Chapter 12
Darcy Carriage
On the Road
The world outside was frosty, with a raw edge in the air, while ice filmed the tops of ponds and puddles.
Frost crept and swirled across window panes, and fringed the edges of fence posts and sticks and dead leaves and bare trees.
Inside the carriage, the passengers were deliciously comfortable, buried under wool rugs and furs, their feet resting on heated bricks.
Elizabeth sat comfortably beside Mrs. Gregson, watching out of the window as they rolled along at a rapid clip.
The Darcy carriage was very well sprung, and it was one of the most pleasant rides she had ever experienced.
The view was charming, too; a thin fur of white across the ground was just beginning to be covered by fat, lazy flakes drifting discreetly like feathers from the sky.
The vegetation of summer and the autumn foliage had all died back, but hollies and yews and ivy-covered cottages with golden glowing windows provided spots of lovely muted green over the landscape.
It was all very pretty in an icy way, and Elizabeth found herself thinking of the coachman and footman riding up on the box.
She pitied them, sitting out in the cold without the benefit of tight walls to keep out the wind.
Still, Elizabeth had observed for herself how the coachman and footmen were bundled against the weather as she had been handed up into the carriage.
They were covered in woolen knits and flannel from Wales, with thick socks and sturdy leather boots and gloves that doubled the size of their hands on the ribbons.
Many gentlemen would not take so much care over the attire of their coachmen and attendants, but Mr. Darcy was unfailingly kind to his servants and dependents.
It was a relief to be out in the country, away from Town.
Her nerves had increased steadily throughout the entire previous day, distracting her from the Sunday sermon.
It was impossible that her father could find her in a mere day, even if Caroline Bingley had immediately written to someone in Meryton.
This knowledge, intellectual as it was, did nothing to calm Elizabeth’s anxiety, either during church or afterwards when they returned to Half Moon Street to find the house in a bustle.
The servants had all come back from their own church service early to set about packing up the household for Mrs. Gregson and Elizabeth’s departure.
Mrs. Gregson, in normal everyday life, did not require of her servants more than the bare minimum of work on Sunday.
That day, though, everyone had been scrambling to prepare for the flight of Miss Wantage, of whom they all had become fond.
She felt a little guilty that the maids and the footmen had given up their day of rest for her sake, but had not even the Lord healed on the Sabbath and spoken of rescuing a sheep that had fallen into a well?
In Elizabeth’s opinion, as well as that of Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Gregson, her self-appointed guardians, work was permissible on the Sabbath day under dire circumstances.
That was all past now, with the carriage safely on its way, with Town and its accompanying dangers falling ever further behind.
Low stone walls and turnstiles were taking the place of clustered homes, copses of green firs and gray leafless trees springing up around the carriage before falling away again.
Elizabeth relaxed back against the squabs with a deep and grateful sigh and looked across the carriage at the other passengers.
Like her, Miss Darcy was watching out the window with a faint smile while Mr. Darcy, seated directly opposite from Elizabeth, was gazing at her rather than the view.
A flicker of surprise went through Elizabeth, followed by a warm rush of gratitude that lifted her lips into a smile.
Mr. Darcy smiled back, warm and kind and protective, and for a moment Elizabeth allowed herself to bask in the safety he offered.
Truly, he was a paragon of a man, kind and generous, intelligent and responsible.
He had no obligation to take her under his protection, to see to her well-being even as far as opening his own home to her.
He had done so out of the good will of his heart, and Elizabeth could not be more grateful.
Yet there was more there than mere gratitude. Admiration, yes, but more still than admiration. There was … attraction.
That was a dangerous thought, and the accompanying emotions must be dismissed instantly.
Compassionate and protective Mr. Darcy might be, but he was a wealthy man, with a prominent name and an earl for an uncle.
She was merely the second daughter of an indolent country squire, who had run away from her home to avoid a distasteful marriage; a situation ripe for scandal if her secret should get out.
However grateful she was to him for swooping in to her rescue, her gratitude must remain solely that, and never anything more.
“By the by,” Darcy said, breaking into her thoughts. “I was thinking that perhaps we could dispense with your false name while at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth shook herself a little and tilted her chin. “Would that be safe?”
“I am certain it will be safe, my dear,” Mrs. Gregson said. “Pemberley is a long way from both Longbourn and Town, after all.”
“I would like that,” Miss Darcy said. “I live in fear of saying the wrong name now that I know you are Miss Bennet.”
“I would be very happy to be addressed by my true name from here on out,” Elizabeth said with a smile.
“Then it is decided,” Darcy said.
***
Netherfield Hall
24th December 1811
It was a chill raw day, and Charles Bingley shivered as he stepped through the side door into Netherfield.
The small vestibule that served this door was not significantly warmer, by temperature, than the freezing stable yard right outside, but the lack of wind did much to comfort a body.
The sitting room would be much warmer, and that was exactly where he intended to head once he had divested himself of his dirt.
Off came his boots and his greatcoat, as Bingley pondered the horse he had been examining.
