Chapter Four #2
While he awaited his meal, he wandered to the window where he could see a carriage in the mews.
It was large, of a fashionable rather than solid build with a flourish of impractical ornamentation in its trim, the sort of thing designed to draw the eye without rewarding the attention.
There was no coat of arms, no crest, nothing to suggest anything more exalted than a pampered young lady of the gentry travelling in style.
His lips pressed together when he recognized it as the same vehicle from the night before that had endangered them all by speeding past the accident.
He could picture her now, swathed in furs she had never needed to earn, issuing commands from behind the safety of the glass while nearly running down the men who had stopped to assist. A London miss of comfortable fortune, accustomed to the best seat, the best fire, the best of everything, arriving here to play at being a foreign princess simply because it amused her.
He had just begun to eat when the door from the passage opened, and a young woman stepped into the room. She was modestly dressed, and he knew without being told that this was the pretender herself. She was accompanied by a neat, alert, and disapproving older woman who could only be the companion.
Darcy held his hands out to the fire and watched without appearing to do so. Every inch the modest traveller, too unaffected to demand the best seat in the house, though the innkeeper will no doubt rush to give her one.
The innkeeper bustled over, beaming as though he were about to announce the arrival of the monarch herself. “Your breakfast will arrive soon Princess, just as Mrs. Hobart ordered. Freshest eggs, strong coffee.”
“Miss Bennet,” the young woman said, with a pleasant firmness that did not invite argument. “I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
The innkeeper blinked, uncertain whether to look abashed or conspiratorial. “Of course, of course. Miss Bennet. Quite so.” He offered to send her breakfast upstairs. She refused, citing overheated rooms.
Darcy bristled. Then he sat, wrapping first one hand and then the other around his coffee cup. It was the first time since early yesterday that his hands had been warm.
When the woman chose the table beside his, he was torn between amusement and annoyance. Mostly annoyance.
“Whatever the kitchen can spare, so long as it is hot,” she said, glancing at her companion, who was holding a handkerchief to her nose.
Wonderful. He wished they had remained upstairs. The last thing anyone here needed was illness.
Miss Bennet sat quietly, dark curls arranged about her face bobbing gently as she lifted her cup. When she looked up, her eyes, which were a mahogany brown with surprising depth, rested on him for a moment.
The innkeeper bustled forward, bowing under the weight of a tray. “Your breakfast, Princess—”
“Miss Bennet,” she said, in a tone of graceful correction that gave no offence yet allowed no repetition.
The innkeeper blinked, then nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. Miss Bennet, of course.” He retreated, and Darcy knew that he would certainly return to using the word princess the moment Miss Bennet left the room.
Darcy allowed himself the faintest curve of his mouth. She certainly knew her part: deny the title prettily enough, and the denial itself would serve to strengthen the lie.
She sighed a little before she turned her head towards him. “A singular storm, sir.”
Darcy set down his coffee cup with deliberate care, noting how she had chosen to open with the weather, that most innocuous of subjects, perfectly calculated to invite conversation without appearing forward. How very accomplished of her.
“Indeed, madam,” he replied, his tone level. “Alas, I have not brought my sleigh.”
Her lips turned up in what might have been amusement. “Nor I. A terrible oversight.”
“Especially,” Darcy said, “as it would have allowed us to glide past any unfortunate mishaps on the road, waving cheerfully from a safe distance while others laboured in the snow.”
The companion, a sharp-featured woman, chose this moment to deliver a delicate sneeze. The timing was so precise that Darcy found himself wondering if she had been waiting for his reply.
Miss Bennet’s eyes narrowed, her smile frozen in place. “Indeed, sir. Though I confess I find little pleasure in such expedient travel.”
“Achoo!” The companion’s sneeze arrived with the precision of a well-aimed cannon shot.
“Bless you, Mrs. Hobart,” Miss Bennet said, reaching for the woman’s arm with evident concern. “Perhaps we ought to—”
“Achoo! Forgive me,” Mrs. Hobart gasped, dabbing at her nose. “The cold, you understand. So very trying.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Most unfortunate. Perhaps you should return to your rooms, for they are evidently a great deal warmer than the rest of the house.”
“The rooms are quite comfortable,” Miss Bennet began, “though I fear there has been some misunderstanding—”
“Achoo!”
“Mrs. Hobart, you really must—”
“Achoo! So sorry, Miss Bennet. The draughts, you know.”
Darcy’s mouth quirked. “Draughts? How curious. I was given to understand that every comfort had been requisitioned for your party’s use.”
Miss Bennet’s colour rose slightly. “Sir, I believe you labour under a misapprehension. We have taken only what was offered, and indeed—”
“Achoo! Oh dear," Mrs. Hobart interrupted, waving her handkerchief with theatrical distress. “The air here is so . . . well. Perhaps we should return upstairs.”
“Mrs. Hobart!” Miss Bennet’s voice carried a note of mortification. “The gentleman will think—”
“That you consider yourself above sharing the air with others?” Darcy suggested mildly, raising his coffee cup. “Heaven forbid such a notion should arise.”
Miss Bennet’s dark eyes flashed. “Sir, you seem determined to attribute motives to us that do not exist. We have inconvenienced no one knowingly.”
“Knowingly,” Darcy repeated, taking a sip of his coffee. “How carefully qualified. But then, I suppose those of higher ranks need not concern themselves with the comfort of others, even when they are required to sleep upon the floor.”
“Achoo! The floor?” Mrs. Hobart exclaimed between sneezes. “Achoo! How very . . . how very . . .”
“Common?” Darcy supplied helpfully as the woman sneezed again.
“I had no knowledge of your discomfort. I did not even know you were here when we went upstairs.”
“We might have been here earlier had we some assistance clearing the road.”
“I did not—"
Miss Bennet’s voice was tight with something that might have been guilt or irritation.
He hoped it was guilt.
The infernal companion coughed this time, but Miss Bennet was still speaking. “Had I known—”
“Achoo! You would have done precisely what you did, my dear,” Mrs. Hobart finished for her. “One cannot be expected to rest upon inferior beds. Achoo! The very idea!”
Miss Bennet closed her eyes briefly, as though summoning patience from some celestial reserve. “Mrs. Hobart means—”
“I am quite certain Mrs. Hobart means exactly what she says,” Darcy observed. “Such refreshing directness. So very . . . noble."
The word hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown down.
Miss Bennet lifted her chin. “Sir, if you have something particular to say, I would prefer you say it plainly.”
Darcy was quite happy to comply, but before he could speak, the companion rose with a rustle of skirts. “We must return upstairs at once. This air is ruinous. Come, come.” She held out her hand.
Darcy watched Miss Bennet’s lips press into a frown as she pushed back her chair with quiet dignity. “If you will excuse us, sir,” she said, and allowed herself to be guided toward the passage.
As he lifted his cup, he found himself reluctantly acknowledging that her eyes had been remarkably fine when flashing with indignation, that her wit was uncommonly quick. He dismissed the thought.
The innkeeper scurried after them, bowing and bustling as though royalty had truly graced his house. Darcy lifted his cup to sip the last of the coffee and allowed himself a faint smile.
The field was his.