Chapter Six
Darcy entered his chamber and stopped short.
Two mattresses, stout and a good deal newer than the sad specimen he had slept on the night before, were laid upon his bedstead.
Upon them rested a pillow, plump and properly filled.
A small but ample stack of wood, neatly arranged, stood beside the hearth, where the embers yet glowed with sufficient warmth to render the room almost comfortable.
The fire had been properly laid, ready to be coaxed back into life with minimal effort.
The transformation was so complete that for a moment he wondered whether he had mistaken his chamber for another.
He paused in the doorway, glancing about as though the hand responsible might yet reveal itself.
No servant had spoken of such additions when he had enquired about additional blankets that morning.
No order of his had occasioned them. The blankets at the foot of the bed were thick wool, the sort that might actually prevent a man from freezing during a long, cold January night.
Someone had gone to considerable trouble.
The inn’s man appeared in the passage behind him, nodding respectfully. “Evening, sir. I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”
“Who arranged this?” Darcy enquired, gesturing towards the improvements.
The man shifted his weight, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “The master thought you might be more comfortable, sir. He had me bring up what we could spare.”
The innkeeper. Darcy felt a curious mixture of relief and something that might have been disappointment, though for what reason he could not say.
“I see,” Darcy said. “Please convey my thanks.”
The man nodded and withdrew, leaving Darcy alone with his improved accommodations.
He closed the door and stood for a moment, considering.
It made perfect sense, really. The innkeeper had observed Darcy’s manner, his clothing, the quality of his carriage and horses.
A gentleman of evident means, stranded by the storm, deserving of better treatment than a cramped chamber and a sagging mattress.
Or, if he considered it more cynically, the innkeeper might have realized that a wealthy gentleman’s coin spent just as well as a supposed princess’s and had thought it prudent not to offend a potential source of future custom.
Whatever the motivation, Darcy was grateful for it. He sat carefully upon the edge of the bed. His feet would still dangle off the end, but he could lay these mattresses end to end on the floor and, with the blankets and the fire, actually remain warm.
A vast improvement over the previous night.
He began his preparations for bed with considerably more optimism. The fire, when he lit it properly, blazed with satisfying warmth. The room, while still small and shabby, was no longer a torture.
As he removed his coat and began to unwind his cravat, his thoughts drifted, quite against his will, to the supposed princess residing on the entire floor beneath him. Was it possible that she . . . He pushed the thought aside with something approaching violence.
No. She had arrived in that carriage, the one that had nearly run them all down.
She had claimed every comfort the inn possessed for herself and her companion.
The innkeeper had stripped the establishment bare to satisfy her demands, leaving Darcy to sleep on the floor whilst she luxuriated on multiple mattresses, wrapped herself in warm blankets, and enjoyed a roaring fire.
It could not have been her.
And yet . . .
She had seemed genuinely dismayed that morning when she had learnt he had spent the previous night upon the floor. He began to build up the fire.
What if it had been her?
For several minutes, he allowed himself to consider it. If it had been Miss Bennet, it painted her in an entirely different light.
But if Miss Bennet had arranged this—and he was by no means certain that she had—then it was more likely just another performance in her elaborate charade.
Anonymous charity that everyone somehow discovered.
Humble disclaimers that only served to draw more attention.
The pattern was clear enough, for was not that how she had convinced the innkeeper and his wife that she was royalty in the first place?
A discreet word by her companion, a mild remonstrance, a plea to maintain secrecy, all of it performed with just enough visibility to ensure witnesses while maintaining the fiction of discretion.
And if she had made him specifically the beneficiary of her largesse? That would be even more calculated. Create a sense of obligation in the one person who remained sceptical of her claims. Make him doubt his own judgement. Soften his resistance.
Well, he would not fall for it. Not without evidence. And as the man-of-all-work had named his benefactor as the innkeeper, Darcy would proceed as though he had no doubts on that score.
None at all.
It did not matter in any case. Darcy had a pillow, good blankets, and a proper mattress. He would sleep well.