One of the matched grays was lame in his left hind foot, and Bingley had been consulting on the matter with Combe, the groom.
Combe had been tentatively hopeful that he could tend the gray himself, sequestering the gelding in a box by itself and treating the afflicted leg with fomentations and wraps.
Bingley had agreed, with the understanding that he would visit to check on the beast daily, and if it had not improved soon, he would summon a veterinarian.
It was an expense Bingley would bear if need be.
Quite aside from the value and appeal of the matched grays for the carriage, he was a kindhearted man and did not like seeing the pain in the restless beast's posture and mien.
It would be a crying shame for the horse to become permanently lame, and he hoped that Combe's remedies would work as the groom had claimed they would.
The halls of Netherfield bustled with activity, with footmen balancing on stepladders to hang ivy, fir, holly, laurel, rosemary, and bay over each doorframe.
Maids dodged around each other and their male counterparts, arms overflowing with fragrant greenery for windows and tables.
The housekeeper and butler had taken up positions in the halls, directing and criticizing and instructing their underlings with festive verve.
For a moment, Bingley toyed with the idea of ordering mistletoe to be hung in the doorway of his and his sweet Jane's shared sitting room connecting their bedchambers.
As though his very thoughts had led him right to her, he glanced through an open door and stopped as though he had run into a stone wall.
His beautiful wife had chosen to spend her morning in the east sitting room and was gracefully perched on a chair halfway between the fire and the windows.
She was intently focused on the letter she was holding up to the light, and Bingley was free to simply stare and admire her.
He was still amazed at times that he had managed to woo and win a woman who was not only effervescently beautiful, but as kind and good as a summer Sunday morning.
It frightened him, how close he had come to losing her.
He loved her, with his whole heart he loved her, and he was glad beyond words that he had listened to the promptings of his own heart in London rather than the words of his sisters.
Truly, he was the happiest of men, married to the woman he adored, and who loved him equally in return.
At this moment, she looked up and her eyes widened. She rose to her feet with her usual grace and hurried over to kiss him, a gesture he returned with enthusiasm.
When they had separated, he cast an absent look at the letter still in her hand, and then his attention sharpened as he recognized the writing.
“Is that from Caroline?” he asked.
Jane’s forehead puckered, and she said, “Yes.”
Bingley’s eyes narrowed, and he demanded, “Was she unkind?”
“No, no, not at all. She was courteous enough, almost absurdly so given that she disapproved of our marriage, but…,”
Jane hesitated and then held out the letter. “Read it, please. I am not certain what to do.”
He frowned now, confused, accepted the paper, and read.
Hurst House
23rd December
Dear Jane,
I wished to take this opportunity to congratulate you, most heartily, for your marriage to Charles.
I have long thought you one of the most charming ladies I have ever had the good fortune to meet, and certainly one of the most beautiful as well.
My brother is very blessed to have won you as his bride.
I hope that we will have the chance to meet again soon, dear friend. For the moment, the Hursts and I are settled in London, as I far prefer the society of Town to the country, but perhaps in the spring, you and Charles will journey to London for the Season? I can only hope and pray so.
By the by, I met your sister Elizabeth at Hookham’s Library a few days ago. I had no idea she was in London, so it was rather a surprise. I was aware, of course, of your aunt and uncle in Cheapside, the Gardiners, but confess to some curiosity about Mrs. Gregson, who seemed most genteel.
I must dress, as Louisa and I are visiting some friends this morning.
With love, your sister,
Caroline
Charles read the letter a second time and then lifted his head to face his bride.
“Caroline saw Elizabeth,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Jane said and then hurried over to close the door. That was sensible, as they certainly did not want any of the servants to know what had actually happened to Jane’s next younger sister.
“Mrs. Gregson,” he said, shifting his eyes back to the paper. “Do you know her?”
“No,” Jane said firmly. “I have never heard of her.”
Bingley sighed and reached out his left hand to take Jane’s right one, then guided his wife over to a settee near the fire, and they both sat down.
“It sounds like good news?” he said, though doubtfully.
Jane blew out a breath and said, “Perhaps. This Mrs. Gregson was genteel, Caroline said, and I daresay she would know, but since I have never heard of her…”
Bingley nodded and tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. He knew more about the world than his dear wife, and for Elizabeth to be in the company of a well-dressed woman did not necessarily mean that Mrs. Gregson was a safe and honorable individual.
“I do not know whether to show this letter to my father,” Jane said quietly.
He hesitated and then said, “There is not a great deal of information. A location and a name, nothing more.”
“It is a far more than we had before,” Jane pointed out.
“It is,” Bingley agreed.
“I think,” his wife said a moment, “we ought to tell my father. I know that Elizabeth was fleeing for a good reason, but surely my father has realized by now that she absolutely will not marry Mr. Collins. And if we can find her, if my father promises to leave her alone, she can come home, or even here, if my father is still angry. I am afraid for her, Charles. So afraid.”
He reached out, drew her close, and kissed her hair. “I understand, my love. Yes, let us speak to your father.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”