Page 9

Elizabeth

E lizabeth woke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the carriage’s rumbling. She blinked against the afternoon light, embarrassed to discover she had drifted to sleep. Across from her, Mr Darcy sat with a small travelling desk balanced on his knees, quill moving steadily across parchment.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, straightening in her seat. “I did not intend to sleep.”

Darcy looked up, setting his quill aside. “No apology needed, Miss Bennet. You clearly required rest after the events of this morning.”

“How long have I slept?”

“Nearly three hours,” he replied. “I took the opportunity to attend to some correspondence.”

Elizabeth smoothed her skirts. “Three hours! You must think me terribly rude.”

“Not at all,” Darcy assured her. “The circumstances of our departure were extraordinarily taxing. It would be unreasonable to expect you to maintain conversation through an entire day’s journey.”

His considerate response eased her discomfort. She peeked at the passing scenery, noting they had left London far behind. The landscape had opened into rolling countryside dotted with small villages and farms.

The carriage rolled steadily northward as the rain lessened to a light patter against the roof. Elizabeth sat with her hands folded in her lap.

Mr Darcy had returned to his correspondence, his tall frame angled slightly towards the window, his expression one of concentration. The strong profile, the firm set of his jaw, the occasional furrow in his brow suggested deep contemplation.

“I believe we shall have fair weather tomorrow,” Darcy remarked at last, closing his travelling desk and setting it aside.

Elizabeth startled at the sudden resumption of conversation. “Indeed? That would make for a more pleasant journey.”

“The coachman believes we may reach Gretna Green within four days, weather permitting, sooner if we travel through the night.”

She nodded, uncertain how to respond.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy began, clearing his throat. “I realise we know precious little about one another. Perhaps it would be beneficial to remedy that situation.”

She angled her body in his direction. “A sensible suggestion, Mr Darcy.” She paused, considering what to share. “You are aware of my circumstances—my father’s financial difficulties, the entailment of our estate, my near-marriage to Mr Blackfriars.”

“Yes, though I confess I know little beyond that. You mentioned sisters?”

“Four,” Elizabeth replied. “Jane is the eldest, a year my senior. Then myself, followed by Mary, Catherine—though we call her Kitty—and Lydia, who at sixteen is the youngest.”

“Five daughters,” Darcy observed. “Any wed?”

“No, none. And the entailment means Longbourn will pass to our distant cousin, Mr Franklin upon my father’s death.

He is not the sort who would seek to occupy it.

He would rent it out, most likely, and cast us out into the unknown.

The estate is indebted as it is. Without suitable marriages, my sisters and mother face a precarious future. ”

“It is an unfortunate system that places women in such vulnerable positions,” Darcy said. “I understand why your father might have favoured the Blackfriars connection.”

“Understanding does not excuse his actions,” Elizabeth said, her tone sharper than intended.

“No,” Darcy agreed. “It does not.”

“What of your family, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

“My parents are deceased. I became master of Pemberley at three-and-twenty. My sister Georgiana is my only immediate relation. She is eighteen this autumn, though she often seems younger.” A fond expression softened his features.

“She is exceedingly shy but possesses a genuine sweetness of temperament. She plays the pianoforte with remarkable skill.”

“You care for her deeply,” Elizabeth observed.

“She is very dear to me.” He hesitated, then added, “She knows what we are doing. I shared the truth with her before departing London.”

Elizabeth was surprised. “You told her everything?”

“I deemed it necessary. Georgiana is the only person whose good opinion matters greatly to me. I could not deceive her, even by omission.”

“And her reaction?”

“Initial astonishment, followed by concern for both our sakes. She is far more perceptive than many realise.” His lips curved in a slight smile. “I believe she is eager to make your acquaintance.”

“I shall look forward to meeting her too.” The tension in her shoulders left somewhat. “I informed only Jane,” Elizabeth admitted. “She encountered me as I waited for your carriage. She thinks me utterly mad to embark on such a scheme.”

“Perhaps we both are,” Darcy replied, his tone containing a trace of humour. “Though I maintain our arrangement offers a pragmatic solution to our respective difficulties.”

“I am inclined to agree,” she said.

“Tell me of Longbourn,” Darcy requested. “I should like to know more of your home.”

“It is nothing so grand as Pemberley must be,” Elizabeth said.

“A modest estate in Hertfordshire, with pleasant grounds and comfortable rooms. My father’s library is its crown jewel—filled with volumes collected over generations.

The gardens bloom beautifully in spring, with roses that scent the air through summer. ”

“It sounds charming.”

“What of Pemberley?” she enquired. “I know only that it lies near Lambton in Derbyshire.”

Darcy’s expression brightened visibly. “Pemberley has been the Darcy home for ten generations. The house stands on a rise overlooking a lake, surrounded by woods and parkland. The grounds contain several miles of walking paths that wind through groves and gardens. There is a stream that flows near the house—clear, swift water that teems with trout.”

“You speak of it with such affection.”

“It is more than mere property to me,” he confessed. “Pemberley represents my family’s legacy, but also my responsibility to the land and those who depend upon it. The estate supports numerous tenant farms and the village of Lambton relies upon the custom generated by the house.”

His sense of duty was admirable. “My Aunt Gardiner grew up in Lambton. She speaks of it with great fondness.”

“I recall. The world proves smaller than one might imagine.”

“Do you consider that a benefit or a detriment, Mr Darcy?”

“In this instance, I count it a fortunate circumstance. It seems to lend a certain… propriety to matters.”

Elizabeth could not help but smile at his attempt to find order within their decidedly improper situation. “A tenuous thread of propriety, but I shall accept it.”

