Chapter 3 #2
The chamber they were given for a brief rest at the posting inn was narrow but cheerful, with a fire crackling in the grate and a servant girl humming as she brought in hot water.
Mrs. Gardiner sank into the chair nearest the hearth, letting the warmth reach her chilled hands, and admitted with a rueful smile that the road had proved more tiring than she had expected.
Still, the fire and a plain but hearty meal restored her colour, and Elizabeth, whose own hunger had grown keen, thought the beef excellent even if it was tough.
She ate with such relish that her uncle laughed and declared her ready to tackle the road alone should the horses fail.
The afternoon proved less kind. Clouds thickened; a sleet of fine, needling rain began to fall.
The coach rocked and pitched over frozen ruts, and Elizabeth’s satchel slid from the seat to the floor, spilling Cowper’s verses across the carpet.
She stooped to gather them, grateful for the distraction.
Mrs. Gardiner bore it bravely, though her face grew pale, and Elizabeth offered her hand without remark.
They rode thus for several miles, hand resting in hand, until at last the coach slowed before the next inn.
Here, the yard bustled with other travellers who had also fled the weather.
The lanterns swung, horses snorted clouds into the dusk, and ostlers shouted over one another with the confidence of men who believed no one else knew how to tie a knot.
Elizabeth laughed outright when one lad slipped on the ice and sprang up again with a bow so solemn it might have suited St. James’s.
Her aunt, catching her amusement, allowed a smile of her own.
Inside, the inn was close with damp coats and steam, but the hearth was bright and the clatter of knives on plates oddly reassuring.
Elizabeth guided her aunt to a bench and watched her colour return by degrees.
Mr. Gardiner soon joined them with news from the landlord: the road to Towcester was passable, though not comfortable, if they wished to press on in the morning.
Elizabeth nodded. “Then we shall wait until morning. The Allenbys will not grudge a few hours’ delay, and we can be more certain of your comfort.”
Her aunt agreed, and Mr. Gardiner did not dispute it.
Elizabeth sat back and let her eyes wander about the crowded room: a weary mother soothing a fretful child, a pair of country squires arguing amiably over the merits of their respective horses, a thin, earnest clerk rehearsing his accounts even as he supped on bread and ale.
Each absorbed in their own world, each bearing the same cold journey in their own fashion.
She thought, not for the first time, that life was best measured in such small glimpses. Not in grand hopes or sweeping tragedies, which seldom came as one expected, but in the way a stranger smiled when he caught her eye, or the way her aunt’s hand steadied again once it was warmed by the fire.
And yet—how strange, that one particular man’s glance, one man’s silence, still haunted her more than all these passing kindnesses.
When at last they were shown to their chamber, Elizabeth looked once more through the window.
Snow had begun to drift over the yard, laying a thin white veil upon the carts and troughs.
It would not hinder them yet, but it promised to test them soon enough.
She let the curtain fall and whispered to herself that they would meet it as they met everything else: steadily, without fuss, and with as much cheer as the day allowed.
The morning broke with the inn yard buried in white.
Not deep—not yet—but enough to muffle every sound but the stamping of horses and the muffled calls of the ostlers.
Richard hailed it with cheer, declaring that it promised a fine brisk start.
Darcy only drew his cloak closer and climbed into the carriage without reply.
They set out south again, wheels popping through icy snow crusted over the ruts. The sky was low and grey, threatening more before noon.
By midmorning, they had passed through Loughborough.
The horses, fresh from the posting inn, took the road well enough, but the jolting grew worse where the ground had frozen unevenly.
Richard made a quip about campaigning on Spanish tracks far rougher than this.
Darcy offered no answer, his jaw tight as he braced against the sway of the carriage.
When they stopped to change teams at Market Harborough, Darcy descended to stretch his legs.
Snow fell in a fine drift, whitening the signboards and softening the outlines of the timbered houses.
The inn yard was full of other travellers—merchants wrapped in greatcoats, a family shepherding children into a chaise, two farmers arguing about whether the turn south toward Northampton would be open by nightfall.
