Chapter 11 Significant Introspection #2
By late on Thursday, after a final meeting with Mr. Kennedy, the tradesman at the Royal Exchange who had arranged all the redecorating needs for the private suite of the Master and Mistress of Pemberley, Darcy was beginning to think he could wrap up his business early on Saturday.
If so, then he would make it back to Hertfordshire in time to join Elizabeth for the ball at Lucas Lodge.
A hastily dispatched missive to Elizabeth ensured of his return on Sunday, at the very latest—maybe on Saturday.
He should have known better than to make such a promise. As the Scots poet Robert Burns wisely wrote, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men…[often go awry].”
* * *
The first delay was a riot at the London docks late Friday night.
As riots can go, it wasn’t too extreme. The ruffians torched the cargo of one ship, and in the ensuing violence, three men died with several wounded before the enforcers paid by a coalition of ship owners managed to get it under control.
The ships Darcy partially owned were not directly involved, but near enough to the riot that a handful of dockworkers employed by the partnership became accidentally drawn into the fray.
Thankfully, none of them were amongst the dead or wounded, but as Darcy happened to be the only owner currently in London, he felt it was his duty to check into the matter.
That task ate up the whole morning and into the noon hour, making him tardy for his final appointment with Mr. Daniels.
Rushing up the stairs, Darcy barged through the door to the meeting room only to discover it empty.
Momentarily baffled, Mr. Daniels soon appeared and informed Darcy that the gentleman they were scheduled to meet had also been waylaid.
A series of rather comedic errors involving a horse throwing a shoe, a sick child, a dog bite, and something about the document transcriber’s hand getting smashed by a commode lid.
Darcy had a difficult time finding the humor in being hindered yet again, although the commode lid imagery did make him smile.
The result being, there was no way to wrap up his day and reasonably travel to Hertfordshire in time to prepare for the Lucases autumn ball.
An assembly which, frankly, if not for the joy of dancing with Elizabeth, he had little interest in attending—no offense to Sir William, whom he respected and rather liked.
Balls simply weren’t on the top of his list of entertainments.
Settling in for another boring night of missing Elizabeth, he prayed for sweet dreams to tide him over until the morrow.
With orders to have his horse ready and waiting by the front door at nine o’clock sharp, he retired for the night, confident that with his swift stallion, he would be holding Elizabeth in his arms by noon at the very latest. Alas, he was overconfident again as it turned out.
“It is your choice, of course, Mr. Darcy. However, with those ominous clouds, I do strongly encourage you to take the carriage, if you must leave at all.” Darcy stood at the window, glaring at the black-cloud-covered sky and pretended to ignore Mrs. Smyth’s advice.
Damn it all to hell.
The housekeeper was correct, and he knew it.
She hadn’t needed to say it, in fact, as he had recognized instantly upon rising that venturing out on horseback was perilous.
Parsifal was as surefooted as a horse could be, but slick roads and pouring rain, not to mention the inevitable lightning and wind, were unsafe even for him.
Additionally, while Darcy was strong as an ox and not susceptible to illness, with his wedding four days away, he wasn’t so foolish as to risk a cold or injury.
“Have the coach prepared,” he commanded, a bit ashamed at the rude tone, but he wanted to be clear there would be no further arguing over the decision. He was leaving that morning and would be in Hertfordshire that night if he had to crawl through the mud to get there!
Two hours later, the coach had barely passed the outskirts of London. If it had been a clear day, as it most definitely was not, the outline of the city buildings would still have been visible on the horizon.
“Sir?” Mr. Anders’s yell from his driver’s perch was a mumble to Darcy inside the carriage. Ears ringing from the sizzling cracks of lightning and simultaneous booms of thunder shaking the coach, he had to guess at half of the coachman’s words. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out the message.
“We must stop and wait for this to pass or we will be crawling through the mud!”
Thankfully, neither the horses nor the wheels became mired in the thickening sludge as they slogged along for another thirty minutes until reaching the next coaching inn and pub.
