Chapter 5
Darcy pulled his bag from the coach’s luggage carrier and took in his surroundings.
Canvas awnings fluttered over makeshift booths, women in white caps arranged produce, the smell of apples and earth and freshly baked bread scented the breeze…
they produced a distant memory familiar to Darcy that tugged on his heartstrings.
He might have been in Lambton. Close to home.
The ache in his chest intensified. If he possessed any wisdom at all, he would catch the next coach, to leave before—
“Fresh eggs! New laid this morning!”
“Best mutton in the county!”
The vendors’ clamors pulled him out of his thoughts to the market town where no one knew his name or his connection to Elizabeth Bennet.
He had refused Reynolds’s attempts to persuade him to observe Miss Bennet, but that had been before his father’s funeral service.
It had been well-attended. All of White’s was there to pay their respects.
Avoiding detection had been easier than Darcy had anticipated, he being one man in a sea of black-clad gentlemen.
His family had been there. Uncle Matlock, stouter and ruddier than before; Richard’s eldest brother, Viscount Lisle, softer and rounder. If they saw him, they did not recognize him. Nobody had.
After the funeral, he had met with Wrayburn.
To Darcy’s shock and dismay, he added his support to the scheme Reynolds and Richard had proposed, even arranging to delay the reading of the will until the twentieth of November, which would give Darcy exactly six weeks and one day to live in the country without any expectation of an attachment.
He had no intention of remaining near Meryton for that long. A day, two at most, was all he had agreed to.
Why had he come here? Curiosity? No doubt. Rebellion? Lord, how juvenile!
Footsteps clambered behind him, and Darcy immediately tightened his grip on his bag and tucked his arms against his sides to protect his pockets. A small figure bounced off him, twirling around and laughing. “Apologies, mister.”
The boy—he estimated him to be about ten years of age—was shoved by another boy about the same age, who was hushed angrily by a third boy. The pack of three huddled together at the edge of the square, eyes darting, voices dropping. Pure trouble in torn trousers and muddy boots.
Darcy watched them, waiting to see where they would direct their mischief. Too slowly not to raise suspicion, they meandered to a sheep pen where the farmer haggled with a prospective buyer. Their intent became clearer when they grabbed a rail and pulled it loose.
Darcy strode across the street, but not before a young lady brushed past him from the side. She moved with quiet authority, reaching the boys just as one of them tossed the board to the ground. Snatching it up, she held it between her and the boys, backing them against the hole they had created.
Intrigued, Darcy leaned forward to listen even as she leaned forward to whisper something that made the boys’ eyes widen and their faces redden.
Then, before any one of them could protest, she said loudly, “How kind of you boys to notice the board rail coming loose! Mr. Hammond will be grateful you prevented his sheep from escaping and trampling over unsuspecting souls in the market.”
The boys, caught between embarrassment and trepidation, found themselves fastening the board they had loosened under her watchful eye, their initiative being praised by Farmer Hammond.
Darcy watched, amazed, as she then guided them to a merchant struggling to load several heavy sacks of grain onto a cart.
“As you are so eager to help, I am certain Mr. Peters could use strong lads such as yourselves to help arrange his goods.” To the merchant, she said smoothly, “Such industrious boys deserve an appropriate reward for their trouble, do you not agree?”
“A farthing each and a piece of hard candy!” agreed Mr. Peters.
The boys’ frowns turned into grins, the would-be troublemakers transformed into helpful assistants who were praised for their enterprise and good manners by all the villagers present.
Their parents would hear of this, and they would be proud.
Darcy applauded (albeit inwardly so as not to draw attention to himself).
The young lady turned to leave. The boys called out unanimously, “Thank you, Miss Lizzy!”
Mr. Peters added, “God bless you, Miss Bennet!”
Darcy’s heart froze, as did his feet. Lizzy Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet!