Darcy caught fragments of complaint, the word “impassable” spoken more than once.
Richard returned from the stable with a shrug. “They say the Leicester road is still open, though heavy going. We must make the best of it.”
Back inside, Darcy settled again with a grim set to his mouth. “You speak as though it were all a game.”
Richard leaned back, unbothered. “And you treat it as if the Furies themselves had laid snow for your particular misery. What did you expect, cousin? That December roads would part like a royal guard for the honour of Mr. Darcy’s boots?”
Darcy gave him a look sharp enough to silence most men. Richard only grinned and pulled his cloak tighter.
By the time they left Harborough, the snow had thickened.
The horses laboured, wheels sliding in and out of ruts glazed with ice.
Darcy braced himself against the jolt of every rut, feeling each one like a fresh reminder that he might have stayed at Pemberley and spared himself the indignity.
His patience, already worn thin, did not mend as the hours dragged.
Near midday, they crawled past a hamlet where the church spire rose above a scatter of cottages. Smoke poured from chimneys in defiance of the storm. Children were throwing snow at one another in the lane, their laughter carrying even through the closed window. Richard nodded toward them.
“See there? They make better sport of it than we do.”
Darcy shut his eyes briefly. “I am glad someone can find pleasure in it.”
The road grew worse still. A mile past the village, the coach gave a lurch so violent that Richard seized the strap to steady himself.
The driver pulled the team to a halt, calling down for assistance.
Darcy opened the door and stepped down into snow that reached the tops of his boots.
The wheel had slipped into a rut deep enough to bind fast.
The ostlers came running from a nearby cottage; together with Richard and the postilion, they heaved until the wheel lifted clear.
Darcy set his shoulder to the work despite the sting of the cold.
Snow clung to his cloak, melted at his collar, and sent rivulets of chill down his neck.
When at last the wheel broke free, he climbed back into the coach, jaw clenched, refusing to meet Richard’s eye.
The colonel only brushed snow from his gloves and remarked, “A tale for the fireside. You must admit, it is not every day you see the master of Pemberley putting his back to a post wheel.”
Darcy’s silence was eloquent enough.
They pressed on, crawling mile by mile until the milestones at last promised Leicester ahead. They reached the town in early evening, lamps already glowing behind frosted panes. The streets were slush, the air raw, the mood of every man in the carriage sour.
At the inn, the landlord shook his head as he served their supper. “Road south is worse by the hour. If the snow keeps on, gentlemen, you’d do better to wait here a day or two than risk being set fast on the way to Northampton.”
Richard looked to Darcy, whose expression was as cold as the air outside. “We’ll see in the morning,” he said shortly.
The common room bustled with travellers all speaking the same theme—blocked roads, weary horses, plans delayed. Darcy sat apart, eating little, listening despite himself. Reports of certain inns cropped up more than once, paired with complaints of drifts across the highway.
Upstairs, the chamber was narrow and cold despite the fire in the grate. Darcy removed his boots and sat heavily, hands pressed against his knees. Richard stretched on the bed, hands folded behind his head.
“You are the most wretched company, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he remarked. “Had I known, I would have brought a priest instead of a cousin. At least then I might be cheered with a sermon.”
Darcy looked up at him, fatigue sharpening his words. “If you tire of my company, you know the road back.”
Richard laughed outright. “There it is—the temper. I was waiting for it. Do you feel better now you’ve loosed it?”
Darcy turned away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
The snow tapped against the window, steady and unrelenting.
Richard went on in a lighter tone, as if nothing had passed.
“We shall try for Northampton tomorrow if the horses will take it. Failing that, we may be stuck here in Leicester for Christmas, and I cannot say I relish the prospect. But one way or another, cousin, we shall not sit in silence the whole of it. You may rely on me for that.”
Darcy lay back at last, closing his eyes against both the words and the storm beyond the window. If this was to be endured, he would endure it. But he longed for nothing so much as the stillness of Pemberley’s library, and cursed the weakness that had allowed Richard to draw him out of it.