Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth’s first waking thought was that she had slept badly; the second, that Mr. Darcy had called her Princess the previous day in such a manner that the word had felt like an accusation rather than a title.
She lay still for a moment, staring up at the low, smoke-darkened ceiling of the little bedchamber.
The thin winter light that crept about the edges of the curtains was of that peculiar grey which suggested that the sun had technically risen, but with little enthusiasm for the task.
The coals in the grate had burned low. The bitter air nipped at her nose.
Memory trickled back in uncomfortable detail.
Her inquiry about Longbourn. His refusal, precise and entirely reasonable, and yet delivered with a coolness that had made it feel like a rebuke.
Longbourn must remain ten miles off. His face when he said it, all duty and no indulgence.
That dreadful “Princess,” as he reminded her that there were other people in the world who each had their own concerns, as though she believed otherwise.
She could not decide which stung more: that he so thoroughly misjudged her, or that some part of her had known, even as she spoke, that what she asked was unreasonable, and she had asked it nevertheless. If she had been so bluntly denied, was it not her own fault?
It was only that she wanted her family. She missed the way a single, quiet word from Jane could make any folly seem less dreadful.
She missed Mary’s solemn lectures, which had so often been tiresome but now, in memory, appeared almost comically dear.
She wanted her father’s dry wit from behind his newspaper, and her mother’s unregulated laments about nerves and neighbours, which had always filled the house with such ridiculous animation.
She missed even Kitty and Lydia—their noise, their thoughtlessness, the flutter of ribbons and exclamations.
Yes, at thirteen and fifteen they ought to have been quieter and more composed, but they were hers, and home had never been home without them.
A brisk knock sounded upon the door. Before Elizabeth could answer, Mrs. Hobart swept in, wrapped in a thick shawl over her travelling gown, her lace cap perfectly placed upon her head.
“Are you feeling better, then?” she inquired, hoping for a positive response.
“I only required a little rest,” was Mrs. Hobart’s tart reply. “I told you as much. And now you must rise and have your breakfast, for Mr. Darcy sent word that we are soon to depart.”
“Has the coachman seen to the traces?” Elizabeth asked. “Anders thought that they would require attention before we could proceed.”
Mrs. Hobart’s hand fluttered. “I would not know. In any case, the servants say a multitude of things, my dear. They always will. It is their profession.” Her tone now acquired an injured air.
“We have already sacrificed an entire day to the caprices of weather and apothecaries. It reflects most unfavourably upon the efficiency of the English postal roads.”
Elizabeth did not believe that the snowstorm could be fairly laid at the door of the Post Office, nor their delay here upon the apothecary, but she let the remark pass. “You are quite right that we ought to be ready. I shall dress at once.”
“Do. I have ordered breakfast to be brought up here. It will never do for you to go downstairs into that draughty common room when there is a chill upon the air and I am still recovering.” Mrs. Hobart pressed a hand to her bosom in genteel indication of the nerves in question.
“The landlord was only too pleased to assist a princess.”
Elizabeth regarded her companion with a mixture of gratitude and unease.
It was true that Mrs. Hobart had undertaken the tedious, practical cares of the journey with brisk efficiency.
It was equally true that she relished invoking the name of the Thurnian court whenever she wished to curry favour or carry a point.
“If you please,” Elizabeth said quietly, “you will remember that my grandfather wished my presence to attract as little notice as possible upon the road. We seem to have left that instruction behind somehow.”
Mrs. Hobart gave a small smile, more indulgent than obliging.
“And so it shall, my dear. For our safety we must avoid the newspapers and the fashionable inns. But there is no harm in permitting an obscure country landlord to understand that he has been honoured. If he tells a few neighbours, what of it? You shall not pass this way again.”
There was a dreadful, suffocating certainty in that. Elizabeth forced a smile.
When she was dressed and ready, the breakfast arrived, carried by a maid whose nose was red with cold and whose curtsy was so low that her cap nearly slid from her head.
Mrs. Hobart kept her a full three minutes, instructing her upon the way the cups were to be placed and the ashes removed from the grate, while Elizabeth longed to send the poor girl away so that she might complete her other duties.
