Chapter 4
Hitchin
As was customary, the night of the Netherfield Ball was bathed by a full moon, the sky cloudless and the road well illuminated.
“We could head directly east to the Great North Road, passing through Wheathamsted to Welwyn,” said Elizabeth, “but they may have already gone through that town. Then we’d have to choose between the turnpike to Hitchin or Baldock—either way, I fear we might miss them.”
“You must trust your instincts, Miss Bennet,” the Colonel said gently.
“Let us take the turnpike north to Luton, which is about six miles north of Meryton,” she decided. “From there, we can follow the road through Stopsley—with another eight miles to Hitchin. We can ask there if anyone’s seen a carriage matching their description. If not, we continue on to Baldock.”
“And if they’ve already passed?” Darcy scoffed. “We’re chasing shadows.”
Elizabeth leaned back against the cushions.
It had been a long day—preparing for the ball, rushing through dinner, and dancing until late, when she would normally have been asleep.
And now, she had to contend with Mr. Darcy and his air of superiority.
Tears stung her eyes, already rimmed red from exhaustion; it was, in truth, nearly morning.
“If we weren’t in such a hurry, Darcy, I’d stop the coach and give you a thrashing,” the Colonel said sharply, his tone icy.
“You’re behaving like a schoolboy. If Miss Bennet is mistaken, all we lose is a few hours in the carriage.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Did you check Mrs. Younge’s references? You wrote to me that they were excellent—could we have been deceived? ”
“I interviewed her personally. She was very pleasant—well-spoken, with references from Lady St. Clair and Mrs. Ashburton, both friends of your mother, Lady Matlock,” Darcy replied.
“But did you actually write to those ladies and confirm their recommendations?” The Colonel pressed.
“It seems odd that Lady St. Clair would provide a reference, especially as her daughter is only ten and not yet out of the schoolroom. I know the family; their eldest son serves with the 11th Light Dragoons.”
Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “I trust my judgement of character. But no, I didn’t write to them.”
Was his confidence misplaced? Had he put Georgiana at risk by failing to investigate Mrs. Younge’s references more thoroughly?
Darcy glanced across at Miss Elizabeth, who sat opposite, her head resting against the cushions and her eyes closed.
He had been captivated by her—then embarrassed, ashamed that he could admire a woman of such modest means: the daughter of a minor country squire, with a vulgar mother and ill-mannered younger sisters.
Yet, until the shocking claim that Georgiana was now travelling up the Great North Road with Wickham and Mrs. Younge, nothing in Miss Elizabeth’s manner had deserved reproach.
The moment he’d convinced himself she was unworthy of his notice—her features unremarkable—he found her face transformed by the moonlight spilling through the carriage window, highlighting her clear skin and the dark lashes brushing her cheeks.
Fool, he muttered inwardly; but whether he was foolish for admiring her, or for disdaining her, he was unsure.
An hour after leaving Meryton, their carriage rolled into the courtyard of the Crown Inn on Tower Hill in Luton.
“Let’s refresh ourselves and water the horses,” the Colonel said. “I’ll see if anyone has noticed a carriage with two ladies and a gentleman fitting Wickham’s description—unlikely, but it’s worth checking.”
When Elizabeth returned to the carriage, it was nearly ready to depart. “Wait a moment, I’d like to see to the horses,” she said.
She approached each horse, laying a gentle hand on its shoulder and speaking softly.
“Are you a horse whisperer now, Miss Bennet?” Darcy quipped, shaking his head as he climbed irritably back into the carriage. “Let’s not waste more time and end this charade.”
Elizabeth paused at the front offside horse, running her hand down its foreleg. She called to an ostler, who had just finished watering the team. “This horse is about to lose a shoe—please have the farrier look at it.”
The ostler examined the hoof and called for the farrier when he spotted the cracked shoe.
“You’ve got a gift, ma’am,” the farrier said, pulling out the nails while his apprentice fetched a replacement. “Another two miles and it would’ve come right off.”
Elizabeth climbed back into the carriage, the Colonel resuming his seat opposite. He looked at her with curiosity.
“No, I don’t talk to animals,” she said wearily. “But when I’m close—especially when I touch them—I have a sense of what’s likely to happen. Some things are certain; others fade away like dreams.”
“Perhaps, Miss Bennet, you should join the army,” the Colonel replied with a smile. “Lord Wellington would find your talents very useful.”
She laughed. “If I joined the General’s staff, I’d probably only be able to tell when he’ll be served an over-spiced ragout rather than his favourite mushroom and beef pie.
As for reading Napoleon’s mind—unless you can sneak me into a ball, I doubt I’d be much help.
My French is serviceable, but he’d surely question an Englishwoman asking him to dance! ”
* * *
The steep climb into the Chiltern Hills towards Stopsley was punishing for the horses, gaining one hundred and eighty feet of elevation in less than two miles, struggling up a narrow, icy lane.
Their fast clip along the turnpike from Meryton was now reduced to less than walking pace—only for the coachman to lean on the brake as they descended to the village of Lilley, then to ascend once more to Great Offley.
“Miss Bennet,” said the Colonel, after an hour had passed, as they rested the horses ready for the descent to Hitchin. “Can you say whether we will be ahead of Wickham?”
“My apologies, but I do not know. Let us reach the town, and then decide the best course.” Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy smirk—oh, that she could give up this frantic chase across the county.
But since she had become aware of Miss Darcy’s peril, as she and Mr. Darcy had passed down the line at the ball, the urgency of meeting the girl, of confronting Mr. Wickham, so pressed upon her she could scarce ignore it.
Some two tedious hours after leaving the Crown in Luton, they finally reached Hitchin, their carriage pulling up outside the Sun Hotel.
