Chapter Eight
The common room felt too large and too quiet in her absence. Darcy stood precisely where Miss Bennet had left him, his heart hammering beneath the thinnest veneer of composure. The door closed behind her with a soft click that might as well have been the report of a pistol.
He had spoken the truth. The words arranged themselves in his mind, each point sound, each argument unassailable.
She was an imposter, a clever actress who deployed tears and trembling hands as other women deployed fans and fluttering lashes.
That her eyes had brimmed with moisture, that her face had flushed with genuine distress—these were merely the tools of her trade.
Manipulative. The word soothed his conscience against the faint voice that reminded him of eyes shining with tears that would not fall, of flushed cheeks and small, fisted hands.
He would avoid her. Simple enough even in so confined a space, as she would undoubtedly take her meals in her chambers from now on.
Darcy felt no guilt for sending a young lady fleeing his presence. None.
He did not wish to remain here, claiming a hollow victory in an empty room. Darcy returned to his chamber, climbing the narrow stairs with deliberate steps.
The hour before dinner crawled past. Darcy attempted to read, but the words swam before his eyes.
He stood to stare out the small window for a time, attempting to focus on his purpose for reaching London.
Speak with Georgiana. Decline his uncle’s offer.
When he could be confined to his tiny chamber no longer, he descended the stairs with the grim determination of a man walking to the gallows.
The common room had not yet filled with the usual evening crowd, but two tradesmen were thawing by the fire, a modestly dressed family of genteel travellers sat at the corner table, and servants moved between kitchen and the common room with steaming dishes.
The warm smell of beef stew and fresh bread should have been welcoming.
Instead, the moment Darcy crossed the threshold, conversation ceased.
Every eye turned toward him.
Darcy took a seat near the window. The common room resumed its ordinary life, except that ordinary life now included people pretending not to notice him.
They did not notice him with remarkable diligence.
Conversations continued in hushed tones. Laughter broke off whenever he looked up. Glances skittered toward him and away again, quick as startled sparrows. It was the sort of discretion that only existed when the subject of discussion sat within earshot.
“Shame how a supposed gentleman treats a princess,” he heard one tradesman tell the other.
Darcy’s anger burned low and hot. It had been a private altercation, how had it become common knowledge? He had spoken to Miss Bennet in the common room, yes, but they had been alone. She had retreated to her chamber afterwards.
He scowled. Of course. She would have told the companion. Miss Bennet must have poured out a tale of persecution, embellishing it with whatever details would best serve her purpose. Tears, no doubt. Trembling lips. Innocent protestations.
The innkeeper’s wife emerged from the kitchen bearing a tray laden with steaming bowls of stew. She served the family first, setting the bowls before them with a warm smile and a pleasant word about the quality, if not the quantity of the beef.
“There you are. Eat hearty. Nothing like a proper stew on a cold night.”
“Bless you, Mrs. Cooper,” the father said. “It smells grand.”
It did.
She beamed at the praise and moved to the tradesmen, serving them and speaking with them for a moment.
When at last she reached Darcy’s table, the smile had vanished. She set down a bowl of with a decisive thump, some of it slopping onto the scarred wood.
“Your dinner, sir.” The words were correct, but the tone suggested she delivered poison rather than sustenance.
“I thank you.” Darcy kept his voice even. “Might I trouble you for some of the wine I see the others enjoying?”
“When we are able, sir. We are quite pressed this evening.”
Darcy followed her gaze. Several tables sat empty. “Yes, I can see that you are run off your feet.”
Mrs. Cooper gave a small, saintly nod and swept away. She returned almost at once, carrying a mug.
Not spiced wine. Weak ale, pale as dishwater, in a chipped vessel whose crack ran down the side like a reprimand. It smelled faintly of vinegar, as if it had once held something pickled.
Darcy stared at it. “The wine—”
“We are out,” Mrs. Cooper said, with serene finality.
Darcy could see the jug of spiced wine on the sideboard. He could smell the cinnamon. He could have pointed to the very evidence of its existence.
Mrs. Cooper met his gaze with an expression of composed innocence.
“How unfortunate,” Darcy said, because it was the only phrase available that did not involve calling the woman a liar and being summarily thrown into the night.
