Page 7 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
ELIZABETH DARCY, THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
At the second change of horses, Mr Darcy took me aside. He looked pinched and grey.
“If you do not object, I will join you in the carriage,” he said stiffly.
“Of course I do not object. You must be dreadfully wet and cold. What of my maid? Should she wait for the second carriage with the trunks?”
“No.”
“Very well, sir.”
‘Very well, sir’, seemed to be the only thing I could say in response to most of his statements.
I wished I did not sound so colourless, so obsequious in my replies, but then again, I had no desire to poke him with thinly disguised sentiments of ill-usage.
Having once read an account of bear-baiting that I wished forever after could be erased from my mind, Mr Darcy struck me—looming over me in a massive black greatcoat, dripping on my shoes—as a caged and wounded bear.
I understood him. I had also felt that way myself until I gave up all ideas of deserving my life to be any other way than it was.
As we ate a cold collation in a private parlour, I reflected that in some ways, I was better off than Mr Darcy.
My former self, Elizabeth Bennet, could be buried, and I could attend to the business of Mrs Darcy as if the lady were an unrelated stranger to whom one must cater.
Mr Darcy, however, was still Mr Darcy. He could not so easily kill off his identity and assume a new one, say, as Mr Bennet, Elizabeth Bennet’s new husband.
At one time, this line of thinking would have amused me to such a degree I might have laughed aloud. Now, the name Mr Bennet could only pain me.
“You are not eating,” Mr Darcy said coldly.
“I have eaten a little, sir. I am not a comfortable traveller and am taking precautions.” In fact, the Stilton cheese was far too aromatic for me, so I nibbled on a water biscuit.
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Very well. But you should be aware we will not stop for refreshments again until we stop for the night.” This he announced in a manner clearly unconcerned for my comfort.
He was simply putting me on notice that he would not tolerate ploys for attention should I claim to feel faint with hunger an hour down the road.
“Where do we stay tonight?”
“The Swan’s Trumpet. I believe it should satisfy even your standards,” he said drily.
“I meant what town, sir,” I said quietly. “One inn is very much like the next one in my experience.”
He paused to swallow. Whether he swallowed his irritation or his beef, neither appeared to go down willingly. “Northampton tonight, Nottingham tomorrow.”
His tone continued as impatient as before, and there being no servants requiring I act the conversationalist, I gave in to silence.
When he finished eating, I excused myself and went to the window.
I looked out on the yard behind the posting house and saw a well-gravelled road just beyond it.
The lane did not appear too disreputable, as it was lined with a smattering of poor but decently kept cottages.
“Might I stretch my legs until your carriage is made ready? There is a serviceable lane behind this inn.”
He shrugged. “Do as you wish, madam. This yard is not known for efficiency, and you could have as much as twenty minutes.”
I reached for my shawl and bonnet, found Wilson, and took her on a flying march to the top of the little road and back. The exertion flushed my cheeks and cleared my mind of cobwebs and gripes. A fine misting rain and a brisk tramp left me perfectly calm for the long afternoon ride to Northampton.
The bear read from a small book handed to him at the last minute by his valet who had arrived in the following carriage in time to bring it to his master along with a dry coat.
The cold and wet, coupled with the darkness caused by heavy clouds, must have made my husband long to close his eyes.
He appeared utterly exhausted, and because his temper would only worsen if he did not soon close his eyes—I wished he would rest. But he would not.
Mr Darcy, I was discovering, was nothing if not stubborn once he embarked upon a course.
Apparently, his course that day was to appear aloof and indifferent, which he could hardly do if his face was softened by sleep.
His grave, unspeaking presence left me with nothing to do for hours on end.
I could not read while in motion. I could not converse with my maid regarding the number of day dresses suitable for the mistress of a large estate as I wished to do.
How mercenary that would sound! I could not ask Mr Darcy to tell me of Derbyshire, or of Pemberley, or of his neighbours thereabouts.
I could not discover if there were lanes for walking, if there was a village or large town nearby with a bookshop, or perhaps even a place where assemblies and musical concerts were held.
Too ignorant to speculate on anything, I could only stay anchored in the grey, rain-spotted blur passing the window of my husband’s elegant coach.
Eventually, having for many days not slept the deep, unconcerned sleep of someone wholly secure in the world, I closed my eyes.
I felt the warmth of my shawl being tucked gently around me and knew that Wilson had paid me this small attention.
The smells of Longbourn—Jane’s soap, my father’s pipe smoke, my mother’s perfume, and the mustiness of an old house—were still carried in the wool, and a feeling of gratitude enveloped me much like the shawl.
Dry, warm, fed, and graced with a small attention from another person, I could wish for nothing more at that moment, so I rested deeply for nearly a full hour.