Page 8 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

An untroubled rest served me well once we arrived at The Swan’s Trumpet.

Mr Darcy had bespoken a total of five rooms—one each for master and mistress, smaller ones for his valet and my lady’s maid, and one large common room above the stables for his footmen, coachman, and post boys.

The proprietor looked abashed. The inn had suffered a fire not three days prior.

The common room above the stable was of course available, and he had gone to great lengths to secure Mr Darcy two rooms, one being superior with a fireplace and a large bed, and the other in the attic that was clean but not heated.

He hoped, he said earnestly, that though not what had been requested, these arrangements would be deemed acceptable.

They were not. My husband towered over him and spoke in biting tones.

The rooms he had requested must be provided.

The innkeeper—poor man—could have no notion why Mr Darcy would find this arrangement so unbearable.

My husband could scarcely tolerate sitting inside a coach with me, much less think of sharing my room.

The proprietor pleaded for reasonableness from one of his most esteemed and long-standing customers.

The Master of Pemberley demanded his requests be met.

They must be met, and they most emphatically would be met.

When they reached the invariable impasse at the end of this heated exchange, I came to the conclusion that I must exert myself a little.

I stepped forwards and spoke in a commiserating tone. “How terrible a fire must have been for you, Mr Bentley. Was anyone hurt?”

Fortunately, no. They had been extraordinarily lucky, he said, though the entire south wing had been gutted due to a man in the lower floor falling asleep over a stack of papers while smoking a long pipe.

The inn had been full, and many men had been in the tavern when they began to smell smoke.

Everyone had jumped to pass buckets of water, and only by the grace of God had the roof and outer walls been salvaged.

His eyes were still wide from the horror as he recounted the tale, and as he spoke, his chest rose and fell in agitation.

I listened with sympathy and turned to my glowering husband.

“I have a roaring headache from the road and have often found a cold room is all the relief I need. I will take the small room with my maid, and we may turn our attention to the journey ahead. Might I also,” I said, turning back to the innkeeper, “have a tray sent to my room? A hot soup and a roll would be welcome, along with a pot of tea.”

Mr Darcy stared at me. For a moment, I thought he would object, but his valet quickly gathered up the valises, and Wilson followed with my travelling case. The inn’s footman jumped to help, leaving Mr Darcy standing alone in the hall as the rest of his party disappeared up the stairs .

In the darkness before dawn, I rose, and with the floor boards creaking below my feet, I stiffly made my way to the water-closet at the end of the hall.

When I returned, Wilson was up and dressed. “How did you fare last night, ma’am?”

“I am in knots, if I am honest. I have never before slept on a mattress filled with turnips. I suppose you are used to this sort of bed?”

“A little, ma’am,” she replied looking ready to laugh if only she were allowed. She bent to light a second lamp. “What is your pleasure this morning, Mrs Darcy?”

“Tea and toast, please. When there is enough light, I mean to go for a walk.”

“Yes, ma’am, although I am not sure the area is entirely suited to your needs. We are on the Great North Road.”

“Your caution does you credit. See if one of the footmen can be dragged along? If not, then I will be content, though I will be stiff as a mummy by the end of the day.”

My maid must have heard my desperation, and by some means enlisted the youngest footman of our party, introduced to me as Andrew Boyle, to accompany us on our walk. I asked the inn’s day maid for directions to the church and there we went, not on a pleasure tour, but on a mission of exercise.

When we returned, the coach was just pulling up to the front door.

Andrew and Wilson exchanged a glance of uncertainty as though not sure what strange thing I would next choose to do, and so I said, “Our timing is excellent. I will enjoy the air on this bench if you will retrieve my things. I would very much like to be ready to depart before Mr Darcy steps out.”

We were ready. My belongings were stowed, and my maid sat patiently beside me in the coach.

This effort, however, earned me no approval from my husband.

He took for granted that we would depart the instant he was ready.

I wondered if I should modify my stratagem just a little and give him a tiny dose of inconvenience.

A caged bear must be made to adjust to his captivity in small doses, I reasoned.

To that end, when we stopped for something to eat halfway to Nottingham, I dallied in the retiring room and arrived five minutes after he did in the private parlour.

This earned me a look of annoyance but nothing worse—a relief, since I was braced for admonishment.

Oddly, Wilson and Mr Darcy’s valet served the meal.

Their reasons for electing to do so were not disclosed, and I really did not wish to know what sort of condition the house’s waiters were in that would require their intervention.

Neither did Mr Darcy seem inclined to ask.

The food, smelling slightly curdled and heavily seasoned, did not tempt me at all.

I took a piece of bread and a slice of hard cheese which I ate only after paring off a thick rind of mould.

Mr Darcy, covertly observing this, stiffly apologised for the quality of the meal and spoke to Romney about the need to find another posting house to patronise at this equivalent distance from Pemberley.

In the process of speaking, Mr Darcy cleared his throat twice.

His manservant looked askance at him, and I, too, began to closely observe him for signs of an oncoming cold.

When the fresh horses were harnessed and the coach brought around to the front of the posting house, I saw his great black horse saddled behind.

“Will you not travel with us this afternoon, sir?” I asked.

He pursed his lips before he coldly replied, “I prefer the exercise.”

“Very well. Might you at least let your valet ride with us?”

“As you wish, madam. Romney, Mrs Darcy wants you,” he barked. His tone continued to be sharp and impatient. Clearly, he resented agreeing to my suggestion, perhaps more so because he could not disagree with its merit.

Mr Romney, neither warm nor forthcoming, sat primly beside Wilson in a state of professional silence. After the coach was several miles down the road, I said, “I believe your master is catching a cold.”

“It would appear so, ma’am.”

“Riding cannot be helpful, but I suppose no one could suggest otherwise.”

“No, ma’am.”

I subsided into silence for an hour before the coach slowed to a stop. The footman perched behind came to the window and said, “Master will be needing you, Mr Romney.”

I glanced out of the rear window and saw Mr Darcy standing at the side of the road some way behind, retching into the verge.

“That horrible food has made him ill. Go at once. Here,” I said, handing Romney my handkerchief as Wilson dug in her bag for a vial of vinegar.