“Indeed, sir,” she replied, and her voice softened into something almost tender. “Shortages are a trial. But then, trials teach us humility, do they not?”
Then she turned away, leaving Darcy with his ale and her implication. At the fire, the tradesmen burst into a low chuckle.
Darcy’s gaze flicked toward them.
The stout man smiled into his mug. “Manners maketh the man,” he said, as if quoting scripture. “Or at least, manners show whether he’s fit to be amongst decent people.”
“Hear, hear,” someone murmured, and the murmuring turned into agreement that rolled across the room like fog rolling in off the Thames.
The scullery maid emerged from the kitchen with a fresh loaf of bread, steam rising from the crust. She delivered it first to the tradesmen.
She sliced generous portions for the family.
One child received an end-piece with butter and let out a small squeal of delight that made several adults smile indulgently.
When she turned toward Darcy, her expression shifted into something carefully arranged: sympathetic concern, solemn as mourning.
Darcy decided he would not wait to be denied. “Might I have some bread?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly, sir.” The maid curtsied so low she wobbled. In righting herself, she struck the edge of the table. Darcy’s mug tipped over, spilling the contents.
“Begging your pardon, sir!” she cried. “How clumsy of me.”
Darcy looked down at his boots. The ale was no loss, but he liked these boots. He drew a slow breath. It did not help. “It is of no consequence.”
“So gracious,” the maid breathed, eyes wide with feigned admiration. “A true gentleman. So forbearing. I shall fetch your bread at once, sir. Though I fear it may not be as warm as what the others have. The oven is temperamental tonight. Like some gentlemen.”
When the bread arrived, it was warm. It was also burnt.
Darcy ate in silence, his mind working through the matter with the same methodical precision he applied to every other problem in his life.
Miss Bennet had orchestrated this. She must have. He had merely spoken the truth. If that truth had wounded her, he could hardly be blamed for it.
And yet her absence robbed him of any opportunity to confront her and correct the tale she had told. She remained closeted in her chamber, the injured princess in her tower, while he endured judgement from her loyal subjects below.
It was maddening. But Darcy had to admit that it was also brilliant.
He needed air. Darcy abandoned his table and made his way through the back passage to the stables, where at least he could be certain his own men would not subject him to gossip and conjecture.
The familiar smell of hay and horses greeted him as he pushed open the stable door. Anders and Johnson looked up from checking the horses’ hooves, their expressions a mixture of relief and apprehension at his approach.
“Mr. Darcy, sir,” Anders said, straightening from his examination of the gelding’s hoof. “We were just checking that all is ready should the roads clear enough for travel.”
“Which we hope will be soon, sir,” Johnson added, his weathered face grave. “Very soon.”
Darcy moved to his horse’s side, running a hand along the animal’s neck. The familiar solidity provided some measure of comfort. “I take it you have heard the general opinion regarding this afternoon’s events.”
Anders gave a short, humourless laugh. “We have been treated to a full recitation of your supposed crimes. The stable boy would not muck out the stalls. Said he would not lift a finger for the man who made the princess cry.”
“She never wept.”
“The kitchen boy spat in the snow when Johnson went to fetch our dinner,” Anders continued.
“Called us ‘lackeys of a brute.’” He shook his head.
“We have served in your household these three years, sir, and never once heard a word against your character. We know there has been some mistake, but it does not make these people less angry.”
Johnson crossed his arms. “The ostler suggested we might wish to seek positions elsewhere, seeing as how we serve a master who delights in tormenting defenceless women. I informed him that Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy is the finest master in England and that I would hear no word against him.”
This defence was a balm to Darcy’s heart. “Thank you, Johnson.” At least there were two men here who would take his side.
“The ostler did not take it well, sir,” Anders said. “We may need to sleep out here with the horses tonight. The servants’ quarters and the kitchen have become . . . inhospitable.”
Darcy felt a fresh wave of fury at this intelligence. That his own men should suffer for his supposed transgressions was insupportable. “I am sorry you have been subjected to such treatment on my account.”
“We are not sorry, sir,” Johnson said firmly. “We know you. These folk do not. They have seized upon rumour and made up a wild story. It is nonsense."