Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jane did not know what to think. Since the carriage had been stopped not long after departing from Millwood Cottage, she had been in a constant state of confusion—and fear.
Although she strove to remain calm for Mary’s sake, her thoughts would not settle, but circled endlessly around what might yet befall them.
She did not know who this Miss Grant was, of whom the man had spoken, but supposed he had somehow mistaken her for her cousin Elizabeth, who was also Miss Bennet.
At first, Jane had not recognised the voice that spoke, but Mary had. Mary had whispered his name to her when he opened the door. Jane’s heart had given a painful start at the remembrance.
She did not know what he would do when he realised that neither lady in the coach was the one he sought; both she and her sister possessed only a thousand pounds each.
The knowledge offered little comfort. A desperate man might not trouble himself over particulars once his purpose had been thwarted.
Still, she wondered what he intended when next he stopped.
He travelled alone—there was no servant to assist him, no companion to manage the horses or attend to the carriage.
How did he mean to guard them when he must eat, or rest, or see to the team?
Would he expect them to remain within the coach while he conducted his business?
Or would he attempt to secure them elsewhere?
Where were they to pass the night? The thought of some obscure inn, of being obliged to remain under his watch without relief or intervention, unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
One man could not be everywhere at once; yet desperation might render him careless—or rash.
Escape seemed unlikely, yet she could not comprehend how he meant to maintain authority over them for long without assistance, particularly having taken two ladies against their will.
What measures might he adopt to keep them compliant?
It was the uncertainty that troubled her most.
Drawing a slow breath, she leant slightly towards her sister, keeping her voice scarcely above a whisper. It was unlikely that the man seated upon the box could hear them, yet it seemed advisable to speak as little as possible—and to do so softly.
“He did not recognise us, did he?” she asked softly. “I cannot imagine what he intends to do once he discovers his mistake.”
A slight inclination of Mary’s head answered her first, followed by the tightening of her fingers upon Jane’s sleeve.
“I am quite certain. He did not recognise us—I doubt he ever truly noticed us at all. When he visited Longbourn, his attention was fixed almost entirely upon Kitty and Lydia, and we were never introduced. After the warning we received, I made a point of observing him closely. I would know his voice anywhere—and I suspect he would scarcely recognise me now.”
At that, composure threatened to desert Jane. “Then we must remain very still and give him no cause for alarm. If he believes us to be another, then surely he will discover his error before—”
The words would not form. Before he does what?
Before desperation overtakes him? Before he determines that silence would better serve his purpose?
Should he learn who they were, might he still attempt to compel one of them into marriage?
The thought sent a chill through her. Whatever uncertainty she had once felt regarding Mr Bingley, particularly after his departure from the area with scarcely a word to anyone, she knew she could never willingly bind herself to a man reputed to be both rake and wastrel.
“If he discovers it, we must trust that he will release us—he may even return us nearer to home. He cannot profit by detaining the wrong persons. It would be best, I think, to reveal ourselves to him as soon as we are able.”
Such confidence was enviable. He had already taken them against their will; this was no man likely to relinquish advantage lightly. If his mistake were revealed, would he not resent it?
“Whatever we do, he must not perceive our fear,” Jane murmured. “If we disclose who we are, it must be done calmly. We may assure him that, should he release us at once, we will not expose him.”
A faint nod acknowledged the suggestion. “And if he is angered by his error and directs that anger towards us?”
Jane took another steadying breath, but she felt her pulse beat heavily in her throat. “Then we must offer him no provocation—no cause to increase his displeasure. We must comply with whatever he demands, unless he intends to harm us.”
Forcing herself to meet her sister’s gaze, she added quietly, “Whatever occurs, we shall face it together, Mary.”
The answering pressure upon her hand gave her strength, while her heart continued its restless beating.
