Chapter 5
Baldock
Some two miles from Hitchin, they came to the toll-gate at Ickleford, just across the Bedfordshire border.
The gatekeeper, a dour man with a battered hat and clay pipe, leaned against the wooden frame and shook his head when asked about any passing post-chaise.
Only a couple of laden carts and a lumbering stage-wagon had gone through since dawn, he insisted, his eyes flicking between the travellers and their carriage as if weighing their story.
There was a shortcut to Baldock—the old Icknield Way—but he warned it was nearly impassable, especially with Willbury Hill looming ahead and, that the coming storm would turn the clay to treacherous muck.
Reluctantly, they turned back and set off along the old Baldock road out of Hitchin, their hopes dwindling with every muddy mile.
The road itself soon betrayed them: after just a few miles, the surface gave way to deep ruts and overgrown verges, barely fit for anything but farm carts.
It was clear why so few bothered with this stretch—Hitchin and Baldock, both located on busy turnpikes, seemed to have little reason for direct traffic.
“Whoa! Brrrr!” The coach jolted to a sudden stop as the driver cried out, reining in the horses before a battered chaise, half-submerged in mud and tilted at a sorry angle. The Colonel was first to climb down, surveying the wreck with a grim satisfaction.
“Well, I believe we have found our quarry,” he said, his boots sinking into the sodden earth. “Darcy, you see to Georgiana, while I find Wickham.”
Darcy pulled open the door of the cabin; huddled in one corner, he saw Mrs. Younge. Across from her, Georgiana. Startled by the intrusion, she gazed wide-eyed at the intruder.
“William!” She crawled to him, the floor of the cabin steeply tilted. Then, laughing and crying at once, she tumbled into his arms.
Darcy held her tightly, relief flooding his features as he whispered soothing words into her hair. Mrs. Younge, pale and trembling, shrank further into her corner, her eyes never quite meeting his.
“It is over now, Georgiana. You are safe,” Darcy murmured, pressing a gentle hand to her damp cheek. He glanced over his shoulder, the Colonel’s silhouette framed against the grey sky, scanning the roadside.
“Richard, is he—?” Georgiana’s voice faltered, every syllable quivering with dread.
The Colonel’s reply was clipped, but not unkind. “Wickham is no longer your concern, Georgiana. He will answer for what he’s done.”
A distant shout broke the moment; the under-coachman waved from the embankment, gesturing toward a figure struggling through the mire—Wickham, mud-stained and desperate. His bravado had fled him—he looked small, almost pitiful, in the grey light.
Darcy’s jaw clenched, but he did not let go of his sister. “Leave him. He will not trouble us further.”
As he led Georgiana back to their own carriage, the rain began, a cold, relentless drizzle.
His sister was already chattering, though protected from the chill wind and huddled in the cabin, she had been trapped in the chaise for over two hours.
It was imperative to take her to an inn and settle her before a warm fire.
The coachmen carefully led the horses past the bogged chaise, and retrieved Georgiana’s chest.
The postilion was nowhere to be seen, likely having taken the horses on to Baldock—perhaps to seek help, but more likely to return to Welwyn, leaving his passengers to their own devices.
“Miss Darcy, you truly are a welcome sight,” Elizabeth said, helping the girl settle beside her. “I’m sorry the comforts here are so few, and I cannot even offer warm bricks. But it’s just two miles to Baldock, where a cosy fire and a warm drink are waiting for us.”
“You—you’re the lady from outside the Swan…” Georgiana stammered.
“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth replied gently. “I tried to keep you there until your brother or the Colonel arrived. And I must confess—I took your handkerchief. If you’d like it back, you’ll have to ask your brother. I suspect it’s one of his most prized possessions now.”
Georgiana looked around in confusion as her cousin and brother climbed into the carriage and took seats on the opposite bench.
“How did you find me? Oh, William, I’m so very, very sorry.
” Her tears, which started as a trickle, soon became a torrent.
Elizabeth gathered her gently in her arms, brushing her forehead as she had done with Mary, Kitty, or even the spirited Lydia when they’d fallen or suffered a great disappointment.
A half hour later, they arrived at the White Horse Inn, where rooms were quickly arranged.
Georgiana, utterly drained from her ordeal on the Baldock road and the frantic journey from London, could barely keep her eyes open.