The common room at midday was a cheerless place.
Darcy nursed a cup of coffee whilst attempting to read, though the chill draught from the ill-fitted windows made concentration a challenge.
The fire seemed to have been rationed with unusual parsimony, as though the innkeeper feared his supply of wood might not outlast the storm.
Evidently the generosity extended to Darcy’s chamber did not include the common areas.
There were other people in the room, but his attention was drawn consistently to Miss Bennet, who occupied a corner chair.
Her companion sat nearby, but Miss Bennet’s attention was absorbed by a book.
They had maintained a studied ignorance of one another’s presence since breaking their fast, an arrangement that suited Darcy tolerably well.
He had no desire for further conversation with a woman who persisted in her charade.
Another traveller entered, shaking snow from his worn coat and complaining with impressive volume about the cold. The innkeeper hastened to apologise, explaining in tones of obvious distress that they were running low on firewood and must ration what remained.
Darcy observed, with what he told himself was entirely detached interest, as Miss Bennet quietly summoned the innkeeper to her side.
They conducted their conversation in hushed tones, but he noted the moment when the innkeeper’s expression transformed from worried to gratified, and he bowed with the elaborate deference he reserved for his royal guest.
A quarter of an hour later, the same innkeeper was distributing additional firewood to several of the poorer travellers. An elderly man attempted to thank Miss Bennet, who appeared confused by the gesture before colouring when the man insisted upon expressing his gratitude.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. Miss Bennet was shameless, insisting on so much firewood for her own rooms in order to appear generous in sharing it. No doubt her own rooms were still well heated. A small sacrifice in exchange for the appearance of benevolence.
Soon the other travellers were whispering amongst themselves, casting admiring glances towards the young woman who now appeared to wish that she might disappear.
He watched her colour deepen and observed her hasty retreat from the common room. If this was performance, it was remarkably well executed. Her embarrassment appeared entirely genuine. But then, he supposed that was precisely the point.
The day wore on with excruciating slowness. The snow continued to fall, thick and relentless. Darcy attempted his book, gave it up as hopeless, and spent an uncomfortable period staring into the inadequate fire whilst his thoughts circled endlessly around familiar, frustrating paths.
His uncle’s presumption in offering him a barony he had no wish to accept. Georgiana’s melancholy, which he was powerless to address while trapped here. The storm that showed no signs of abating. And Miss Bennet, with her charitable gestures and blushing humility.
Darcy pushed himself up. He could sit still no longer. Perhaps he would fetch his coat and see about the horses. Anders and Johnson would have an idea of when they might be able to remove from this place.
He walked into the hall and made for the stairs, when a most animated dispute reached his ears. He halted just short of the turn in the passage.
Mrs. Hobart’s voice rang out in tones of righteous authority.
“Absolutely not! Do you wish my mistress to perish of a chill, sir? Another armful of wood, at once! And mind you choose the stoutest logs, not those pitiful scraps you foisted on us last night.”
The innkeeper muttered something inaudible, to which Mrs. Hobart replied with fresh vigour.
“I care nothing for the complaints of the other guests. Her Highness cannot be expected to freeze for the sake of merchants and rustics. Why, she has already endured the catastrophe of lukewarm tea this morning, an ordeal from which her constitution may never recover!”
Darcy pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.
The innkeeper’s voice rose in protest. “Madam, I’ve near run through the last of the store.”
“Then fetch more!” Mrs. Hobart snapped. “Chop down a tree if you must. Is there not a forest just beyond your stable yard? How difficult can it be?”
“A mile from my stable yard, and those are not my trees, madam. I must pay for the wood and someone to chop and deliver it. Unfortunately, in this weather . . .”
“The princess will pay for his trouble. Arrange for it.”
There came the sound of heavy footsteps retreating in defeat, followed by Mrs. Hobart’s satisfied sniff.
Darcy shook his head, continuing to his chamber. He had been correct, then. A morning spent orchestrating charitable gestures, and an evening devoted to wringing every comfort from their beleaguered host. Who would he find to cut wood in a storm?