Chapter 4
Dawn shone white across the yard, a thin veil of snow over troughs and wagons. Elizabeth stood at the inn window, watching a boy shovel a narrow path for the horses’ hooves. The flakes still fell lightly, though the air was calm enough to give hope for progress.
“We shall be well enough,” Mr. Gardiner declared as he settled his wife in the carriage. “A steady pace will see us to Towcester tomorrow evening.”
Mrs. Gardiner managed a smile and pressed Elizabeth’s hand as they set off. Elizabeth returned it warmly, determined to guard her aunt’s spirits as much as the baggage.
The road out of the village was rough with frozen ruts, the wheels bumping so often that Elizabeth found herself counting them for amusement.
Twenty jolts between milestones, then nineteen, then twenty-two.
Her uncle laughed when she shared her tally, declaring it a mathematician’s revenge on bad road-building.
By midmorning, the snow thickened, turning the hedgerows into white walls.
The horses laboured at a walk now, their breath rising like smoke.
Elizabeth rubbed the window with her glove, peering out at the countryside as if the land might offer diversion.
A shepherd, bent nearly double, was driving his sheep toward shelter; a woman with a basket pulled her shawl tight against the wind.
She admired their fortitude even as she pitied it.
At the next posting inn, they stopped for fresh horses and a brief rest. The air in the common room smelled of spirits and hot broth. Elizabeth settled her aunt near the fire while Mr. Gardiner sought the innkeeper. He returned presently, brushing road dust from his sleeve.
“We shall remain here for the night,” he announced. “The horses are well enough, but I would rather not push them—or you—any farther today.”
Mrs. Gardiner lifted her head from the chair back.
“Nay, Edward, we need not stop so soon. The day is hardly spent, and if we pressed on, we could be at Towcester before nightfall. They say the weather may turn tomorrow, and I would sooner endure one long ride than risk being snowed up in the middle of nowhere.”
Mr. Gardiner smiled ruefully at her determination, though he frowned all the same. “I would not have you over-tired for the sake of gaining a few hours.”
“Better weary for a day than delayed for a week,” she countered.
He hesitated, then went to confer with the coachman, who assured him the roads would be sound tomorrow and that there was no danger in waiting.
When he came back, he took his wife’s hand with a look of finality.
“You see, my dear, the man who drives the team knows better than we. We shall be well on our way in the morning, and you will thank me when you sit down to supper refreshed rather than worn out.”
Elizabeth pressed her aunt’s hand gently. “You must let him win this round, Aunt. It is a rare husband who so insists on his wife’s comfort.”
That earned the faintest laugh, and though Mrs. Gardiner still looked unconvinced, she did not argue further.
The inn grew steadily more crowded, every bench near the fire taken by travellers caught in the worsening weather.
Elizabeth sat by her aunt in a corner, grateful for even a narrow seat where they might order the evening meal.
The noise of voices, the smell of roasting meat, and the constant shuffle of boots might have wearied another; Elizabeth found it oddly comforting.
It was the sound of endurance, of people bearing inconvenience with more cheer than complaint.
A little girl at the next table stared at her with wide eyes, twisting a ribbon between her fingers.
Elizabeth smiled and, when the child’s mother looked away, made a comical face that drew a startled laugh.
The ribbon dropped at once, forgotten in her mirth.
Elizabeth’s own laughter followed softly after, surprising her with its ease.
Later, when they were shown to a small chamber above the common room, Elizabeth drew back the curtain. Snow fell in thick sheets now, whitening every roof and fencepost. The road that had seemed so direct a course northward was gone, swallowed into the night.
Her aunt sank into a chair with weary relief. “I still say we could have made better progress with but an hour or two more each day. Why, we could have been there by now.”
Elizabeth knelt to remove her boots. “Progress enough, Aunt. The miles will wait until we are ready to meet them.”
Yet when she rose and looked out again, the glass was blurred white, the snow layering against it as if determined to shut the world away. Delays were nothing new in travel, but this felt deliberate, as though the road itself resisted their passing.
The next morning dawned no clearer. Elizabeth stood at the inn window, watching flakes drift steadily past the panes, muffling the yard below.
A carter cursed as he tried to free a wheel from the drift; a stable boy slipped and landed squarely in a heap of snow, then clambered up with such dignity that Elizabeth could not help smiling.
Her uncle joined her, tugging on his gloves. “The road is poorer than we had hoped, but no worse north than south. We might as well attempt to reach Towcester. If we succeed, well and good. If not, we shall at least be nearer the Allenbys than we were yesterday.”
Mrs. Gardiner emerged from her chamber already wrapped in her cloak. “I will not be the cause of another day’s delay. Louisa will think us negligent.”
Elizabeth fastened her aunt’s ribbons with brisk fingers. “Louisa will think nothing of the kind. She knows the roads as well as anyone and would sooner have you arrive late than not at all.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s lips curved faintly. “I daresay she will forgive us—but still, I would rather be there than here.”
“Then let us get you there as quickly as the weather allows,” Elizabeth said lightly, though inwardly she shared the same impatience.
The coach was brought round, steaming in the cold. The ostler shook his head as he helped them in. “Roads are thick with snow, sir. Better go careful.”
Mr. Gardiner agreed, and they set out.
The first hour gave them cause for optimism.
The horses took the road steadily, and the snow, though thick, lay soft enough to yield under the wheels.
Elizabeth leaned forward to watch the white fields slide past, broken here and there by dark hedgerows.
The scene had a strange serenity, as though the whole world had chosen stillness for the season.
But serenity gave way to difficulty. The road soon narrowed between banks of snow where the wind had swept it into drifts.
The carriage lurched often, sending Elizabeth hard against the squabs.
Mrs. Gardiner pressed her lips together but said nothing.
