Chapter 4 #2
“I could not answer for it, sir,” he said at length, “for it is a week and more since, and I had it only by report. But there was talk, some days back, of a hired London carriage putting up at the White Hart. Some said the company was no more than a gentleman and his lady, forced in by the weather. Others would have it there was a very young miss with them, and that she looked none too easy in her mind. Our house was full that night, or so my man tells me, else they might have tried here first. You may get more satisfaction at the White Hart, sir.”
Darcy departed at once. The White Hart, a more dilapidated establishment than The George, stood a little back from the road, its sign creaking faintly in the wind.
He dismounted, gave his horse into the hostler’s care with a few brief directions, and stepped into the low-ceilinged parlour, where the landlord, a middle-aged man with red hands and an anxious eye, came forward at once.
“I am Mr. Darcy of Pemberley,” he said curtly. “I desire that you should answer a few questions.”
“Yes, sir—yes indeed. Pray be seated, sir.” The man wiped his hands on his apron and led him to a bench near the hearth. “I am at your service. I hope there is no complaint of the horses? We have always used the best fodder we could get, and—”
“There is no complaint,” Darcy said. “I am not here about horses. I am here about a gentleman who passed this way some little while ago, with a young lady in his care. You will oblige me by attending closely. When you are uncertain, say so. I had rather hear ‘I do not know’ than any tale invented to please me.”
The innkeeper swallowed.
“Yes, sir. I will say nothing but the truth, if it cost me every customer on the road.”
He fumbled in his memory for a moment, then brightened.
“It was near ten days ago, as best I can reckon. A post-chaise drew up in some haste. There was an older lady, sharp-looking, and a younger lady who appeared rather pale, and the gentleman—Mr. Wickham, he called himself—was all smiles and good humour, talking of London, and how he wished to be on his way as soon as might be. I told him there would be no horses of mine going out in such a gale, and he was none too happy. After a bit of talk, he ordered supper directly, and a private parlour. I was surprised,” he added, lowering his voice, “to see no baggage with them. But he said his man had been left behind with the luggage, and they would be joined at the next stage.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Describe the younger lady,” he said.
“Altogether young, sir. Scarce out of the school-room, to judge by the look of her. Pretty, in a modest fashion, well-dressed in a blue coat, with fair hair and a gentle way of speaking. She seemed unwilling to eat, and he rallied her upon it, saying she must not grow thin, or her friends would blame him. She smiled when he spoke, but it was not the smile of one at her ease.”
“She smiled?” Darcy asked.
“Yes, sir—but like one who does not know how to do otherwise. I have seen such before—like she knew she must.”
He shifted, uneasy under Darcy’s steady gaze.
“He said he would not sleep here. He said they must press on, or miss their friends in town. I would not have any cattle go out again that night, and he was forced to take rooms. The young lady had barely taken a little broth. I own,” the man added, with a sort of dogged honesty, “I half wished to ask whether her family knew of the journey, but it is not always a landlord’s place to meddle, and when Mr. Wickham insisted she was his wife, I thought I should only be laughed at for my pains. ”
“You did not observe any servant—any man following on horseback?” Darcy said.
“No, sir. Only the chaise and the post-boys, and that older lady with the sour face. They came in off the London Road. I watched them turn in at the gate. The weather was such that no man nor beast ought to have been abroad that night.
“The next morning, the gentleman was—well, he was not at his best. He claimed his lady had gone out early, walking, or visiting some friends, I forget which, but no one left through the courtyard door till the storm had abated. We saw no sign of her at all.”
Darcy’s hand closed, slowly, upon the edge of the bench.
“You did not see the young lady again?” he asked.
“No, sir. Mr. Wickham was in a fine taking, to be sure—first demanding that we search every corner, then going about the town asking if any one had seen her. I told him to go to the magistrate, but I do not know that he did.”
“Who is your magistrate?”
“If there is anything amiss, you will be wanting Sir William Lucas. He is the magistrate for Meryton, and such business should be laid before him.”
Darcy requested the direction to Sir William’s house, then rose to depart.
“You have given me what I required,” he said. “You will say nothing of this conversation to any one. If you are questioned, you may reply that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley made enquiries respecting a traveller, and that you told him the plain truth. Nothing more.”
