Chapter Eight #2
“Though you should be aware, sir,” Anders added, “that Mrs. Cooper told the stable boy that gentlemen who cannot control their tempers around ladies deserve whatever ill fortune befalls them. When he asked what she meant, she just smiled and said that Providence has ways of humbling the proud.”
“She has organised a conspiracy of inconvenience,” Darcy said darkly.
Johnson’s jaw clenched. “More than inconvenience, sir. One of the servants of that tradesman—the big one—suggested that if the snow keeps you here much longer, he and some of the other men might take it upon themselves to teach you proper respect. I told him that any man who laid hands on you would answer to me.”
“And me,” Anders added. “Which did not improve the general atmosphere.”
Darcy stared at Anders and Johnson, these loyal men who had defended him at some cost to themselves. He ought to have thought more of their safety when confronting Miss Bennet. But who could have foreseen such a consequence? “You should not have to fight my battles.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we are not fighting your battles. We are stating facts.” Anders gestured toward the stable door.
“The people here have decided you are a puffed-up swell. We know better. You are a good master, a fair man, and whatever occurred between you and the lady, we know you would not have acted without cause.”
Johnson nodded. “We will have everything ready for departure at first light, should the weather permit. The sooner we are away from here, the better for all concerned.”
“When you are finished, come seek me. I will not have you sleeping out of doors on such a night as this.”
Darcy left them to their work and returned to the inn. The common room had grown more crowded. Another stranded traveller was playing a fiddle, and several guests clapped along. For one hopeful moment, Darcy imagined the room might be too distracted by music to continue its outraged campaign.
Then the fiddler caught sight of him.
There was a deliberate pause. Then the man smiled at Darcy, as if they shared a private joke, and the music changed.
The tune was one Darcy knew. It was cheerful, harmless, and performed at every country fair he had ever attended. So when the man opened his mouth, Darcy was prepared for the usual nonsense about ribbons and ale.
Instead, he discovered a beat too late, that the melody had changed, but not the crowd’s intentions.
Behold my friends, the Lord of Frowns,
Who thinks a sneer will serve him best—
He scolds the rose for being fair,
And insults what he ought to bless.
A roar of approval met the song. Mrs. Cooper folded her arms, radiant with righteousness. Even the children stared at Darcy with solemn accusation, as if he had stolen their pudding.
He attempted to sit through it so that they would not have the pleasure of running him out of the room, but the man apparently had innumerable ways to spin out his rhymes.
When he came at last to frown again—having already crowned it, clowned it, drowned it, and given it a renown that no honest syllable deserved, Darcy was done.
With rigid composure, he stood and turned to leave the room.
As he headed for the stairs, the ballad followed him down the passage like a curse with a chorus.
So, fare thee well, our Lord of Frowns,
Who sees a crown and scolds it down.
We’ll cherish her, for thanks are due—
And trust you’ll learn to thank her too.
In his chamber, Darcy yanked off his coat and threw it across the chair. His boots followed, the smell of ale on the leather a reminder of the scullery maid’s “accident.” He paced the narrow confines like a caged wolf, his mind churning through the events of the day.
They thought him the cruel lord, the hard-hearted persecutor of innocent maidens.
Him, Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had dedicated his life to the proper stewardship of his estate and the care of his sister.
Who had never once taken advantage of his position to abuse those in his employ.
Whose own servants often boasted to others of his kindness and generosity.
Yet one clever actress with fine eyes and a talent for crocodile tears had turned an entire inn against him in the course of an afternoon.
He was not a pious man, only a decent one, yet tonight he found himself on his knees in prayer. The proper words, learned under his mother’s influence, would not come. Instead, Darcy found himself offering up a far more desperate plea.
“Let the snow cease. Let the roads clear. Tomorrow, if it please You. Let me travel on to London, to Georgiana, to the life I understand. And let me escape this woman’s company forever, for surely the world is wide enough that we need never meet again.”
The prayer was both sincere and absurd. He did long to see his sister, to resume his proper duties, to be free of the constant judgement of strangers. But he also recognized the absurdity of his situation, a grown man fleeing from a slip of a woman who must weigh less than eight stone.
The thought did not amuse him.
