Chapter Ten
The first day of Darcy’s journey with two unwanted guests in his carriage included all the petty discomforts that winter could contrive.
The yard of the second posting inn was hard underfoot where the snow had frozen in ridges, yet treacherous where it had begun to thaw.
The air cut at the fingers, and breath hung in white clouds about the horses’ heads.
Darcy stood with his collar turned up, watching Anders and Johnson bring the carriage to rights.
The harness jingled, a businesslike sound that promised the one thing he most desired: steady progress south.
If they kept their time, if the roads did not deteriorate, he might reach London late tomorrow or early the following day and retrieve Georgiana from Matlock House.
“Road looks fair enough, sir,” Anders called, coming round from the leaders.
Johnson, at the wheelers’ heads, added, “Day after tomorrow if there’s no more snow.”
His men moved with the easy competence he had come to rely upon, yet impatience pressed at him all the same. Every minute spent in an inn yard felt like an affront to his duty; every delay brought back Georgiana’s halting letters and his uncle’s demands.
He had just turned towards the inn door when it opened.
Mrs. Hobart emerged first, swathed in a travelling cloak that did nothing to soften the sourness of her expression.
Behind her came Miss Bennet, her own more modest pelisse better suited to her figure.
The wind caught at her bonnet ribbons and drew a faint colour into her cheeks.
Despite all she was doing, he could not deny that Miss Bennet was a comely creature.
She paused upon the threshold, her gaze travelling at once beyond the yard, to where the wide road stretched away between whitened hedges.
Miss Bennet did not look at him immediately. Her attention went southwards, following the line of the road. For a moment she stood thus, as if fixing the direction in her mind, then descended with careful composure.
“Mr. Darcy.” Perfectly proper, perfectly cool.
“Miss Bennet.” Their exchanges since the scene in the inn’s common room early the day before had all been conducted in this same measured formality.
It was preferable to reproaches and tears.
There was in her manner a stiffness that spoke of wounded pride, and he was resolved not to seek any further understanding.
“Pray step in, madam,” he said, offering his hand as she approached the carriage.
Her gloved fingers rested lightly upon his.
The contact was brief, no more than custom required, yet he felt, with unwelcome vividness, the warmth beneath the kid and the slight tremor that passed through her hand as she set her foot upon the step.
The cold, he told himself. The morning air was bitter enough to set any hand to shaking.
Mrs. Hobart followed, leaning rather more heavily upon his arm.
“These roads will be the death of my constitution, Mr. Darcy,” she announced as she climbed in.
“I am persuaded that if His Majesty had any notion of the hardships involved, he would have sent us in high summer, when the air is at least tolerable.”
“His Majesty appears to have been unacquainted with English winter,” Darcy said evenly. He was exceedingly tired of this charade, but now that the “secret” was out, the woman simply pressed harder. “Pray be seated, ma’am.”
The interior of the coach seemed narrower than he remembered, crowded with cloaks and parcels and the three of them obliged to sit together.
Mrs. Hobart took the rear-facing bench with a small huff, but Darcy would not relent.
He always travelled in his own coach particularly so that he might command the forward–facing seat; any journey of more than an hour otherwise left him quite unwell.
The coach rocked as Anders and Johnson mounted the box, and then they were moving, wheels crunching upon frozen ruts. Through the small pane of glass, the yard fell away behind them, inn sign whipping in the wind, stable boy’s cap raised in a last, perfunctory salute.
They made the curve back onto the road a bit sharply, and the motion threw the three of them a little closer together.
Miss Bennet’s shoulder brushed his. The slight impact sent an immediate awareness through him: the soft feel of her breath near his ear, the yielding warmth of her body through her pelisse, the faint, clean scent of jasmine that clung to her.
He drew back by an inch, more than politeness demanded, and set his jaw against the foolishness of his own senses.
She murmured a soft apology without looking at him, fingers tightening in her lap.
“It is nothing,” he said curtly.
Outside, the landscape slid by in a succession of fields and hedgerows, all softened by the recent snow.
Miss Bennet watched it with a sort of hungry attention, as though she were intent upon memorising every tree and cottage.
Each village they passed, each church spire, each smoke-wreathed yard, received that same searching look.