His head buzzed, his eyes fixed on the source of his wonder, the young lady his father had selected to be his bride. The very one whose freedom was denied due to his existence! Oh, this was bad. He turned to leave, but he did not look away soon enough.
She met his gaze, and he found himself staring into the liveliest eyes he had ever encountered.
They danced with mirth and warmth. He could not look away, though he was aware enough of himself to know he ought to.
This whole plan was doomed to disaster. He had known it, and yet he had allowed himself to be persuaded.
Self-loathing burned within him. She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
So much for going unnoticed. Blasted fool, he was.
He ought to turn away and purchase passage on the same coach that had brought him here, but the look in her eye and the curl of her lips held him captive.
And so he stood in front of her like a dunderhead, speechless and staring.
“Lizzy! There you are!” Another young woman called.
Miss Elizabeth’s smile widened and she turned away, breaking the spell. “Charlotte! I was looking for you.”
A cart neared, and it became imperative that Darcy move out of the street. He managed to return to the inn unscathed, though he could not say how. He busied himself at the boot scraper, his back to the street, while he sought composure.
Elizabeth Bennet was nothing like he had imagined.
She was clever, considerate, quick-thinking…
His mind reeled, and he leaned against the window frame for support.
No longer could Darcy berate his father’s judgment after what he had witnessed.
Had her character been so strongly defined at the tender age of eight?
Darcy could hardly believe it, and yet, already he admired her.
No! He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of these dangerous thoughts. His very presence here was the height of presumption. Who did he think he was, to steal glances at her and satisfy his own curiosity when she would not receive the same opportunity?
Stepping inside the inn, he was dismayed to see a large family with several boys already fighting over who would sit beside the coachman up top and who would sit on the rumble seat in the back.
Their mother, her arms full with a crying baby and another clinging to her skirts, looked pleadingly at her husband, who did his best with another squirming infant in his arms. In short, there was no room for Darcy in or on the post coach leaving shortly.
Since he could not secure passage on the next coach going in any direction away from Meryton, he would go to the stables.
He would buy a horse and saddle, if necessary.
But for that, he would have to wait lest he risk crossing paths with her again.
And so Darcy settled at a table where he had a view of the street. He watched, and he waited.
The innkeeper was an amiable, chatty sort, as most innkeepers are.
In the time it took him to serve a pint of ale and for Darcy to drink it, Darcy learned a great deal about the inhabitants of Meryton and nearby Longbourn.
The Bennets had relatives in the village—one Mr. Philips, Meryton’s solicitor, and his wife, Mrs. Bennet’s sister, who was the village’s most reliable source of news.
It was painful not to inquire further about the Bennets, but Darcy had decided upon his course.
He would leave directly and hope that Miss Elizabeth did not remember him.
He rubbed his whiskers. Perhaps a shave would help.
He had grown accustomed to the whiskers, and because they allowed him to go unnoticed by his family, he had kept them.
However, if Miss Elizabeth remembered anything about his appearance, it would be his dark beard.
As soon as he got to wherever he was going, he would shave.
Where was he going? Not Pemberley. If memories plagued him in London, then Pemberley would be unbearable. Then where? Rubbing his temples, he asked for another pint so he might have an excuse to linger and plan his next step. Why, oh why, had he returned to England? He did not belong here.
He finally determined he had waited long enough to avoid another encounter with Miss Elizabeth and should see what he might purchase at the stables when the front door opened and a hush fell over the taproom.
A tall, stern figure wearing a dark blue jacket and waistcoat over gray trousers blocked the light from the open doorway.
Gilt buttons embossed with the Royal Cipher and encircled by the Crown and Garter lined his coat. A King’s Messenger.
Darcy was familiar with them, their chief concerns stemming from his particular area of expertise and their fame for ruination being a favorite topic of conversation as far as the continent.
He knew enough to steer clear of them. King’s Messengers never bore good news.
Their arrival typically preceded absolute ruin for some wretched family in debt to the Crown.
The lucky ones escaped the country. The others ended up disgraced, ruined and wasting away in debtor’s prison.
