrieved a small cushion from under his seat.

“Here. In case you wish to rest again.”

She accepted it. “Your carriage is remarkably well equipped.”

“My sister travels poorly without certain comforts.”

Elizabeth’s fingers lingered on the fine blanket. Her gaze roamed the interior, and he recognised the look—a dawning awareness of wealth.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked gently. “It wasn’t my intent.”

“It’s not discomfort, precisely,” she replied, choosing her words. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blanket so fine. It reminds me how little I know of your world.”

He hesitated. “My world? Wealth alters surroundings, but not necessarily people.”

“Perhaps,” she said quietly. “But it changes opportunities—and expectations.”

“True,” he acknowledged. “Yet I’d argue that character, not circumstance, defines a person most.”

She tilted her head, then gave a small smile. “Spoken like someone who has never lacked for either.”

He almost laughed. “A fair rebuke. I’ve been fortunate, Miss Bennet. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

“I gathered as much,” she said. “From the start.”

He looked over sharply.

“I could tell you were a gentleman of consequence—by your manner, not your coin,” she added. “The details didn’t matter.”

The simplicity of her answer pleased him more than it should. She had accepted his offer not because of his fortune, but because of what she had seen in him.

***

As dusk fell, the scenery changed—stone walls, wild hills, and the hush of the northern road.

“We’ll stay the night in Doncaster,” he said. “Unless you prefer to continue.”

“Doncaster will do perfectly.”

A quiet settled between them. Her expression turned pensive.

“You look troubled,” he ventured.

She took her time. “I’m thinking about our plans. Each mile brings it into sharper focus.”

“Second thoughts would be understandable.”

“Not second thoughts,” she said. “Just… clearer ones. I don’t regret it. I simply see it more fully now.”

He studied her in the twilight. Her face, so open and readable, held no artifice.

“We enter this as equals, Miss Bennet,” he said. “Your judgement, your mind—they command my respect.”

“Thank you,” she said her gaze steady.

And as the carriage rolled north beneath the gathering stars, Darcy wondered at the strange fortune that had brought them together. Their convenient escape now hinted at something deeper—unexpected and not unwelcome.