Chapter Nine
Elizabeth sat up slowly. Her stays pinched.
Her head throbbed dully in time with the unpleasant memory of the day before: Mr. Darcy, tall and unsmiling; his cutting words; her own temper flaring until she had said more than she ought.
Even now her cheeks grew hot at the recollection.
She pressed her hands to them as if she might rub the colour away.
There was a brisk knock and Mrs. Hobart swept in without waiting for an answer, every ribbon in her cap quivering with purpose.
“Oh, good, you are dressed. We must be upon the road. Sir Reginald will be expecting us at the Grey Fox before the end of the day, and I should not like to think what he will say if we arrive after him. You know how particular he is.”
Elizabeth did not, in fact. She knew very little about Sir Reginald at all.
Mrs. Hobart tugged at the curtains with a flourish. “There. Such a warm winter’s day. You really must not glower at it.”
She was not glowering, and one could hardly call this day warm.
Elizabeth climbed from the bed and went to the back window.
Snow lay along the yard in trodden ridges, turned brown where cartwheels had churned it.
Stable boys darted to and fro; the breath of horses rose in white plumes.
From here, the inn yard looked like some small, bustling stage where every figure knew his cue.
“There is a great deal of activity already,” she said.
“Of course there is. Most travellers are sensible. They do not lie abed when there are miles to cover.” Mrs Hobart sniffed. “Even Mr. Darcy has been up this hour past. I have it upon good authority that he is keen to be gone.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon the sill. “Then we shall take care not to delay him.”
“I will see our carriage brought round at once.” Mrs Hobart smoothed her skirts.
“Is the wheel repaired, then? I thought it would not be possible without a wheelwright.”
Mrs Hobart clicked her tongue. “The coachman says any number of things. You must not trouble yourself with the fretting of servants, Your Highness. All you need know is that Sir Reginald waits to escort us north. We have delayed too long already.”
North. Towards Thurnia. Towards a kingdom that existed, for Elizabeth, only in her imagination. Across the water to an island with mountains and snow and relatives she did not know. Her stomach gave a small, disloyal twist that had nothing to do with the previous night’s stew.
She turned from the window. “I shall be ready directly. May we take breakfast before we go?”
Mrs. Hobart frowned, nodded, and sailed away.
Half an hour later, Elizabeth stood upon the narrow strip of swept cobbles beneath the gallery and watched Mr. Darcy’s coachmen, as well as the coachman who had been hired by Sir Reginald, crouch beside the broken wheel of their carriage like mourners at a bier.
The wheel was unusable. The iron rim had shifted and the wood beneath it had cracked. The coachman rose when he saw Elizabeth, hat in hand, his breath ghosting in the cold air.
“Begging your pardon, miss.” He darted an anxious glance over her shoulder where Mrs. Hobart descended the steps. “I am told the nearest wheelwright is in Stamford, and with the roads as they are—”
“Stamford." Mrs. Hobart’s tone made it sound like three continents. “Well, we shall leave you to it then. There must be some other conveyance for us.”
Elizabeth turned to look at Mrs. Hobart. Where, precisely, did she intend to locate another carriage? It was not as though they were in London and could hire a hackney.
Their coachman stared at Mrs. Hobart as though she had not heard him. He nodded at the mostly cleared yard. “Everyone is eager to leave, what with the roads beginning to clear. There is but Mr. Darcy’s coach remaining, and that is his own.”
Elizabeth had already noticed it. It waited near the far gate, dark and splendid, its panels shining even beneath their coating of frozen mud.
Only now that every other carriage had gone did a few stable boys lead the team out, and Anders and Johnson left to supervise.
In a brisk few minutes as she watched, the team was put to, harnesses jingling, breath smoking in the freezing air.
Anders checked the traces with practised hands.
The horses stamped and tossed their heads, eager for the road.
Mr. Darcy observed the work, nodding once when satisfied.
Beside her, Mrs. Hobart’s gaze fastened upon them as if it were a lifeboat.
“Then we shall take Mr Darcy’s coach,” she said briskly. She called to one of the stable boys. “Inform Mr. Darcy that Her Highness will require his carriage.”
Elizabeth caught at Mrs Hobart’s sleeve. “You cannot be serious, Mrs. Hobart. We cannot simply—”
Mrs. Hobart shook her off with a fluttering hand.
