The Flight of Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice Variations)
Chapter 1
On the Road to London
Thursday
Fitzwilliam Darcy pulled his great stallion, Phoenix, to a halt and turned to look over his shoulder at the road spooling behind him, a road that led to Meryton and to Longbourn, home of the Bennet family.
Was this really the right decision? He had never felt this way about a woman before, never.
Elizabeth Bennet was beautiful, but it was more than that.
She was arch, and clever, and bright, and a scintillating conversationalist. She treated him as she treated everyone, with courtesy, but without unctuous praise or toadeating.
He was, he thought, more than half in love with her.
And yet, she was not worthy of him, not at all. He absolutely could not marry her. It was not she herself who was the problem, of course, but her poor connections made her an ineligible bride for a Darcy.
No, he could not marry her.
Darcy shook his head and touched Phoenix’s flanks gently, and the beast happily surged back into a quick trot, and he forced himself to turn his attention to his surroundings.
Brown fallow fields spread to either side of the road, the ditches empty save for dust. It was not a pleasant day for a ride, but Phoenix plodded steadily against the wind; it was little more than a breeze, but thin and searching and raw and miserable.
Darcy hunched further into his greatcoat, lifting one thickly gloved hand to pull his woolen muffler higher.
It was but five and twenty miles from Netherfield Hall to London, and Darcy was grateful.
It was a wretched day to have chosen to quit the estate and return to Town, with a thick cloud cover preventing the sun from alleviating any of the cold.
Phoenix, muscular and bulky, generated a great deal of heat, at least, and Darcy was thankful that he could share in his horse’s warmth.
He could, of course, have ridden to Town in a carriage, but after many weeks in company with Miss Caroline Bingley and her sister, Mrs. Hurst, he had no interest in sharing close quarters with the ladies or Mrs. Hurst’s dull husband.
Miss Bingley, who wanted above all else to become mistress of Darcy’s estate of Pemberley, would have peppered him with unctuous praise intermixed with insults about the Bennet family in general and Elizabeth Bennet in particular.
Again, that name, and the associated form and figure of its owner, rose in his mind’s eye, and unconsciously, he began gulping hard.
Perhaps there was a way for them to be together?
But no, no! He was master of one of the finest estates in England and nephew of an earl.
He could not marry the impoverished second daughter of a country gentleman, no matter how incredible she was.
And thus, he found himself fleeing from Hertfordshire to London, away from the lady’s siren call.
Of course, there were other reasons for his escape, those of duty and friendship.
His closest friend, Charles Bingley, was also in love with a lady who was equally unworthy as a bride, though for different reasons.
Jane Bennet, Elizabeth’s older sister, was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed goddess with angelic features and a charming disposition.
But Darcy knew that Miss Bennet did not truly care for his friend Charles Bingley.
The Bennets, while landed, were not wealthy, and their home was entailed away to a distant male cousin.
Mrs. Bennet, a vulgar and garrulous daughter of a solicitor, was always throwing her daughters at wealthy men, and the eldest daughter was too faithful to her family to reject an excellent offer of marriage, even if she did not love her prospective husband.
It would do Bingley no good to wed into that family, and to marry a woman who, while kind, had no particular interest in him.
He forced himself to think of Bingley. They would doubtless meet this very night, and Bingley must be convinced to stay away from Netherfield Hall and the tantalizing Jane Bennet, while he, Darcy, who had never been enchanted by a lady before, would retreat to his London House to wrestle his wayward and foolish heart under control.
Phoenix had been walking for a few minutes now and was restive under him.
He tapped his heels gently against the great beast’s flanks, and Phoenix happily began trotting again.
They were on the outskirts of London now, and a lumbering stagecoach appeared ahead of them on the road.
Darcy lowered his body closer to his horse, the better to enjoy the stallion’s warmth, and guided Phoenix to the other side of the road to pass the slow-moving vehicle.
It was easy enough, as Phoenix was fleet of foot, and Darcy was halfway past the stagecoach before he glanced absently at the coach itself.
The sight of that particular face was so shocking that he found himself pulling on the reins hard. Phoenix obediently slowed down, though Darcy, who knew his horse well, could tell that the beast was confused.
The horse’s confusion was nothing to his own, though. Nothing. What was Elizabeth Bennet doing in a common stagecoach?
***
Stagecoach
On the Road to London
How had it come to this? Only two days previously, Elizabeth Bennet had been dancing at the Netherfield Ball.
