Chapter 12 Approaching Pemberley
CHAPTER TWELVE
APPROACHING PEMBERLEY
Elizabeth turned her reticule over and shook it vigorously, hoping against hope for any coin it might produce.
Nothing.
She shouldn’t have shared a room with Mrs. Younge, who was no longer present. But what could she do? The White Hart Inn was respectable, but she could not afford two rooms. Now, her last few shillings were gone with Mrs. Younge’s final act of treachery.
“Compensation for my troubles,” the woman had declared upon their arrival in Lambton, palm extended expectantly. “The journey has been most taxing, and I find myself in need of recompense for the additional strain.”
Elizabeth had given her three pounds—nearly all she had left from Wickham’s funds—leaving herself with only a few shillings. Now, those too had vanished along with Mrs. Younge.
No sense crying when she was so close to her goal. The conniving woman’s departure was a relief in many ways. Even Mr. Darcy had seemed disturbed by Mrs. Younge’s presence during their unexpected carriage journey yesterday.
Elizabeth dressed quickly in her most practical gown, pulled on her pelisse and bonnet.
Thankfully, she had settled her account with the innkeeper before retiring, but without funds, she would have to walk the remaining distance to Rose Cottage.
She counted herself fortunate that she was a walker, and the day was young.
Elizabeth gathered her few possessions into her valise and slipped out while most in the inn slumbered.
The eastern sky held the first pale promise of daylight, mist clinging to the valley floor like gossamer.
Despite her predicament, Elizabeth could not help but appreciate the beauty of Derbyshire’s rolling landscape—the gentle hills, ancient trees, and distant peaks barely visible through the morning haze.
This was where she was born, and perhaps, this was where she belonged.
The road stretched before her, empty in the early hour.
A blessing, Elizabeth decided. She had no desire to explain her solitary state to curious travelers.
She walked by trees bright with autumn leaves and harvested fields stacked with hay.
The countryside was beautiful in the early light.
Under different circumstances, she might have enjoyed the solitude and scenery.
As it was, she focused on placing one foot before the other and ignoring the growing ache in her shoulders.
Her Gothic romance disguise had crumbled under the weight of Uncle Philips’ legal assessment.
Instead, she would pose as a biographical researcher—present herself as a diligent niece investigating the life of her father’s sister, Rose Bennet, about whom he had told her so little.
What could be more natural than wanting to know more about the aunt for whom she’d been partially named?
Such a cover would grant her access to household records, family documents, and the recollections of those who had known her mother without revealing her true purpose.
The rolling hills presented a challenge Elizabeth had not anticipated. She would lose sight of the Pemberley woods every time the path dipped, and wonder if she had taken the wrong turn. Her valise grew heavier with each step, and her damp boots pinched so that she was developing a blister.
She had walked perhaps a mile when the steady rhythm of hooves broke the morning silence. Elizabeth stepped to the side of the road, expecting a tradesman or farmer on early business. Instead, a lone rider approached at an easy canter, confident and familiar.
Mr. Darcy.
Of all the mortifying possibilities she had imagined, encountering Pemberley’s master while trudging along the road like a vagrant had not featured prominently.
Her first instinct was to hide, but the open countryside offered little concealment, and her pride rebelled against cowering in a hedgerow like a criminal.
She continued walking, head high, as the hoofbeats grew closer.
“Miss Bennet?” Darcy’s voice carried a tone of concern as he reined in his horse. “What in heaven’s name are you doing on foot at this hour?”
Elizabeth managed a curtsy, grateful that the early morning light might conceal the warmth rising in her cheeks. “Mr. Darcy. You are abroad early.”
“As are you.” His gaze traveled from her face to her valise, comprehension dawning in his expression. “Where is Mrs. Younge?”
“Departed,” Elizabeth replied with a wry smile. “Our arrangement concluded rather more abruptly than anticipated.”
Darcy frowned. “She abandoned you here?”
“I prefer to think of it as a mutual parting of ways,” Elizabeth said, unwilling to admit the full extent of Mrs. Younge’s duplicity. “Though I confess, I had not planned to make the remainder of my journey on foot.”
“This is unconscionable.” Darcy’s expression darkened. “I knew that woman was not to be trusted. I should never have left you in her company yesterday.”
