Chapter 10 A Roadside Encounter
CHAPTER TEN
A ROADSIDE ENCOUNTER
Darcy closed his eyes as he settled against the squabs of his traveling carriage.
Escape had never tasted so sweet. The sway of his carriage along the Derbyshire road provided the first moments of peace he had experienced in weeks.
Netherfield had become intolerable, with its crush of local society and Caroline Bingley’s relentless attentions.
Bingley, it seemed, attended less to estate management than to the local gossip, especially the incessant buzz of Elizabeth Bennet’s upcoming nuptials with her cousin, the insufferable parson named Collins.
Not that Miss Bennet’s misfortunes impinged on him, other than his father’s deathbed warning.
Surely misapplied to the Bennets of Hertfordshire.
They were loud, uncouth, unfashionable, and possessing little wisdom and even smaller harm.
Only Elizabeth was tolerable with her natural wit and those sparkling eyes.
However, she would be married in a fortnight, if Charles’s intelligence could be believed.
As a second daughter of a country gentleman of no consequence, what could her marital arrangements matter to Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley?
Yet the news had left him with a weight of melancholy, so unusual to his usual stoic acceptance of matters better left alone.
“Sir?” Vernon, his valet, interrupted his brooding. “There appears to be a disabled carriage ahead.”
Darcy straightened, peering through the rain-streaked window at a post-chaise listing heavily to one side.
It was a hired coach of low quality, splattered with mud.
What was left of the rear left wheel was embedded in thick mud.
Darcy’s first instinct was to instruct his driver to continue without stopping.
The last thing he desired was further human interaction.
But duty and breeding prevailed. “We shall stop, of course. There may be ladies in distress.”
As his carriage slowed, a face appeared at the window of the disabled vehicle—a face that sent a jolt of recognition through him. Impossible. It could not be. Yet there was no mistaking those remarkable dark eyes and that intelligent countenance.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
What was she doing on this remote road to Derbyshire? Nearly a hundred miles from home when she should be marrying Mr. Collins… unless…
His heart chose that moment to leap. She’d run away from the unwanted proposal. He was an astute reader of people, a student of human nature, and he never would have expected her to submit to being the wife of a country parson.
Oh no, she was much too spirited. Much too…
The post-chaise door swung open, and a second woman emerged to assist Miss Bennet down the carriage steps. Darcy’s blood turned to ice.
Mrs. Younge.
The woman who had nearly destroyed his sister. The woman whose greed and manipulation had come within hours of ruining Georgiana’s reputation and securing Wickham’s access to her fortune. The woman he had dismissed from his employ with the harshest possible terms only months ago.
What in God’s name was she doing in Elizabeth’s company?
His muscles tensed at the impending unpleasantness.
He would offer assistance, perhaps the loan of his valet to expedite repairs.
He would not inquire after Miss Bennet’s health.
He would not contemplate her unusual appearance away from family with the likes of Mrs. Younge.
She was not yet one-and-twenty. The gossip assured Charles that her father’s permission for Mr. Collins’s suit was granted.
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth’s voice carried a measure of surprise as she approached his carriage. “How extraordinary to encounter you on this particular road.”
“Miss Bennet.” He descended from his carriage with movements that felt stiff and unnatural. “I might say the same. I had understood you to be… otherwise engaged.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me. I had heard rumors of a happy event in your family. Perhaps I was misinformed.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed by something that might have been amusement. “You refer to Mr. Collins’s expectations. I fear those rumors were somewhat premature. No such understanding exists between us.”
Relief flooded through Darcy before he could question the impropriety. “I see. Then you are… unattached?”
“Quite gloriously so,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “And what, pray tell, brings you on the road? I had thought you were to remain at Netherfield until the London Season.”
Darcy winced at her attempt to masquerade her distress as a social call. He couldn’t help noting the fine figure she cut even in a worn travel dress with hemlines stained by mud and worn half-boots.
Mrs. Younge, however, was under no such illusion. Her eyes narrowed fractionally, her lips curving into the bland smile he remembered all too well—the pleasant mask that had concealed her treachery while in his employ.
“Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied with exaggerated deference. “What a fortunate coincidence. Our wheel has broken, and Miss Bennet and I find ourselves in quite the predicament.”
Darcy’s gaze swept over the scene—Elizabeth’s bonnet was askew, she shivered in her threadbare pelisse, and her curls had escaped their pins.
Mrs. Younge carried herself with the calculated humility of someone who wished to appear harmless.
The post-boy looked anxious, glancing repeatedly at Elizabeth as if concerned about payment for repairs.
“May I inquire as to your destination, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, his tone more clipped than he intended.
“I am visiting a friend near Lambton. A last-minute arrangement.”
Lambton. His family’s estate lay less than three miles from that village.
“The wheel cannot be repaired here, sir,” his driver reported after brief consultation with the post-boy. “It requires a proper wheelwright.”
Darcy fought a wave of discomfort that threatened to overwhelm his usual composure. Elizabeth Bennet, here on the road to Derbyshire, unaccompanied save for the company of a woman he knew to be thoroughly untrustworthy. The coincidence was too extraordinary to be believed.
“May I inquire as to the identity of this friend?” he asked, his voice sounding stiff to his own ears.
“An acquaintance of my aunt,” Elizabeth replied, her chin lifting slightly in defiance despite the dishevelment of her appearance.
Darcy looked up and down the road, irrationally hoping another carriage might appear to relieve him of this unwelcome predicament.
No such salvation appeared—only the gathering gray clouds that threatened imminent rain.
The road stretched empty in both directions, lined by bare trees that offered no shelter should the heavens open.
“How long until repairs might be completed?” he inquired of his driver.
“Cannot say for certain, sir. The axle is damaged, as well as the wheel. Would require fetching a proper wheelwright from Matlock, and that’s a good seven miles distant. Not likely before tomorrow.”
Mrs. Younge stepped forward, her expression a perfect mask of helpless femininity that Darcy knew concealed a calculating mind. “We are in quite desperate straits, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps you might suggest an alternative? The hour grows late.”
The first fat raindrops began to fall, spattering on the dusty road. Elizabeth’s travel dress would provide little protection from a true downpour, and the thought of her standing drenched by the roadside provoked an unwelcome surge of protective instinct that Darcy attempted to suppress.
“I have paid for the entire journey to Lambton,” Elizabeth was saying to the post-boy, her voice holding a note of desperation. “Surely you can provide some reimbursement, given that you cannot complete the service?”
The post-boy shook his head, looking genuinely regretful yet unmovable. “Can’t do it, miss. Company policy. Payment is for the attempt, not guaranteed arrival.”
“Please,” Elizabeth pressed, her voice softening to a tone Darcy had never heard from her before. “Even a partial refund would allow me to secure alternate transportation.”
Darcy watched her fingers twist in the fabric of her skirts—a rare display of vulnerability from a woman who had always seemed composed, even in her impertinence. The sight stirred something uncomfortable in his chest.
“Sorry, ma’am, even if I wanted to, I don’t have the coin. You will have to wait until we get the wheel repaired.” The post-boy turned away from Elizabeth, leaving her with an expression of such distress that Darcy was moved to alleviate.
“I cannot in good conscience leave two ladies stranded on the road,” he addressed the air between them. “My carriage can accommodate you to the next coaching inn, where you might arrange for continued travel tomorrow.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened with surprise, while Mrs. Younge’s narrowed with calculation.
“How extraordinarily kind,” Mrs. Younge murmured. “We would be most grateful.”
Darcy disliked the idea of that woman in his carriage, breathing the same air, sitting across from him with her false smiles and treacherous eyes.
The woman who had nearly destroyed Georgiana through her collaboration with Wickham.
Yet he could hardly separate the two travelers—propriety forbade him from traveling alone with Miss Bennet, regardless of how much he might prefer Mrs. Younge’s absence.
“We shall depart immediately,” he said curtly. “The rain appears determined to worsen.”
As if to confirm his words, the scattered drops transformed into a steady patter. Elizabeth glanced up at the darkening sky, then back to Darcy, pride and necessity warring in her expression.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said finally. “We accept your generous offer.”