Opposite him, Mrs. Hobart dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief and gave a delicate sniff.
“I am persuaded,” she declared, “that this climate was contrived expressly to afflict persons of refined constitution. The damp penetrates the very bones. Miss Bennet, you must not sit so near the window. The air is pernicious.”
Elizabeth drew closer to Mrs. Hobart in obedience. The movement brought her nearer to him also. There was no avoiding it. Darcy felt the faint press of her boot against his as they bumped over another rut. He looked away, out through the glass, and forced his attention back to the road.
“Once we have made two good stages today,” he said, “the worst of the strain will be over.”
Mrs. Hobart sniffed again. “If I survive that long, sir.”
He did not roll his eyes, but it was a struggle.
The coach lurched more violently as it encountered a hidden hollow. For an instant the floor seemed to tilt; Miss Bennet was thrown forward, and his arm shot out of its own accord to keep her in her seat.
He felt her slender form against his hand, the sudden, startled tension of her muscles. He turned to be certain she was steady, and at such close quarters he could see the tiny pulse at the base of her throat, fluttering rapidly.
“Forgive me,” she said, breathless, as he released his hold. A faint flush rose into her cheeks. “The road is worse than it appears.”
“Evidently,” Darcy replied curtly. His hand burned with the memory of that brief contact. He flexed his fingers once, then folded his arms across his chest, as though to imprison any further impulses of that kind.
Mrs. Hobart, who had given a little shriek at the same jolt, now pressed one hand to her bosom. “Oh! This brutish motion cannot be endured. I feel my very life shaken out of me.”
Miss Bennet turned to her at once. “Can I fetch anything from your bag?”
“It is my heart,” Mrs. Hobart said in a tone that combined severity with suffering. “I have long been subject to palpitations. This roughness, this cold, this interminable road . . . I do not know if I can bear many more miles. I am very unwell.”
Darcy looked closely at the older woman.
Her colour remained high but there was no sweat upon her brow, no true distress in her breathing.
He had seen genuine illness and nothing in Mrs. Hobart’s present state resembled it.
Yet she moaned again as the coach dipped, and shook her handkerchief in feeble protest.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bennet said, a note of resignation in her tone. “If there is an inn near at hand, might we stop for a little while? Only until Mrs. Hobart is easier. I should be sorry if she were to suffer more than is necessary.”
He could hardly refuse the request without appearing barbarous. Yet every hour lost ate into his schedule, and his mind stubbornly returned to Georgiana.
With a growl rumbling in his chest, Darcy rapped upon the roof. Anders’s voice came faintly through the wood. “Yes, sir?”
“Is there a house of accommodation within a reasonable distance?”
“We passed a small posting place not a mile back, sir,” Anders called. “Nothing grand, but they had smoke at the chimney and a sign swinging.”
Darcy weighed the matter. Two miles lost, there and back, close to two hours lost. Still, he would not be accused of having sacrificed a lady’s health for his own convenience, be the ailment real or imagined.
“We will return to the inn,” he said tersely. “Turn the team with care. The road is narrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
The carriage slowed, swayed, and then began a cautious arc in the road. Mrs. Hobart sank back with a sigh of relief that sounded suspiciously satisfied for one in the grip of mortal indisposition.
The posting inn to which they returned was small and plain, its sign, a faded pheasant, creaking upon its bracket as the chill wind caught it.
The yard was far from elegant, but a thin column of smoke rose from the chimney, and the smell of baking bread drifted enticingly beneath the sharp odour of horses.
Darcy descended first, the cold striking him harder after the stuffy confinement of the coach. He offered his hand to Elizabeth again. She took it with barely a pause, her fingers cool now, her expression alert and concerned as he turned again to assist Mrs. Hobart.
Mrs. Hobart stepped down, giving a small moan as her feet touched the ground.
“My strength is quite gone,” she declared.
“I do not know how I shall mount the stairs. I must have a chamber in the house. His Majesty’s instructions did not include the sacrifice of my life upon some wretched English road. ”
The landlord hurried towards them as they entered, wiping his hands upon an apron. “Welcome, sir, welcome. Weather is rough for travelling. You are wise to stop. We have a fire in the parlour, and my best room is at your service.”