The man bowed again, relief and curiosity struggling in his features.
“Yes, sir. You may depend upon my silence. I hope—” He stopped himself. “I wish you success, sir,” he finished awkwardly.
Darcy inclined his head.
“I mean to have it,” he said, and went out to his horse.
Application for Justice
Lucas Lodge lay at a little distance from the town, a square house of no great size, with a meagre belt of trees planted to give it consequence.
For the present, Darcy’s concern was only that within its walls sat the man upon whom, for the moment, the authority of the neighbourhood chiefly depended.
Darcy was shown, after some bustling, into a parlour which appeared to serve equally for business and family: a writing table overloaded with papers and inkstands at one end, a faded sofa and a confused display of shells, china figures, and framed prints at the other.
Sir William rose from behind the desk with many apologies and bows, plainly at a loss what degree of ceremony to offer a gentleman of Darcy’s appearance.
His was not a countenance to inspire much confidence in his judgement.
But neither did it suggest intentional indiscretion.
Vanity and love of consequence were plain enough, yet there was a certain good-nature in his eagerness to oblige that might serve to bind his tongue where mere prudence would fail.
Darcy did not sit until requested. “I must beg your indulgence, Sir William,” he said, “for intruding upon you without notice. I am given to understand that you act for this part of the country as magistrate?”
“Why yes, sir—yes, indeed,” Sir William replied, swelling a little. “If there is any way in which the magistrate of Meryton may have the honour of assisting you, you have only to command me.”
“This is a matter,” Darcy said, “which touches nearly upon the honour of a family, and which requires, above all, perfect discretion. I apply to you because your office gives you the best means of assisting me.”
Sir William’s hand went at once to his heart. “My dear sir, you may depend upon me. Nothing shall pass these walls that ought not. Pray be seated, and let me hear in what way I may assist you.”
Darcy took the offered chair. For a moment he hesitated. To name Georgiana openly was to admit that his sister had been brought into real danger. To keep silence would only increase that danger and delay what might yet be done.
“A young lady of my own family,” he said at length, “was lately taken from her proper guardians by the contrivance of a Mrs. Younge, who was engaged as her companion. They are travelling in the company of a gentleman styling himself Mr. Wickham. The party has been traced as far as the northern outskirts of London on the northern road. I have reason to believe that, in the course of their journey, they may have passed through Meryton, and lodged at one of your inns, perhaps a week or more since. I am come to ask, first, whether any such party has been brought to your notice in your capacity as magistrate. Secondly, what assistance you can afford me in making further inquiries—quietly.”
The Road to Meryton
The frozen ruts of the lane offered treacherous footing.
Elizabeth kept her head down, chin buried in her muffler, her breath clouding the biting air before her.
It was madness to walk out in such weather, but madness was preferable to the suffocating tension of Longbourn’s parlour.
If the neighbours saw Miss Elizabeth Bennet walking briskly toward Meryton to secure a new book, they would assume all was well.
They would not suspect a fugitive was trembling beneath the quilt in Longbourn’s nursery, nor that a predator sought her from the inn.
The wind carried the sound before the vibration reached her boots—the heavy, rhythmic thunder of a gallop.
She stiffened. A horseman, riding hard.
Panic, sharp and cold, pierced her chest. Mr. Wickham. It had to be.
She scrambled toward the verge, the ditch steep and bramble-choked at her back. There was nowhere to hide. She turned, pressing her spine against the rough bark of an oak, and braced herself.
The rider crested the rise, a dark blur against the grey sky, a tall man upon a powerful dark horse, coming down the centre of the narrow road at a speed that made her heart leap. For a dreadful instant she thought he meant to ride her down.
“Stop!” The word tore from his throat, raw with urgency.
He hauled on the reins. The horse’s iron-shod hooves skidded on a patch of ice, spraying slush and mud over Elizabeth’s hem. The animal plunged and reared before its rider forced it back to the ground.
Elizabeth shrunk away. Her heel caught on a tree root. As she stumbled, the heavy wool hood of her cloak slipped backward, exposing her face to the biting wind and the stranger’s fierce gaze.