Now she was a fugitive from her own family, and in spite of a life sadly devoid of practical knowledge in making one’s own living, was on her way to London to hide for …
who knew how long? She would be one and twenty in June, but her father would still have substantial authority over her, and she had no fortune of her own.
She gulped hard and looked around herself.
The stagecoach was not well sprung, and she and her fellow companions swayed and jostled with every turn of the road.
Thankfully, the four horses pulling the coach were strong and healthy, and they had made good time.
In spite of her fear of Mr. Bennet finding her, she was quite certain that he would not catch up with her in the next hours.
Moreover, her fellow passengers were kindly, squishing together as needed to provide her room on the hard bench. She was grateful for their solicitude; they might be members of the lower classes, but they were kinder to her than her own parents.
She blinked tears away and shifted a little closer to the window to stare out at the buildings outside. They had arrived on the outskirts of London, and the stagecoach would soon reach The Golden Pelican Inn, where the passengers would disembark, and she would have to determine what to do next.
She would have to figure out where to go.
She had always considered herself a reasonably brave woman, but at the moment her heart was beating fast from fear, and her mind was a confused maelstrom of thoughts.
“Would you like an apple?” a plump, cheerful, middle-aged woman said from her left, and Elizabeth turned a startled gaze at the woman, whose hand was holding a shiny red apple.
“Oh, thank you, yes,” she said, reaching out to take the fruit. She had snatched some bread and cheese from the kitchen at Longbourn when she crept from her home in the early morning, but that had been eaten long ago, and she was hungry.
“I was visiting my older son, who is a tenant farmer,” the woman said with a nod. “He has the most wonderful apple trees, and he sent home more than a dozen, and my husband is not as fond of apples as I am.”
“Do you make them into pies?” Elizabeth asked. She had never learned to bake, and thus she was asking more out of idle curiosity than anything else.
But no, it was more than that. If she talked with her friendly neighbor, she would not have to think about the future which drew ever closer, when she would step out of this stagecoach with the clothes on her back, a valise in her hand, and a bag with the remains of her allowance. She would be alone.
The conversation about pies shifted to cakes and then muffins, and then came the dreadful moment when the horses pulled into a courtyard, and Elizabeth realized that they had arrived.
She was the farthest from the door and waited as everyone else climbed out before she did.
The coachman was handing down luggage from above, and she waited in mute patience until her satchel was handed down.
She had not had time to pack more than a few items, and she did not even know what to pack when running away from home, but she still clutched the satchel with relief. At least it had not been lost.
It was time, now, for her to go … somewhere. The Golden Pelican was not meant for the gentry, so she could safely order some food, perhaps…
She turned and stopped, her eyes dilating in horror.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam Darcy said, his own eyes wide with confusion. “What are you doing here?”
She stared at him, blinked, and stared again. She must be dreaming. It could not be that the arrogant, loathsome Mr. Darcy of Pemberley was standing near her.
And yet, he was.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded harshly.
His head moved back a little, as if startled by her vitriol. “I saw you in the stagecoach when I passed it on my horse a short time ago. I was worried about you.”
She turned away from him and began marching toward the entrance door to the inn. “It is none of your business, Mr. Darcy. Go away.”
To her annoyance, no, her fury, he matched her pace. “By honor, I cannot do that. You can hardly expect me to leave a young lady alone at a chaotic inn.”
She froze in place at these words and then turned her angriest face on the arrogant gentleman.
“A man of honor?” she said indignantly. “A man of honor does not insult a lady in an assembly room by declaring her not handsome enough to dance with. A man of honor does not betray his childhood friend by withholding a promised church living. A man of honor does not look down his nose at the families who make up my beloved hometown. Again, I must insist that you leave at once!”
She turned again and continued her march toward the inn. When she reached the door, she pulled it open with sufficient force that it banged into the man behind her. Mr. Darcy.
Incandescent rage filled her. As if this day had not been bad enough, now she had to cope with an interfering, haughty…
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, and he lowered his voice was so soft that only she could hear it.
“I am aware that you have every reason to be angry with me. However, I assume you do not wish for there to be a scene in public, and as I said, I will not leave without some understanding of your situation. Shall we ask for a private parlor and talk?”
She swallowed hard and opened her mouth to refuse, only to realize that they were standing in a vestibule, with servants and passengers rushing to and fro, including the kindly woman who had given Elizabeth an apple.
The truth was that she could not afford a scene, not at all.
It was possible, maybe even likely, that her father would search for her, and even at a busy inn, a screaming match between a handsome member of the gentry and a young lady would likely live on in the memories of the innkeeper and his servants.
“Very well,” she grated out quietly.