On descending, Elizabeth discovered that Mr. Darcy had been downstairs an hour before them.
He stood near the foot of the stairs, speaking with the landlord in low, decisive tones.
He held his gloves in one hand and his hat tucked beneath his arm.
There was nothing in his posture of the man who had been forced to spend several nights in inferior lodgings.
He might have been exchanging polite conversation in a drawing-room, so steady and collected was his manner.
She heard the landlord mention something about a mail coach.
“I shall not see your household disadvantaged by our presence,” Mr. Darcy said, in a tone that carried clearly to Elizabeth’s ear.
“You have been taxed more than enough by the storm. See your own people supplied first, and my party and my servants after them. If there is any shortfall, you must charge it to my account and make it up when times are easier.”
The landlord, who had been wringing his hands in a practised manner, brightened visibly. “You are very good, sir. Very good indeed. Anders and Johnson have been of the greatest service in the stable, I must say. I am sorry they have been obliged to share the kitchen pallets with my own lads.”
Mr. Darcy averred, then turned and saw Elizabeth upon the bottom stair.
Their eyes met. Whatever regret he might have felt for last night’s exchange, it did not appear in his face. He bowed with impeccable correctness.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
There was a brief pause, as though each awaited a further remark from the other and both were determined not to provide it. Mrs. Hobart descended behind Elizabeth in a swirl of cloak and cap-ribbons, her expression that of a general surveying a battlefield.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I see that you are prepared to depart. Shall we?”
Elizabeth could have sunk through the floor.
Mr. Darcy frowned. “In another quarter of an hour, madam.”
“I am sure you know best,” Mrs. Hobart replied. “Come, Princess Elizabeth.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze flickered at the title. Elizabeth thought she saw, for an instant, a flash of something more than mere annoyance. Then it was gone.
Out in the yard, the cold seized them at once.
Elizabeth drew her pelisse more closely about her.
She could feel the snow, which had fallen again in the night, crunch beneath her boots.
She had watched Mr. Darcy endure Mrs. Hobart’s complaints with more patience than Elizabeth herself possessed, had seen him speak to the innkeeper and his wife as though they were equals worthy of respect.
It made no sense to her. Mr. Darcy showed consideration to everyone else.
How could he be so honourable in every particular save his judgement of her?
Their carriage stood prepared. Anders and Johnson were at the horses.
Elizabeth saw at once that the traces had indeed been inspected and rebuckled.
The animals tossed their heads, their ears pricked for the road.
There was something reassuring in the efficiency of it all.
Whatever else might be in confusion in her life, Mr. Darcy’s carriage, at least, was well managed.
Mrs. Hobart produced a succession of small matters that required attention: a misplaced reticule, which was discovered upon the seat she had vacated; a bottle of cordial, which must be wrapped in flannel lest it break; a letter she had forgotten to give to the landlord and that must now be entrusted to a boy, with elaborate instructions.
Each delay was trivial in itself, but it had the effect of stretching the minutes into a quarter of an hour.
Elizabeth, standing by the step of the carriage, could see Mr. Darcy’s mouth tighten once or twice as he checked his watch.
He made no complaint, only went instead to see that his own portmanteaux were properly secured and that the post-boys had received their directions.
When Mrs. Hobart at last permitted herself to be handed into the coach, he merely offered his assistance to Elizabeth with a cool politeness.
His gloved hand was steady beneath her fingers. He gave her no more than was necessary; there was no pressure, no lingering. Yet the memory of him saving her from falling in the coach came back with uncomfortable force.
Now, as Mr. Darcy took his own place, Elizabeth could not help but notice that the arrangement brought his long legs uncomfortably close to hers.
When the carriage jolted over the threshold from yard to road, their knees brushed.
He drew back at once, but the small involuntary contact was enough to send an entirely unreasonable heat creeping into her cheeks.
She felt Mr. Darcy’s gaze upon her and glanced up to find him watching with an expression that was almost . . . confused. Her hand moved automatically to smooth her skirt, and she could not say why the change in his attention unsettled her more than his disdain had. What had shifted?