The concern in his voice surprised Elizabeth. This was not the haughty, dismissive man of the Meryton assembly, but someone who appeared disturbed by her predicament.
“You were most kind to convey us in your carriage yesterday,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “I am grateful for your assistance, Mr. Darcy.”
He nodded with a slight smile. “It was nothing more than common courtesy.”
“Nevertheless,” Elizabeth insisted, “your kindness deserves recognition.”
Darcy dismounted in one fluid movement and came toward her.
His riding clothes accentuated his tall, athletic figure.
She had always known he was handsome, even when she’d found him most disagreeable, but encountering him here, out in nature, away from the artifice of ballrooms, made his presence more affecting.
“You cannot possibly walk to your destination,” he said sternly. “The roads are still damp from yesterday’s rain, and—” His gaze dropped to her muddy boots.
Elizabeth shifted her weight, trying to relieve the pressure on her developing blister. “I have walked much farther in Hertfordshire.”
“Perhaps, but not on these particular roads.” Darcy gestured toward the path ahead. “The route grows steeper beyond that rise. May I ask where you are bound? This road leads primarily to Pemberley and its grounds.”
Elizabeth hesitated. The truth would invite questions she could not easily answer, yet maintaining the fiction of visiting relations in Lambton seemed pointless now. “I am making my way to Rose Cottage.”
Darcy went very still, his expression shuttered. “Rose Cottage? What business have you there?”
“Research,” Elizabeth replied, ready with her prepared explanation. “I am gathering material for a biographical account of my aunt, Rose Bennet. My father named me after his sister, you see, but has always been reluctant to discuss her. I hope to learn more about her life and… circumstances.”
The color drained from Darcy’s face.
“Rose Bennet,” he repeated, his voice carefully controlled.
“Yes, she was my aunt,” Elizabeth said, watching his reaction closely. “She lived at Rose Cottage for a time. I hope to visit the place where she spent her final days.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, and he turned away. A muscle in his jaw tightened. Whatever he knew of Rose Bennet affected him deeply.
“The cottage lies on Pemberley land,” he said. “Mrs. Martha Wickham, the widow of our former steward, lives there now.”
“Yes, I understand she knew my aunt,” Elizabeth confirmed. “I have corresponded with her about my visit.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed deeper. “You intend to stay at Rose Cottage?”
“For a short time, yes,” Elizabeth replied as she trudged along the path. “Just long enough to gather the material I need.”
He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment before reaching a decision. “You cannot continue on foot. Your boots are clearly causing you discomfort.”
Darcy stopped at his horse’s side and adjusted the stirrups. “You must ride. I will walk alongside.”
“Mr. Darcy, I could not possibly—”
“I insist,” he said firmly. “It is not merely courtesy but practical necessity. Rose Cottage is still nearly two miles distant, and the terrain grows more challenging.”
Elizabeth glanced down at her boots, where the pinching had grown from uncomfortable to painful. Pride warred with practicality. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Darcy replied, and Elizabeth was surprised to detect a hint of admiration in his tone. “Your independence is… remarkable. However, capability does not preclude acceptance of assistance when prudently offered.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly—not quite a smile, but close to it. The expression transformed his usually severe features, lending them a warmth she had rarely witnessed.
“Very well,” Elizabeth conceded, wondering at the strange flutter in her chest. “Though I confess I am unused to being the object of such gallantry.”
“Then the gentlemen of Hertfordshire are more deficient than I had imagined,” Darcy murmured, so quietly that Elizabeth wondered if she had misheard.
He approached with his horse, a magnificent bay stallion that stood at least sixteen hands high. “May I assist you?”
Elizabeth nodded, suddenly aware of the impropriety of their situation—alone on a country road at dawn, about to accept his physical assistance. Yet what alternative did she have?
Darcy placed his hands at her waist, his touch firm and careful as he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle sideways. Despite the morning chill, the brief contact sent an inexplicable warmth through her. His hands lingered perhaps longer than strictly necessary before he stepped back.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice rougher than before.
“Yes, thank you.” Elizabeth arranged her skirts, grateful for the elevation that concealed her heated cheeks. The horse shifted beneath her, and she grasped the pommel more tightly.
“He won’t run,” Darcy assured her, taking the reins to lead the horse. “Maximus is exceptionally well-trained.”