Chapter Ten #3
“Doubtless the Thurnian ambassador awaits you in London, for by now he must have had word of your delay,” he said, testing her willingness to persist in her scheme outside of her companion’s presence.
“Your grandfather certainly expects you; each day’s delay increases the chance of dangerous weather at sea.
I cannot, in conscience, turn aside merely to gratify a private inclination, however natural it may be. Longbourn must remain ten miles off.”
A faint change passed over her features, so quickly that he might have missed it if he had not been watching her so closely. Her eyes shuttered, and a little of the colour left her face.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “You are perfectly right. Pray forgive me for having troubled you with a notion that could not be entertained. You have been very patient with us.”
Darcy was strangely disappointed. “You have a right to understand the journey that lies before you,” he replied, with more courtesy than he had intended. “But London must be our object.”
“Yes.” She drew an almost steady breath.
“London must be our object.” She turned away again, sheltering her face from his view.
The movement brought her nearer still; he could see the fine line of her neck, her jaw clenched against some inward disturbance.
For an instant he had the uncomfortable impression that his refusal had pressed upon a tender place that he had not meant to touch.
He told himself it was of no consequence. It was not his business if she longed for her home. Many women left their families for the sake of marriage or advancement and had borne it as best they could. If she truly were what she claimed, she must accustom herself to such sacrifices.
If she were not—and she was not, he reminded himself—then her longing for home was just one more proof of deception, and he would not indulge it.
Darcy resumed his pacing, and she stepped further into the room, took a small volume from her pocket, and opened it, then sat, her attention wholly given to the print. Yet he saw, more than once, that her eyes were fixed not upon the page, but upon some middle distance only she could see.
The examination took some time. When at last Darcy spoke to the apothecary in the hall outside her door, the man looked suitably serious, though there was a glimmer of satisfaction in his eye that suggested a fee well earned.
“Well?” Darcy asked. If he sounded brusque, it was only the rational result of having been kept waiting so long.
“Your servant, sir,” the man said. “The lady has suffered a trifling disarrangement of the nerves, such as is common enough when persons of delicate sensibility are exposed to jolting carriages and inclement air. A day’s rest by the fire, some light broth, and a cordial to steady the spirits will set her to rights.
If she were to travel farther today, I could not answer for the consequences; if she remains quiet, I have every hope she will be much improved tomorrow. ”
“The rest of the day,” Darcy repeated.
The apothecary pursed his lips. “I would not recommend less, sir. It is always safer to err upon the side of caution with such cases.”
Of course it was. Caution, in this instance, cost Darcy money, time, and patience, and cost Mrs. Hobart nothing at all.
He paid the man, thanked him, and returned to the parlour, where Miss Bennet rose at once upon seeing him.
“Well?” she asked.
“The apothecary advises that Mrs. Hobart remain here for tonight,” he said. “He believes she will be fit to travel tomorrow, provided she rests and is kept warm.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I see. That is very obliging of you, Mr. Darcy. I am sorry that our party continues to disarrange your plans.”
“Obliging has nothing to do with it,” he said. “If your companion is truly ill, I am bound to take care for her. If she is not, I am bound to behave as though she is, until a medical man declares otherwise. Either way, we remain.”
A spark of amusement lit her expression. “You put the matter in such a way that I cannot quarrel with it, though I suspect Mrs. Hobart would prefer the version that leaves more room for the delicacy of her feelings.”
He could not entirely repress an answering quirk of the mouth. “I have never found it useful to consult feelings when they stand in opposition to facts.”
Her gaze slipped away from his. “No. I suppose not.”
She excused herself to inform Mrs. Hobart of the apothecary’s verdict.
Darcy passed the several remaining hours of the day in as useful a manner as could be contrived: arranging for his own lodging and that of his coachmen, writing letters, reviewing accounts, and consulting with Anders about the road ahead.
Soon enough the light began to fail. Anders predicted a hard frost that night and better roads on the morrow. The men had eaten, the horses had been rubbed down and fed, and there was nothing more to be done until morning.
Darcy returned to the parlour, intending to sit down with his book once more. Instead, he stopped upon the threshold.
Miss Bennet stood by the window, looking out at the yard.
The glass reflected a faint, ghostly image of her face, stripped for a moment of all the composure she showed in company.
There was an expression there that he had no wish to analyse: loneliness, yes, but something more, some quiet, stubborn endurance.
She was beautiful.
Darcy did not want to notice her beauty, did not want to feel this unwelcome pull toward a woman who had done nothing but deceive everyone around her. That she stood there looking somehow vulnerable only proved how skilled she was at this game.
She caught his gaze in the window and straightened. Her features rearranged themselves into proper lines before she turned.
“Mr. Darcy.” She dipped a slight curtsy. “I trust your arrangements for tomorrow are in place?”
“They are,” he said. “We shall set out at first light.”
“I am glad to hear it. I shall be ready.”
He took up his place by the fire. She remained where she was, near the window, but the room was small; the distance between them was not great. He was aware of the slight angle of her body as she half leaned against the wall, one hand resting on the sill, the other twisting the fringe of her shawl.
“I am sorry,” she said suddenly, without preface. “It seems wherever I go of late, other people must alter their plans. I had not thought to make a career of discomposing gentlemen who travel to London.”
“Do not take so much upon yourself, Princess,” he said. “Your affairs are not significant enough to influence the world’s revolutions.”
The title slipped out before he could stop it, weighted with all the scepticism and vexation he felt.
He had refused, hitherto, to address her thus, preferring the plain Miss Bennet as a small defence against what was a dangerous falsehood.
Now that single word fell between them with a force that surprised even him.
Her head came up, eyes widening. For a heartbeat he saw the hurt there, naked and unguarded, and regretted his lapse.
Then she mastered it.
“Quite so, Mr. Darcy,” she said, after a pause that felt longer than it was. “Pray do not fear that I shall forget it.”
She curtsied again, a movement of perfect correctness and absolute distance, and turned towards the door.
He watched her go, the slight sway of her skirts, the set of her shoulders. The room felt colder after she had left it, though the fire burned as brightly as before.
He told himself that he had merely reminded her of the falsehood she continued to embrace. If she chose to be wounded by the title she claimed, that was no concern of his.
Yet as he sat with his book, the memory that troubled him was not of a scheming impostor enjoying her triumph, but of a young woman at a window, looking towards a road that came within ten miles of home and might as well have been ten hundred.