Page 27

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Elizabeth

T he next morning Charlotte came with her candle and helped us to dress, and we did so quietly so as not to awaken Mr Collins.

“Forgive me?” I nearly whispered to my friend.

She kissed my cheek and spoke quietly. “What a tempest in a teapot, Lizzy. ’Tis already forgot.” After a few moments, while buttoning Mary’s dark grey travel dress, Charlotte slanted a glance at me. “I wonder that Mr Darcy is leaving so abruptly.”

“I cannot enlighten you there,” I replied while peering into the dimly lit mirror and trying to make something elegant of my hair.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam said that Mr Darcy refuses to marry Miss de Bourgh,” Mary said.

“Oh my,” whispered Charlotte.

Oh my, indeed! “Take heart, my dear friend,” I said.

“Lady Catherine’s displeasure, currently being spread equally between me and her recalcitrant nephew, will soon enough be focused solely on the death of that dream.

She will be forced to busy herself finding a suitable husband for her daughter, and your husband will find himself in her good graces again. ”

“I do hope so,” she said. “But how lucky for you to be taken up by Miss Darcy.”

I opened the door to Charlotte’s manservant who had come for our trunks.

“Lucky indeed! Charlotte, I implore you not to infer anything in that quarter.” We were in the hall, whispering now.

“I see your sly look even in the dark,” I said with great affection.

“Now, return to your bed, and tend to the wounds of my cousin’s self-consequence.

He must be shaken to his bones, the poor man. ”

With our shawls wrapped tightly around us and up to our chins, Mary and I sat on our small trunks on the steps in the dim light of early morning just as I had told Mr Darcy we would.

We were not left to sit in the cold for more than five minutes, but in that time, I observed to Mary that there was something biblical in being evicted from a place—at Easter, no less—and just when a person feels thoroughly horse-whipped off the premises, there arrives some magical means of transport to a brighter land.

“Hmm,” she said, adorably mistaking my jest as a serious observation. “Like the Israelites in their exodus from Egypt?”

I swallowed a hearty laugh and said, “Just so, Mary. I believe I hear the waters parting as we speak.” And true enough, the unique symphony of sounds heard only when a coach and four approaches, caused us to stand and make ready to go to London.

Miss Darcy looked very young and sleepy as she sweetly welcomed us, and Mr Darcy handed us up.

Mrs Annesley too made us feel wanted by settling us with a lap rug and assuring our comfort without being oppressively maternal.

The hour being so early, we spoke only sparsely in hushed tones, and as the wheels jolted us into forward progress, my heart leapt in relief.

This was an exodus indeed, and our horses may as well have had wings, such was my sudden joy to be leaving Mr Collins’s oppressive house.

The day broke fine and matched our dawning collective merriment.

Mr Darcy’s cavalcade, outfitted with very fine horses, meant we drove at a lively pace.

Normally, the speed would make for an uncomfortable ride, but our coach springs must have been of some superior design, for we were spared all but the worst bumps of the road.

The interior of Miss Darcy’s coach was no less marvellous than the sophistication of its springs.

We sat on tufted velvet with our feet resting delicately upon a woven wool runner.

The brass fittings and the glass sparkled, and the snug-fitting door spared us the invasion of dust from the road.

This superior mode of travel propelled me into my forbidden dream.

I thought of the finer things that came perforce with that dream, and I thought of Mr Darcy sitting in the coach just in front of us.

I knew this was not mine to dream of, nonetheless I succumbed to the delicious comfort of his protection and left the facing of reality for later.

The dreamlike quality of that soft spring day continued as we stopped in Maidstone to break our fast. Mr Darcy stepped into the inn, and the entire place burst into activity on his behalf.

Our party must have been expected, for the innkeeper himself took us to a private parlour with a large window overlooking the principal street.

His wife then showed the ladies of the party to an unheard-of luxury—a room hired not to stay the night, but for the sole purpose of our privacy as we refreshed ourselves.

Within ten minutes of coming into the parlour, three maids bearing trays of mouth-watering food arrived.

For me there was no question of picking elegantly at my plate.

I was ravenous. Our final meals at the parsonage were too uncomfortable to satisfy, and from the relish of my companions, I wondered if meals at Rosings had also been similarly devoid of enjoyment.

