Chapter Two #2
He called for Taylor, his valet, a man of discreet manner and disconcerting efficiency who had served Darcy since Cambridge.
Taylor possessed the remarkable ability to anticipate his master’s needs and could, Darcy was convinced, have packed the whole of Pemberley into a single trunk if granted but a few hours to accomplish the task.
“I depart for London immediately,” Darcy informed him. “Pack a bag with what I shall require for the journey, then follow with the rest of my things once they are ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Taylor replied, as though his master’s abrupt winter departure was the most ordinary event in the world.
There was not so much as a hint of surprise in his expression, though Darcy was quite certain the man was already calculating which items would be essential for immediate travel and which could follow in a second carriage.
“Shall I send word ahead, or would you prefer they learn of your arrival when you appear in the doorway?”
Darcy’s mouth twitched despite himself. Mrs. Baxter, his London housekeeper, would faint dead away if he did such a thing, and Taylor knew it. “Send word.”
“Very good, sir.” Taylor inclined his head with the gravity of a man committing state secrets to memory. He would, Darcy thought, make an excellent agent of the crown.
His uncle ought to find a title for Taylor.
Within two hours, Darcy was seated in his travelling carriage, watching the familiar landscape of Derbyshire roll past the windows, and rubbing a little piece of Blue John stone between his thumb and finger.
Georgiana had found it on their trip to the Peaks last summer and had given it to him to carry when he travelled without her.
The winter sky was grey and threatening, typical for January, but the first weeks of the month, at least, had been dry.
He felt a curious lightness as Pemberley receded behind them.
For all the difficulty that awaited him in London, at least he was acting.
For months he had tried to manage his sister’s welfare from a distance, relying on letters and reports when what was needed was his attention.
She had not wanted to return to school after Christmas, but he had thought it important that she try.
Winter travel was notoriously slow. The days were short and cold, the roads often icy and treacherous. His coachmen, Anders and Johnson, were experienced men who knew better than to push the horses when conditions were uncertain, but even so, they made reasonable progress through Derbyshire.
By the time the light was beginning to fade, they had reached Mansfield, where they spent the night.
The next day they made their way to the Great North Road and turned south towards London.
They had made good time despite the conditions.
Still, darkness came early in January, and Darcy, looking forward to a hot fire and a warm meal, found himself calculating the remaining miles to Stamford.
That calculation held until the road ahead presented them with a tangle of humanity, horseflesh, and broken wood that effectively blocked any further travel.
Anders began to slow even before the full scope of the disaster became clear.
Shouts carried upon the air, along with the more ominous sounds of splintering wood and distressed animals.
Darcy was on the ground before his carriage had fully stopped, the winter cold biting at his cheeks and gloved hands as he assessed the situation.
A heavy cart laden with barrels had overturned completely, its contents scattered across the road in a chaotic mess of split wood and spreading liquid.
The cart’s horse stood trembling in its traces, wild-eyed but uninjured.
Just beyond the wreckage, one wheel of a private coach had sunk into the drainage ditch at an angle that would mean significant delay.
Somewhere in the confusion, a woman cried out with sufficient distress to quicken Darcy’s stride.
“Anders, bring the carriage as close as you can manage,” he called over his shoulder. “We may need to use the horses to help clear this mess. Then hand the reins over to Johnson and come with me.”
A young stable lad was struggling to calm the overturned cart’s horse, his efforts hampered by his obvious inexperience and the animal’s understandable agitation.
Its breath formed pale clouds in the gathering dusk, and its eyes rolled white with fear.
Darcy approached slowly, speaking in low, steady tones.
“Easy, lad,” he murmured, addressing both horse and handler. Anders was soon by his side. “Let my man take the bridle. Step back slowly.” The horse’s trembling gradually subsided under Anders’s firm but gentle touch.
There never was a better man with horses.
“We never saw the other carriage till we were upon them,” the boy said in a plaintive tone.
Near the overturned cart, Darcy discovered the source of the woman’s cries.
A gentleman of middle years lay pinned beneath a shifting heap of the cart’s spilled casks, the heavy wooden barrels creaking ominously.
The man was conscious and attempting to speak, though his voice was strained with pain and effort.
The lady, though entirely uninjured, was loudly convinced she had been “quite dashed to pieces” and had to be gently persuaded to stand well back so she might avoid actually being dashed to pieces. Then Darcy turned his attention to the man.
“Can you move your legs?” Darcy asked.
“I believe so. I am pinned, but I sank into the mud when the barrels fell on me, which helped. I am bruised but otherwise uninjured.”
Darcy kneeled to assess the situation. The positioning was precarious. The barrels had come to rest against each other in an unstable pyramid, and any hasty movement might cause them to shift further. “We shall have to lift these barrels one at a time. Are you able to move?”
The man grunted. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Good. When I tell you, slide yourself backwards.”
The cart driver came over to help. He was a burly man whose face bore the ruddy complexion of one who spent his days out of doors, and he was strong.
It was delicate work, though, as each barrel had to be lifted and moved away while ensuring that those remaining did not shift unexpectedly.
Darcy’s greatcoat was soon soaked with spilled ale, and his boots slipped treacherously on the muddy, icy road, but gradually, the trapped gentleman was freed.
The man proved to be a country gentleman travelling with his wife to visit relations in the next county.
“We are most grateful for your assistance,” he said, attempting to brush the worst of the mud and ale from his coat. “I confess I began to fear we should be trapped here until morning.”
“The fault was mine,” admitted the cart’s driver.
“I was pushing too hard, trying to make the next town before dark. Came upon this man’s carriage sudden-like, and we both managed to avoid a collision, but I sunk one side in the mud here and tipped the cart.
This ‘ere gentleman was helping me to right it. But the horse spooked, and the whole lot went over atop him.”
Darcy organised everything. Johnson unhitched the cart driver’s horse and led it to safety.
The spilled barrels were dragged off the road, while the intact ones were set down together nearby.
The overturned cart itself required the combined efforts of all the men present to right, a task made more difficult by the icy conditions and the weight of the vehicle.
The coach presented a more complex problem. The wheel was not merely stuck but had sunk deeply into the partially frozen ditch. After a careful examination, Anders and Johnson concluded that it could be extracted, but not without considerable effort.
Darcy released a long breath that froze in the frigid air. “Very well,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Let us set to work.”