Her husband called out to the driver to slow, though the pace was already little more than a crawl.
By midday, they stopped at a hamlet, the signboard half buried in white.
The inn there was full of travellers who had already abandoned hopes of reaching Northampton.
The common room rang with complaint, though one man declared cheerfully that no Christmas feast was complete without some adventure to season it.
Elizabeth helped her aunt to a bench near the fire, grateful for the warmth if not the noise.
Mr. Gardiner returned from a word with the innkeeper, his expression grave. “The road south toward London is said to be little better. Coaches are turning back from Barnet already. If we returned, we might not make it home before the year’s turn.”
Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, who was pale from fatigue. “Then we must go forward or not at all. Another day in this inn and the stable boy will begin to think us part of the furniture.”
Her aunt gave a small smile at her attempt at cheer. “Your mother would say you make light of everything, Lizzy.”
“Then in this instance I am glad to agree with her,” Elizabeth answered, slipping her arm through her aunt’s.
They set out again after a hasty meal. The road grew worse with every mile. Once the horses balked at a drift, and it took both driver and post-boy with shovels to clear the way. Another time the wheel slid toward the ditch, and Elizabeth’s heart leapt into her throat before the team recovered.
She bore it with composure for her aunt’s sake, but when the coach at last drew into the yard of another inn, she let out a breath of pure relief.
The yard was crowded; every traveller on the road seemed to have converged upon the same refuge. Steam rose from horses, ostlers shouted, lanterns swung wildly in the wind. Elizabeth guided her aunt inside, where the warmth and crush of bodies was nearly overwhelming.
Mr. Gardiner returned from conferring with the landlord, shaking his head. “The road to Towcester is near impassable. We might make it, but it would be at the risk of doing in the horses or tipping the carriage. Better to wait until morning.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Then we will wait. The Allenbys will not vanish, and Louisa will hardly expect us to fly through snowdrifts to her door.”
Her aunt leaned back against the bench with weary gratitude. “One more night on the road will not signify.”
Elizabeth watched the fire leap and crackle, listened to the chatter around her, and told herself that patience was as necessary a part of travel as wheels or horses.
Yet when she slipped to the window and looked out at the swirling snow, she could not escape the sense that the storm itself meant to hem them in, holding them from their course.
The storm had thickened overnight. Darcy stood in the inn yard at Leicester while the postilions harnessed the fresh team, his cloak drawn close, boots already dusted white.
The world lay muffled beneath snow, the sky a dull leaden weight.
Richard stamped his feet and declared it “good marching weather,” which only deepened Darcy’s scowl.
“We shall go on regardless,” he said, as much to himself as to his cousin. “I will not sit idle while there are miles to be made.”
Richard raised a brow but made no protest. “Northampton is a fair distance still. If we press today, we may reach Stony Stratford by tomorrow evening.”
The coach lurched onto the road, wheels biting through half-frozen ruts. The horses tossed their heads, but the post-boys urged them on. Darcy braced himself against the jolting, each bump a fresh reminder of how far he was from the quiet of Pemberley’s library.
The miles crawled past. Villages appeared and vanished, their cottages hunched against the storm.
At one, a blacksmith had left his forge untended to help free a stuck wagon.
At another, children with red noses hurled snow at each other in the lane, laughing despite the cold.
Darcy turned from the window, unwilling to be reminded of any joy in such weather.
By midday, the carriage slowed to a near crawl.
Drifts had gathered across the road, high enough that the wheels threatened to bury themselves.
Twice the post-boys dismounted with shovels, clearing a path while Richard leapt out to lend his shoulder.
Darcy followed suit, the snow soaking through the hem of his coat and chilling him to the bone.
They heaved and shoved until the coach lurched forward again, horses snorting clouds of steam into the air.
When they climbed back inside, Richard shook the snow from his cloak and gave a low whistle. “Twice in one journey! This is worse weather than I bargained for. You bear up, cousin?”
Darcy leaned back, jaw set. “I would rather battle the snow than the tedium of another day’s confinement.”
“Spoken like a true campaigner. You may yet earn your colours.”
Darcy did not answer. His hands ached with cold, his shoulders stiff from the strain, but the thought of halting again made him more restless than the discomfort. To be trapped in one place while the world moved, to admit defeat to weather — it was intolerable.
By late afternoon they reached a larger posting inn. The yard was crowded with coaches, travellers arguing loudly about the road to Northampton. Some swore it was passable; others claimed a drift had already stranded a chaise within two miles.
Darcy strode into the common room, cloak heavy with snow, and demanded fresh horses. The innkeeper shook his head. “A fool’s errand, sir. You’ll not reach Northampton by nightfall. Better to wait here till morning.”
“I will not wait,” Darcy returned curtly.
Richard laid a hand on his arm. “Darcy—”
But the stubborn set of Darcy’s mouth silenced him. Within the hour they were back on the road, the sky darkening, flakes whirling in furious patterns. The horses slipped often now, hooves striking sparks against the frozen ruts. Darcy gripped the strap, his temper near its edge.
When at last they halted for the night, it was at a nameless inn some miles short of Northampton. The place was drafty, the beds narrow, the supper little more than bread and thin broth. Darcy ate in silence, every line of his body taut with fatigue.
Richard lifted his mug of ale in mock salute. “To perseverance. May we never lack for stubbornness, even if we lack comfort.”
Darcy inclined his head but offered no smile. Perseverance was the one thing he had left to him. Comfort, companionship, hope — those belonged to other men.
He retired to his chamber with no more words, pulled the curtain against the rattling window, and lay stiff upon the bed.
The storm howled outside, as relentless as the thoughts he could not silence.
Tomorrow would bring more miles, more drifts, more struggle.
He would face it. He always did. But he felt no nearer to any reward for his endurance.