Insisting she go straight to bed, Elizabeth helped her into a nightgown and tucked her securely under the covers.
A maid had stoked the fire, and, with a sigh of relief, Elizabeth settled into a worn chair nearby, tucking her feet beneath her.
* * *
Darcy was totally confused. He had been certain his beloved sister was safe at Darcy House, watched over by her companion, Mrs. Younge.
Yet now he found himself at the White Horse Inn, thirty-six miles north of London, with Georgiana asleep upstairs and under the care of a woman he still couldn’t decide was either the greatest fraud he’d ever met or someone so generous she’d risk her own reputation travelling the countryside, unchaperoned, with two unmarried men.
To make matters worse, her once-elegant silk gown had been ruined by their journey—creased, stained, and splattered with mud, now fit only for the rag market.
There must, of course, have been an earlier acquaintance between Wickham and Mrs. Younge, whose character Darcy had so painfully misjudged.
How foolish he’d been! He’d let himself be charmed by her pleasant manner, her flattering words, and the satisfaction that such a refined, articulate woman had seemed so eager to please during her interview.
Looking back, every friendly word and deferential gesture now felt calculated, rehearsed.
The memory of Mrs. Younge’s easy laughter at his mildest jokes, her careful questions about his household, her generous praise of Georgiana’s talents—all of it rang false.
A bitter taste crept into his mouth. He prided himself on being a man not easily deceived, and yet here he was, brooding over his own gullibility.
The fire in the private parlour’s grate had burned down to glowing embers.
Darcy stared into them, torn between anger at Mrs. Younge’s duplicity and frustration with himself for having trusted her.
His thoughts circled endlessly, always returning to Georgiana—her vulnerability, her faith in him, and the trust she placed in those he’d allowed into her life. Guilt gnawed at him.
A floorboard creaked overhead. Darcy’s nerves tensed.
He reminded himself that Georgiana was safe, at least for tonight.
For that, he owed everything to Miss Elizabeth—a debt he doubted he could ever truly repay.
In all his years navigating society, he had never met a woman quite like her: practical, composed, and possessed of a kindness so genuine it bordered on reckless.
He wondered, not for the first time that day, why he had misjudged her as well.
“Still brooding, Darcy?” The Colonel entered, slumping into a chair. “You’ve let the fire die—I imagine none of the maids dared interrupt your thoughts. Your frown alone could turn wine sour!”
“I failed her, Richard,” Darcy replied, his voice heavy. “I should have been in London. I never should have hired Mrs. Younge.”
“But Georgiana is safe. And Miss Bennet—she’s remarkable. She never complained, not once. She led us straight to your sister. Her instincts are uncanny.”
Darcy shook his head. “But it was all too easy. What if this was Wickham’s plan all along—to place Miss Bennet at Darcy House in case his scheme with Mrs. Younge fell apart? How could anyone possibly have known Georgiana would elope with Wickham? It makes no sense.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam threw up his hands. “You quote Boyle, saying he disproved second sight and believed everything could be explained by matter and motion, not by magic or the supernatural. But tell me, my rational friend, are our thoughts mere cogs and pistons—like Watt’s steam engine?
I don’t see steam pouring from my ears, nor do I hear gears turning in my head.
No, Darcy—Boyle believed knowledge should be based on what we can observe and repeat.
Didn’t you notice how prosperous the Meryton parish seemed, and how everyone deferred to Miss Bennet?
If you would but open your eyes, and see that she has a true gift unaccompanied by guile or deceit.
For shame—you’re a first-rate curmudgeon! ”
Darcy managed a faint smile—perhaps a grimace. “My heart knows you’re right, Richard. But Georgiana is too dear to me. I promised my father I’d protect her. I can’t risk another mistake. Tomorrow, I’ll take her to London.”
His voice was steady, but he knew he was running again. Escaping. Retreating. He glanced away, his gaze lingering on the fading light beyond the window, searching for reassurance he wouldn’t find.
“You, of all people, should understand,” he said, “after what happened, I cannot bear the thought of something befalling her again. My father’s last words to me were a charge to keep her safe, and I have failed once already.
I will not risk her happiness—or her reputation.
Tomorrow, I will take her to London, where I can watch over her more closely. ”
“Take care, Darcy, that you do not smother her,” said the Colonel. “And what of Miss Bennet? Are you to leave her stranded here in Baldock?”
* * *