Some minutes later, a sharp oath from the box startled them. The carriage lurched as Wickham slipped and jerked one of the reins too sharply, causing the horses to veer before he dragged them back into line. The jolt sent both sisters instinctively towards the window.
Across the fields to their right, two men on horseback were riding hard, cutting at an angle away from the main road.
For one fleeting instant, hope rose so swiftly it left her breathless. The foremost rider bore himself with what Jane thought was unmistakable command—upright, controlled, with something almost military in his seat. Could it be Colonel Fitzwilliam? If so—might the other be Mr Darcy?
She dared not lean too far forward, yet she prayed Wickham’s attention remained wholly upon the horses.
From the window she could see the set of his shoulders as he bent over the reins, muttering under his breath, intent upon mastering their uneven pace.
He did not once turn his head towards the fields.
Doubt followed as quickly as hope had. Surely their absence could not already have been discovered. The distance from Millwood Cottage was not so great, and they had been expected at Netherfield. Had the alarm been raised so soon? Or did she merely see what she longed to see?
Leaning close, she whispered her suspicions to Mary, taking particular care that they should not be overheard. Together they watched in tense silence as the riders pressed forward—then vanished beyond a hedgerow, leaving only uncertainty behind.
Jane continued to gaze after them until they were entirely out of sight. Only then did she realise how tightly she held Mary’s hand.
After that, she lost all sense of time. The rhythm of the wheels upon the road continued unbroken, the steady clatter almost oppressive in its sameness.
Jane could not have said whether ten minutes had gone by or thirty; each moment seemed to stretch and fold in upon the next, marked only by the beating of her own pulse and the faint sway of the carriage.
She thought maybe the horses had slowed, but even that she could not determine.
More than once she and Mary leant quietly towards the window, listening for any sound that might suggest pursuit, the thunder of hooves drawing nearer or a call carried on the wind.
Nothing reached them beyond the ordinary noises of the road.
Once or twice she thought she glimpsed riders in the distance, and several riders passed along the road in the opposite direction, yet none turned his horse nor did any alter his pace or pay them undue attention.
Neither she nor Mary recognised any of the riders. Still, the distance and the motion of the carriage rendered everything uncertain. Was it merely wishful thinking to imagine that any of them might be riding out in search of the sisters?
If those riders had intended to stop the carriage, why had they not done so? They might be waiting until Wickham halted of his own accord, following at a distance and unwilling to alarm him before reaching a more public place. The thought steadied her somewhat, yet she scarcely dared trust it.
At length, she could not tell how much time had truly elapsed, but the motion of the carriage began to alter. The pace slackened gradually, the horses’ strides shortening. Jane felt the change before she fully registered it, and her fingers tightened instinctively around Mary’s.
Through the window she glimpsed scattered buildings set back from the road, cottages at first, then larger structures, clear signs of a more inhabited place.
They were entering a village somewhat larger than Meryton.
The carriage continued to slow as they passed between the first houses, the sounds of ordinary life drifting faintly towards them.
There were several inns in Luton, but Darcy and the colonel were agreed that Wickham would avoid the principal establishments in the centre of the town, preferring one less frequented. Wickham had always preferred display when it suited him, yet he was not without calculation when necessary.
In his present situation, his need for privacy would outweigh any thought of comfort or ostentation. He would favour a cheaper, quieter establishment where his arrival might pass unnoticed; a crowded coaching inn would prove far too conspicuous for a man attempting to guard two young ladies.
It was equally unlikely that he possessed sufficient funds to linger long in a more reputable house.
Nor could he afford to absent himself for hours in pursuit of cards or dice while the ladies remained in the carriage.
He might attempt to secure them within, yet he would still be obliged to keep watch somehow.
On the northern outskirts stood The Black Horse, little more than an alehouse with a modest yard and a few horses for hire.
It was not crowded, yet not so deserted as to invite remark.
The yard was sufficiently spacious that a carriage might stand there for some time without drawing attention, and the ale was expected to be inexpensive.