The rustic establishment was not the type of place Darcy typically chose as a resting point, but it was sturdily built, and the tables and floor were moderately clean, as were the serving wenches and barkeep. That was encouraging.
The foursome made up by Mr. Darcy; his valet; the coachman, Mr. Anders; and the under coachman, Mr. Gowan was not the only traveling party seeking refuge from the downpour, although there were not as many as one would think.
Presumably, most people were sensible and had not been stupid enough to attempt traveling in the first place.
Therefore, the rooms were crowded, but not to full capacity, so they found a table to themselves near a back window and not too far from one of the four fireplaces.
Surprisingly, the food was decent and the ale passable.
As the storm showed no immediate signs of diminishing its fury, they settled in for a long wait.
Darcy chafed at the setback and, in his annoyance, drank the first two mugs of ale faster than he should have.
It seemed to be a common mistake, judging by the quickly mellowing throng.
After a while, the many stranded travelers and those locals who had nothing better to do during the deluge than share a pint or two with friends grew increasingly animated.
Laughter was rampant, and probably due to the effects of alcohol as much as the compulsion to drown out the relentless pounding of the storm, one man pulled out a battered guitar and another man a fiddle.
In short order, a spontaneously formed minstrel group was performing to rousing cheers and singing.
There was no chance of the eclectic troupe of musicians being hired to dazzle at Vauxhall Gardens, but they served a purpose.
After the third ale, or maybe it was the fourth, Darcy wasn’t nearly as distressed over being stuck far from his destination.
Nevertheless, as soon as the lightning stopped and the rain slowed to a steady drizzle, he was ready to attempt the journey.
Mr. Anders, ever the consummate professional, had nursed one mug of ale, as had Mr. Gowan, so the drivers were in complete control of their faculties.
Mr. Oliver had also kept his composure, Darcy suspecting he only pretended to drink his ale, so between the three servants, Mr. Darcy’s dignity was maintained as they exited the pub—or rather, at least he didn’t fall face-first into the mud and he required only moderate assistance climbing into the carriage.
On the road again, the coach inched determinedly onward, thanks to Mr. Anders’s excellent skill and the rested animals.
Twice, they ground to a halt, one wheel sinking into the muck, requiring the efforts of all four men to free it from the trap.
Two other times, the impediment was debris from downed trees obstructing the road, again necessitating concerted effort and brawn to remove the blockages.
Between the slow pace and frequent stops, the carriage pulled into the Netherfield driveway well past dark—not that it was discernibly darker than it had been all day.
Exhausted, filthy, starving, and fuzzy headed from the ale, Darcy didn’t give serious thought to visiting Elizabeth.
In truth, it took his last ounces of strength to climb the stairs, bathe, choke down enough cold food to take the edge off his hunger pangs, and fall into the bed.
He slept so deeply that if he did dream of his beloved, he had no memory of it.
* * *
Ah! To rise in the morning after a blissfully restorative sleep and have your waking thought be, I shall be embracing and kissing my sweet Elizabeth in just a few hours.
Darcy shot out of bed and dashed to the window.
Yanking the drapes aside, the blast of brilliant sunlight blinded him, but he still released a whoop of joy.
Ringing for the maid and ordering coffee, he was at his desk dipping his quill into the inkwell before the tray of piping hot beverage arrived.
My Dearest, Precious Elizabeth,
Please accept my humble apologies for greeting you, my beloved, in this impersonal manner.
Rest assured that as soon as humanly possible, I shall greet you with my arms tightly about your warm body and my lips resting upon your sweet lips, as they were created to do.
My most fervent prayer is to allay any fears you may have regarding my well-being.
I am safe at Netherfield, having arrived long after dark.
Bingley was nearly required to physically restrain me from rushing back out the door and into your arms. Reason prevailed, but only when Bingley pointed out that, as you might have been long abed, rushing into your arms would raise a few eyebrows!
Frankly, his words fleetingly had the opposite effect, as the vision of you abed was more than slightly appealing.
Nonetheless, as you have now surmised, I remained at Netherfield.