“My dear girl, this is precisely the sort of occasion for which rank exists. These people must be made to understand that a princess does not tramp through the snow waiting upon the convenience of any random wheelwright. Mr. Darcy will be proud to serve the Thurnian court in so small a matter. It will do his reputation no end of good.”
Elizabeth felt her breakfast clawing its way up her throat. The urge to sink into the snow and remain there until spring was very strong.
Mrs. Hobart was already striding across the yard, skirts lifted neatly above the slush. A surge of panic propelled Elizabeth forward to stop her.
Mr. Darcy stood near his coach, gloved hands behind his back, speaking with Johnson. His dark coat sat very well upon his shoulders. Snow had dusted the brim of his hat. He turned at Mrs. Hobart’s approach, his expression polite and distant in a way that made Elizabeth’s teeth clench.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hobart began, her voice pitched to carry. Several of the men in the yard turned their heads instinctively. “We find ourselves in a distressing situation. The carriage in which Her Highness travels is unfit for the road. We must, regrettably, take yours.”
Elizabeth paused where she was, still several feet behind Mrs. Hobart. Her shock at such a bold application made her mouth fall open, but she quickly snapped it shut and closed her eyes in mortification, knowing full well what would come next.
There was silence as though the yard itself drew breath to see what he would say. After a moment, Elizabeth dared to open her eyes a little.
Mr. Darcy’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but into something darker and far less friendly. A sound escaped him that might have been called a laugh if it had held any amusement.
“You will not,” he said.
The words fell into the space between them like a stone into a pond. Ripples of surprise spread through the watching faces. Elizabeth heard someone near the stables mutter under his breath.
Mrs. Hobart’s spine stiffened. “Sir, you cannot mean to keep your carriage for your own convenience when the princess requires it.”
“She is not an English princess, madam,” Mr. Darcy replied. His tone had cooled a degree further if that were possible. “I owe her no allegiance.”
This could not be happening. Every eye in the yard was upon them. Upon her.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, “despite Mrs. Hobart’s unfortunate turn of phrase, no one will ask you to give up your coach or swear allegiance to anyone.”
Mrs. Hobart uttered a disbelieving snort from the back of her throat. Elizabeth strode up to stand next to her companion. “We are only seeking to travel in safety.”
“Her Highness is due in Thurnia,” Mrs Hobart went on. “Your refusal to assist her will not reflect well upon you when word reaches court.”
“Mrs. Hobart,” Elizabeth said, her voice low, “stop this immediately.”
“Your identity has been made known.” Mrs. Hobart whispered back. “There is no need for modesty.”
Mrs. Hobart had made her identity known. How dare she speak as though it was mere chance? “All the more reason for you to cease.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes flickered briefly to hers. For one small, bewildering instant, she glimpsed not contempt there, but something like regret. Then it was gone, shuttered behind the same implacable reserve he had displayed the night before.
“Your arrangements are of no concern to me,” he said to Mrs. Hobart. “My duty is to my own family. I am bound for London. I intend to depart immediately, with my own coach, my own horses, and my own men. I shall not be diverted from that purpose.”
A murmur ran through the audience in the yard. There would be tales of this scene at every posting house between here and the capital. She drew a breath and tried to steady herself against the sensation that everything was slipping out from under her.
“We shall have the carriage,” Mrs. Hobart insisted. “For we must go north to Stamford and find Sir Reginald where we were always meant to meet him. If Mr. Darcy must travel with us and then return to London afterward, so be it.”
Elizabeth turned to look at Mrs. Hobart, astonished that a woman who was so particular about the princess’s dignity would so publicly refuse to obey the princess’s command.
Anders looked from Mrs. Hobart to the churned, frozen ruts that led out of the yard.
“The north road is not open, ma’am,” he said. “Everyone has gone south. If you make the attempt and the carriage fails between here and the next inn, you and Miss Bennet will be stuck in a snowdrift while we seek help. Begging your pardon, but it is not wise.”
“Do not presume to instruct me upon wisdom,” Mrs. Hobart snapped.
“You will not speak to my man in that manner,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice low but leaving no room for dispute.
Elizabeth could bear no more.
“Mrs. Hobart.“ She stepped forward, putting herself ahead of her companion. The move felt dangerous, like stepping to the edge of a roof. Her attention fixed upon Mr. Darcy. “You say you are bound for London, sir?”
“I am.” He eyed her warily, as if she were another broken wheel contrived to delay him.