As the day advanced, their conversation continued in fits and starts, each disclosure revealing another facet of their personalities.

Elizabeth discovered that Darcy possessed a dry wit that emerged when he felt at ease, while he seemed surprised by her forthrightness on matters literary and philosophical.

“You dismiss Richardson so readily?” he asked, eyebrows raised, after she had delivered a particularly scathing assessment of Pamela .

Literature especially inspired more than one lively exchange.

“I find his heroine’s excessive virtue tiresome,” Elizabeth replied. “No woman exists in such a state of perpetual moral elevation. I prefer Fielding’s approach—his characters possess both virtues and flaws, rendering them truer to life.”

“And what of Shakespeare?”

“The finest observer of human nature,” she said without hesitation. “Though even the Bard occasionally sacrificed plausibility for dramatic effect.”

“Which of his plays do you favour?”

“ Much Ado About Nothing ,” Elizabeth answered. “Beatrice and Benedick’s verbal sparring delights me each time I read it.”

Darcy nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I confess a preference for Hamlet, though I appreciate Much Ado ’s wit. And what of more contemporary works? Are you familiar with Sir Walter Scott?”

“Familiar and enchanted,” Elizabeth confirmed. “ The Lady of the Lake remains a favourite, though Waverley captivated me equally.”

Their literary discussion continued as the carriage rolled through Hertfordshire and into Bedfordshire, pausing only when they stopped to change horses.

The afternoon waned into evening, and Darcy consulted his pocket watch. “We shall reach the Crown Inn at St Albans shortly.”

Elizabeth nodded, suddenly conscious that they would soon face the delicate matter of the night’s accommodations.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the inn, a substantial building with warm light spilling from its windows.

A groom ran to attend the horses as Darcy descended from the carriage, then turned to assist Elizabeth.

His hand was warm and steady as he helped her to the ground and when he let go, she lamented the separation before reminding herself of their arrangement.

Inside, the inn’s common room bustled with activity. There were travellers dining, locals drinking ale, and a serving girl weaving between tables with plates of food. The innkeeper approached, he was a broad man with an appraising eye.

“Good evening, sir, madam. How may I assist you?”

“My wife and I require lodging for the night,” Darcy said, his voice betraying no hint that the words were anything but truth. “Two adjoining rooms, if available.”

“Adjoining rooms, sir? We have one chamber available—our finest. Most travellers arrive earlier in the day.”

Darcy frowned slightly. “Nothing else?”

“I fear not, sir. Unless you would prefer the common sleeping room…”

“That will not be necessary,” Darcy replied. “We shall take the chamber. Please have hot water sent up, and a light supper.”

“Very good, Mr?”

“Darcy. And Mrs Darcy.”

Heat raced up her entire body, though she maintained a composed expression.

“This way, if you please,” the innkeeper said, leading them upstairs.

The chamber proved larger than Elizabeth had anticipated, with a large bed dominating one wall, a small sitting area with two chairs before the hearth, and a dressing screen in one corner.

“Will this suit, sir?” the innkeeper asked.

“It will serve,” Darcy replied. “When may we expect supper?”

“Within half an hour, sir. I shall send up the hot water directly.”

When the door closed behind the innkeeper, Elizabeth and Darcy stood in awkward silence, neither meeting the other’s gaze.

“I shall arrange a pallet before the fire,” Darcy said at last. “You may take the bed.”

“Mr Darcy, I cannot allow you to sleep on the floor when you have already done so much—”

“Miss Bennet,” he interrupted gently, “I insist. It would be unconscionable to do otherwise.”

The hot water arrived to interrupt their conversation, and Mr Darcy left her to tend to her washing.

Alone, she approached the basin and splashed warm water on her face, washing away the dust of travel.

She smoothed her hair as best she could without proper toiletries, and straightened her gown, now hopelessly creased from the hours in the carriage.

Once she had changed into the only other gown she brought with her—aside from the wedding gown which she had packed for reasons she did not quite understand, Mr Darcy returned. Supper followed thereafter and then it was time to rest.

Darcy moved efficiently, taking blankets from the bed and arranging them before the hearth to form a makeshift pallet. He removed only his coat and boots, remaining otherwise fully clothed.

“I shall extinguish the candles when you are settled,” he said, turning his back to allow her privacy.

“I am settled,” she announced.

Darcy turned and moved about the room, extinguishing candles until only the glow from the hearth remained. He lay down upon his pallet, turning away from the bed.

“Good night, Miss Bennet.”

“Good night, Mr Darcy.”

Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded Elizabeth. She stared into the darkness, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the inn—muffled voices from the common room below, the creak of floorboards, the occasional whinny of horses in the stable yard.

She turned her head to look towards the hearth. In the dying firelight, she could just discern Darcy’s form on the pallet, his breathing deep and even. He slept, apparently untroubled by the strangeness of their situation.

Elizabeth caught herself watching the rise and fall of his chest, this stranger who would soon be her husband.

For some while she stared at the dark before resolving to admit that sleep would not come.

She rose silently, retrieving a book from her valise and lit a candle.

Her copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho had accompanied her through many sleepless nights at Longbourn.

If sleep would not come, at least she might lose herself in troubles not her own.

As she turned the pages, a light snore came from the pallet.

She smiled touched by the humanity of this stranger who had come to her rescue.

True, he benefited from this venture as much as she did, but he had other options.

A man like him, seemingly wealthy, certainly handsome, and undeniably intelligent.

It was rather a shame they had not met under different circumstances. With a sigh, she returned to her book, aware of how peculiar it was that she was embarking on a gothic romance of her own, while seeing to escape into a literary one.