Mr Darcy chose thinly sliced sirloin of beef with eggs and plum cake, he drank coffee instead of tea, and smiled indulgently at me when I chose the luxury of two cups of chocolate.

I then piously ate my well-prepared eggs so as to justify the hot rolls with butter and jam that ended my meal.

Soon enough, our appetites were sated, and the innkeeper returned to supervise the clearing of the board and to ask how we found the fare. To my surprise, Mr Darcy became positively charitable.

“You have outdone yourselves, Martin. Pray do tell Mrs Martin that her effort in the kitchen never disappoints.”

“And if she made this jam, you must add my compliments, sir,” I added, casting an impish grin at Mary. My sister had become a little more perceptive, I think, because she instantly caught my meaning and smiled back at me.

“Come, come,” Colonel Fitzwilliam tsked. “What is this hilarity between sisters about the jam?”

I opened my mouth to explain only to be beaten by Mary! “Oh, I am sure it is not so very funny, sir. It is only that my sister Jane was speaking romantically about her upcoming marriage and told us of her earnest ambition to learn to make jam.”

“You must know, Colonel, our Jane is beautiful, and she is also quite a gentle person. The notion of her standing intently over her pots with her spoons and her apron must strike a person as droll.”

He smiled. “And you, Miss Elizabeth? Do you also wish to excel at jam making?”

“Upon no account, sir! If I am to excel at anything, it will have to be something far less useful. Mary is more likely to have any ambitions in the kitchen.”

My sister blushed prettily and said she only ever wished to be useful somehow and that idleness, though fashionable, had never been one of her pleasures.

The colonel seemed to like that answer very well, and he went on to badger Miss Darcy about her knowledge of cheese making and the like, until Mr Darcy took pity on his sister and changed the subject.

The gentlemen fell to talking about the road and of our progress, and wishing to stretch my legs, I stood and went to the window. Miss Darcy asked after her wheeler, and the three then spoke of the merits of the teams.

Not having put much thought into our horses, I was surprised to learn the gentleman kept two teams on this road, for we would change again in Bromley.

I stood at the window in wonder at the depth of Mr Darcy’s fortune.

We in three carriages, so twelve fresh horses would be required twice over.

And this was nothing to the hospitality of the house, not only for the six of us, but for his retainers which numbered nine together.

In a much distracted and slightly discomposed state, I stared down at the street and wished I did not harbour such a fatal, irreversible fascination for an ineligible man.

Only vaguely did I hear Colonel Fitzwilliam offer to take Mary for a little walk, and I positively jumped when Mr Darcy spoke to me directly.

“I would have sworn that when we entered this room your eyes were all sparkles.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, turning back to the room in bewilderment. Mr Darcy stood, arms crossed, with one shoulder against the wall as he examined me, and belatedly, I realised we were alone.

“I would know what troubles you,” he said bluntly.

“What makes you believe I am troubled?” This sort of diversionary feint I had learnt from Papa.

“You have stood at that window in deep, dark thought for five full minutes. While that is one of my favourite pastimes, I do not believe it very like you to brood. What troubles you?”

I am in love with you, I thought. But aloud, I said, “I have been thinking of horses.”

“Horses!”

“Yes, horses. How many do you have on this road—twenty-four?”

“Twenty-four horses? Of what are you talking?” He was speaking to me in that way I love—sharp, impatient and devoid of condescension.

“You have three carriages.”

“Oh. The service coach uses job horses. I suppose that is somehow a form of snobbery in your estimation. But in fact, I have eight horses on this road when I travel to Kent. My sister’s coachman necessarily sent along two strings as well for her when she left London.

They are collected and either stabled in London or placed on the road north when I go to Pemberley.

” He paused as if debating before he hardened his jaw and said, “I have three more teams from Pemberley, which, along with this string, I put at coaching inns along that route. I have eight horses for riding in London and my estate. My sister has half a dozen, and we stable a strong team for estate work as well as our elderly stock in pasture. There are fifty-odd all totalled in my stables, and now you know the whole of it.”

He stood and spoke as one who dared me to despise him for his honest confession, and when I did not reply, he raised his eyebrows and made an impatient motion with his head demanding I explain my objection to the size of his stable.