“Darcy, check the Angel Inn while I make inquiries here,” the Colonel said, springing from the carriage with Darcy close behind.
An ostler came to tend the horses while the coachman and under-coachman climbed gratefully down from the bench.
Elizabeth, eager for a breath of air, walked along Sun Street toward St Mary’s Church, its spire commanding the northern end of the street.
She spotted another inn, the Swan, squeezed between a row of shabby buildings at the far end of the market square, about a hundred yards away.
Outside the Swan stood a rented post-chaise, its rear wheels oversized, baggage tied across the front axle between the wheels.
A postilion waited by the offside horse; curiously, there was no footman in sight.
Elizabeth quickened her pace. She recognised that chaise—she was sure of it. As she approached, a young woman stepped out of the inn. Elizabeth knew her at once.
“Miss Darcy! I had no idea you were in Hitchin. What a pleasant surprise. I’m here with Miss Lucas—we were just about to have breakfast at the Sun.
Won’t you join us?” Elizabeth spoke lightly, hoping that posing as an acquaintance would buy her a few moments, enough perhaps for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy to return and see her with Miss Darcy.
Her own blue silk gown was out of place in the drab morning bustle of the market town.
Georgiana looked bewildered. “Y-you must be mistaken, ma’am. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Still, she hesitated, as if unsure whether to step into the chaise, unsettled by someone who clearly knew her name.
“Oh, but we have, Miss Darcy. You can’t have forgotten—we took tea with Lady Matlock, your aunt. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was most attentive.”
Mr. Wickham’s head turned sharply; he grabbed Georgiana’s arm and tugged her toward the carriage. “Come, Georgiana. We must go.”
Georgiana lowered her eyes, twisting her handkerchief. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t recall our tea, but… perhaps you are mistaken.”
Elizabeth edged closer, hoping to catch Georgiana’s gaze. “Please, Miss Darcy, if you can spare a moment—Miss Lucas would be so disappointed. She mentioned your skill at the piano-forte only yesterday.”
Wickham’s grip tightened. “We really must be on our way. Good day.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced. If she could only delay them until Darcy or the Colonel appeared! She glanced back toward the inn, silently willing them to return, but the street remained empty except for the ostler and a baker’s boy.
Desperate, she said, “Miss Darcy, perhaps you’ll let me walk with you at least to the edge of the square? I have news from Pemberley.”
Wickham’s smile wavered. “Miss Darcy has no interest in Pemberley gossip, I assure you.” He steered Georgiana toward the chaise, shielding her from Elizabeth’s reach.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. If she let them leave now, Georgiana would be lost to her brother’s protection—and to Wickham’s designs.
For all her intuition, she did not know whether they would continue on the turnpike to Shefford, or turn off towards Baldock.
As so often was the case, her insight had begun to fade—as she had told Darcy and the Colonel—as a dream faded in the morning.
On impulse, she grasped Georgiana’s arm. Startled, the girl’s handkerchief slipped from her fingers. Then, in an instant, she was gone—Wickham had bundled her into the chaise. He called out to the postilion, who snapped the horses into motion, and the carriage sped away.
* * *
The Colonel hurried up the street, followed closely by Darcy. “Miss Bennet, was that Wickham and Georgiana?”
Elizabeth retrieved the handkerchief from the pavement, damp from Georgiana’s tears. “Mr. Darcy, these are your sister’s initials, are they not?”
Darcy took the fine linen cloth, delicately trimmed with lace, and embroidered with the initials G and D. He clenched his fist, crushing the handkerchief in his hand. “Where have they gone?” he cried. “Dear poor Georgiana!”
“I have lost them,” said Elizabeth despondently. “Colonel, they are heading north. Would Wickham continue on the turnpike, or take a lane to return to the Great North Road?”
“The chaise is too light for country lanes; to be safe, he should remain on the turnpike. With luck, he did not see Darcy and me—and he would not expect you to follow them. There is likely a toll-house not far from the town. Let us proceed there, and find whether they passed through.”
The horses were still strong, but Darcy insisted they be given a break to cool down, there being little point in chasing Wickham if the horses themselves were broken in the attempt.
Elizabeth, still needing some exercise, walked to the church accompanied by the Colonel.
The church was remarkably large for a town the size of Hitchin, which prospered from the local wool trade.
She did not linger, for clouds had crowded the sky, and the first few drops of rain splattered onto the pavement.
“Miss Bennet, please allow me to apologise for Darcy’s behaviour,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam as they hurried to the carriage.
“He is often pompous, and often thinks too well of himself. He was an only son, spoilt by his parents, who themselves were all that was benevolent and amiable. He was taught to be selfish and overbearing, being the heir to a great estate and the grandson of an earl. Though, hidden away, he is a good man.”
“Indeed, he has offended me,” said Elizabeth, “but that I can forgive, if he were to apologise himself. To some extent, I understand his scepticism, for he is such a rational creature. To believe that the future, or others’ thoughts, can be known seems charlatanry to a man of science.”
She looked at the Colonel. “Are you a man of science? Do you read philosophy? I suspect, you prefer action to words. But Mr. Darcy is a Cambridge man—study there is almost exclusively logic, classics, and theology. Certainly, he must have read Descartes—that mind and body are separate entities; that our minds may roam wherever they wish—if that be to the future, then it is no different from remembering the past. For surely, it is not possible that memories are written or drawn on some parchment residing in our heads—or our brains, as some anatomists hold. I cannot believe it—and neither should any reasonable man conversant with natural history.”
To this, the Colonel had no answer. It was clear that Miss Bennet had long pondered her talent, and had resolved that it was neither supernatural nor divine, but part of the natural world. That others were blind to it did not concern her.
Shortly, they were on their way, heading north towards the Bedford turnpike.
* * *