“I require directions to Longbourn,” the messenger announced in a clipped tone. “The estate of Mr. Thomas Bennet.”
Ice coursed through Darcy’s veins.
The innkeeper frowned. “Might I ask what business you have with Mr. Bennet, sir?”
“Official Crown business,” the messenger replied curtly. “I must dispatch my commission with all efficiency. The directions, if you please.” Summoning a kitchen boy to serve as a guide, the innkeeper sent the messenger away.
A hush continued for some time after they departed, patrons’ whispers gradually spreading until the innkeeper poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and mumbled, “God help the Bennets.” The gentlemen in the taproom drank to that, upon which most of them returned to their cards, newspapers, and conversations.
Crown debt, country estate, King’s Messenger… the Bennets must owe the British government a significant amount. How many thousands, Darcy did not know, nor did it matter. Without intervention, they could lose their home, their reputation, and their dignity within a month.
He would certainly regret involving himself, especially if Mr. Bennet turned out to be a dishonorable man, but Darcy was incapable of refusing to assist them when he possessed the very skills they required.
Springing to action, he asked for directions to Mr. Philips’s office.
He could help the Bennets. But not as Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Mr. Philips proved to be a pleasant, middle-aged gentleman who took Darcy’s card with polite attention. “Is it employment you seek, Mr.—” He consulted the card. “Robinson?”
“I am recently returned from the continent after several years abroad, and I seek to establish myself in England. I can provide references from the Reinhardt merchant family, whose interests I served in Vienna, and from shipping concerns in Smyrna.”
Mr. Philips rubbed his chin. “Shipping, you say? I may not have to send so far for your references if my brother-in-law Mr. Edward Gardiner has heard of you. Have you done much business with English merchants, Mr. Robinson?”
Darcy did not recognize the name Gardiner, though that was not surprising. The longer the war lasted, the more merchants there were. “I have acted as a liaison many times for British establishments.”
“Very well. Tell me your qualifications, and I will do my best to help you.”
“I have considerable experience in languages and correspondence,” Darcy began.
“I am fluent in French, German, Italian, and Greek, with expertise in translating complex legal and commercial documents. I spent nearly ten years managing accounts for prominent Viennese merchant houses, handling international trade agreements and shipping manifests from their various locations.”
Mr. Philips chuckled and held up his hands. “My dear sir, I fear your expertise is lost in a place like Meryton.”
Darcy leaned forward and paused, ensuring he had Mr. Philips’s full attention. “I have extensive experience with estate management, debt restructuring, and creditor negotiations.”
“Useful skills, indeed, though I am at a loss to recall anyone in need of them at present. Certainly not here, in Meryton.”
Darcy bowed his head, content he had stated his credentials effectively. “I am grateful for your counsel, sir. Perhaps if anything should arise…” He stood, ready to take his leave.
“Certainly, certainly. I shall send word to you at the inn should any opportunity present itself, but I would not hold my breath, Mr. Robinson. How long do you plan on staying in Meryton?”
“A day or two.” If his plan worked as he hoped, he would hear from Mr. Philips much sooner.
“I hold little hope of helping you find employment, but since you plan to be here tomorrow evening, then I hope you will join us at the Meryton Assembly. It is a public assembly. As our ladies outnumber the gentlemen, you would be most welcome.”
Pleased with Mr. Philips’s kindly reception and confident of the success of his plan, Darcy took his leave.
As he descended the steps and walked across the street, an older gentleman wearing spectacles and a frazzled expression rounded the corner. He knocked before allowing himself inside Mr. Philips’s house. Given his familiarity and notable state of agitation, he would wager this was Mr. Bennet.
Returning to the inn, Darcy arranged to eat his dinner in a quiet private room where he could ponder this recent turn of events. His meal had not yet been served when he heard Mr. Philips’s voice speaking urgently, growing louder until it stopped outside the door. Then a firm, insistent knock.