Darcy rose and crossed to the window, pulling back the curtain to look out at the night. Snow still coated the stable roof in white silence, but it had ceased to fall.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered to the uncaring darkness. “Surely tomorrow.”
As he stood there, Darcy found his thoughts drifting back to the quarrel. He could see her face as clearly as though she stood before him—the tilt of her chin, the colour rising in her cheeks, the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes.
Her words echoed in the silence of his chamber. He pushed them away, but they returned with stubborn persistence.
That was unfair. He was compassionate. He was generous to his tenants, kind to his servants, devoted to his sister. He fulfilled every duty his position required.
Yet even as he marshalled his defences, another memory surfaced unbidden: Lord Matlock at last year’s ball, berating a footman who had spilled a little wine on Lady Catherine’s gown.
The servant had been dismissed on the spot, turned out without a character, his livelihood destroyed over an accident.
Darcy had said nothing. It was not his place to interfere in another man’s household.
But he had been uncomfortable. Had thought it harsh.
Was that what he had done today? In his determination to expose Miss Bennet’s deception, had he become the very thing he deplored?
No. The situations were different. Lord Matlock had punished an innocent servant. Darcy had merely refused to be taken in by a calculating schemer.
Darcy would not be deceived, no matter how thoroughly everyone else had been fooled. Tomorrow the roads would be clear. He would move on to London, to Georgiana, and put this entire miserable episode behind him.
And if, in the deepest hours of the night, he found himself wondering whether an attractive, intelligent young woman who defended servants, gave away blankets and firewood, and looked at him with such hurt in her eyes might be exactly what she appeared to be.
Well. That was merely exhaustion playing tricks on his good judgement.
He was right. He knew he was right.
A few hours later, a soft knock sounded at his chamber door. Darcy opened it to find Anders and Johnson standing in the narrow corridor, their expressions carefully neutral.
“You asked us to seek you out when we were through, sir,” Johnson said.
“Come in.” Darcy stepped aside to allow them entry, then closed the door behind them. “I have been considering the situation. You cannot sleep in the stables. It is too cold, and you will be in no condition to drive tomorrow.”
“We will manage, sir,” Anders began, but Darcy cut him off with a raised hand.
“This chamber has two mattresses and a small but proper fire. You will sleep here tonight.”
Both men stared at him. “Sir,” Anders said, “we cannot take your room.”
“You can and you will.” Darcy moved to gather his book and his coat. “I can sleep perfectly well in the carriage tomorrow, if necessary, but you cannot drive if you are exhausted and frozen.”
“But where will you sleep, sir?” Johnson asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
“There is a private parlour downstairs that no one is using. It will suffice for one night.”
“Mr. Darcy—" Anders began.
“Get what rest you can.” Darcy’s tone brooked no argument. "I want to be ready to depart as soon as possible tomorrow if the roads are passable.”
The two men exchanged glances, then Johnson nodded. “Thank you, sir. We are grateful.”
He left them and made his way quietly down the back stairs, avoiding the common room where he could still hear the murmur of voices and the occasional scrape of a chair. The small private parlour was the next room down. Fortunately, its door was slightly ajar.
He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him, plunging the room into near darkness.
A sliver of moonlight penetrated the gap in the curtains, just enough to make out the shapes of a settee, two wingback chairs, and a small table.
The room was cold, though not unbearably so.
The wall it shared with the common room’s great fireplace provided enough warmth to take the worst edge off the chill.
Darcy placed one of the chairs at the end of the settee and then lay down, stretching his legs out before him and covering himself with his greatcoat. The cushions were old but comfortable, and if he positioned himself just so, he could almost—
A burst of laughter from the common room filtered through the wall. Someone was telling a story, their voice rising and falling. More laughter followed, earnest and convivial.
Darcy closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep. Tomorrow the roads would clear. Tomorrow he would leave this place and its pack of fools behind. Tomorrow he would be free of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s fine eyes and the accusations that had burrowed under his skin like splinters.
Tomorrow.
The chair creaked as he shifted position. The wall radiated its meagre warmth. And Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley and definitely not the Lord of Frowns, lay alone in the darkness and waited for morning.