Chapter Fifteen
Darcy woke to pale light and the sound of a servant leaving the room.
The chamber was narrow, but clean. Frost had traced delicate patterns on the outside of the small panes.
A thin ash lay in the grate where the fire had sunk during the night.
He sat up, seeing a clean coat draped over the back of a chair.
Anders must have laid it out, an unusual task for a coachman.
He eyed the tight sleeves with suspicion. At least there was no jagged rip in this one, but he had no replacement for his greatcoat. He wished, not for the first time, that Taylor had travelled with him.
He stretched, winced, and then probed around the wound in his left arm with careful fingers.
The skin under the handkerchief was a bit reddened and a little warm, but not hot.
It was painful but, as Miss Bennet had noted, not too deep.
Darcy felt sure that Miss Bennet’s immediate ministrations had prevented any serious infection, and he was grateful to her for that.
He took advantage of the water the servant had brought to clean it again.
His ablutions required more time this morning, for every movement of his left arm reminded him of yesterday’s events.
He wound the bandage about his arm again, and though he could not manage so neat a job as Miss Bennet had, it would do.
He donned his shirt, then paused, teeth set, and shrugged himself into the coat.
The smart this caused across his upper arm brought a clear memory of the previous day.
How Miss Bennet shifted to sit opposite him.
Her hand on his arm, firm and skilful. The smell from Mrs. Hobart’s little flask, sharp as any surgeon’s preparation.
Cool fingers pressing cloth to stinging skin.
Her face bent over his arm, determined, a little pale.
He flexed his hand. The ache wHe had told Miss Bennet the truth: he had taken worse in the hunting field, as tolerable. or when some half-broken horse had chosen to object to his authority.
He crossed to the glass. The mirror was small and spotted, but it clearly reflected a man who had not slept much.
He worked on his cravat as well as he could.
The knot was a simple one but came out neat, at least. Nothing in his appearance betrayed that the sight of his left sleeve now made him think, without invitation, of Miss Bennet’s shawl and the strip she had torn from it.
He grunted. This was ridiculous. He had known her a handful of days.
Yet he remembered very plainly her expression at the Lion when he had first seen her properly.
A practised impostor, he had thought then, who had amused herself at the expense of honest people’s credulity.
A young woman with a taste for soft pillows and large suppers, content to trade on a false title so long as it yielded her comfort.
It had been a neat conclusion. He preferred neat conclusions.
Darcy buttoned his coat and tugged at it once more so that it would settle properly on his shoulders.
He might refuse to accept the title that Miss Bennet claimed.
He might doubt the entire tale of a lost princess of a foreign state, fetched from the English countryside to join her family in a palace.
But as he had determined the day before, he could no longer believe that she herself had contrived the fiction for the sake of a better fire.
If any deception existed, she was not directing the piece.
It was not his habit to accuse a woman of deliberate mischief. Mrs. Hobart was foolish, vain, and fond of hot food, soft beds, and a significance that eased her way. That much was clear. Whether she was also something more than foolish, he did not yet know.
But Darcy knew this much: the person who rejoiced most in Miss Bennet’s supposed rank was not Miss Bennet.
He took up his gloves and hat and went down.
The passage below smelt of damp stone and old beer. Men’s voices sounded from the public room. Darcy stepped toward the small private parlour to find Anders already in the entry hall awaiting him, cap in hand, boots cleaned as far as the state of the roads allowed. He handed Darcy his greatcoat.
Darcy glanced at the sleeve. “Anders, did you mend this?”
Anders shook his head. “No sir, Miss Bennet did. I came in search of you last night but you had already gone up, and she left it with me.”
Miss Bennet had mended his greatcoat.
He would, of course, order a new one made up; Taylor would never suffer him to wear a coat that had been torn. Yet the stitches were tidy, and the act itself a kindness. She must have gone to her own rest later than she could have wished to do him this service.
He took the coat from Anders and touched the mended place. No one had sewn anything for him since his mother died.
“Shall I harness the horses, sir?” Anders said, breaking into Darcy’s thoughts. “The landlord says the worst of the snow lies behind us. If we do not meet another drift, we may reach the White Horse before dark.”
Darcy tore his gaze from the coat to look up at Anders. He nodded. The White Horse at Eaton Socon was his usual inn on journeys to town.
“There is every likelihood,” Anders added, “that we shall reach London tomorrow, if the roads permit it.”
“That will answer. Wait a quarter of an hour before harnessing the horses.”
Anders nodded and went back through the passage.
At the sound of footsteps, Darcy glanced towards the door that led to the staircase. Mrs. Hobart and Miss Bennet soon walked through the doorway, Mrs. Hobart first, wrapped in shawls and complaints, Miss Bennet in her dark pelisse, holding her bonnet, her eyes a little shadowed, but clear.
“Another day of sacrifice, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hobart announced.
“I declare the English roads are a disgrace. Sir Reginald will be quite beside himself when he hears of all that we have suffered upon this journey. He has always said that nothing is more delicate than the health of a young lady of rank, and I shall have much to say to him upon the subject.”
She drew breath.
“For any young lady,” Darcy said before the woman could continue, “rank or no, the road in January is an ordeal. We must hope that the next inn will offer better comfort.” He allowed his gaze to rest upon her for a moment, steady and unamused.
“It is at least one with which I am acquainted. If we can travel without interruptions today, I can promise a good room and excellent fare tonight.”
The older woman coloured and said no more.
Darcy offered his right arm to Miss Bennet. She laid her gloved fingers upon his sleeve. Mrs. Hobart followed, her shawls fluttering and her mutters filling the passage.
Miss Bennet took her seat opposite him at the small table, her bonnet laid aside, a curl or two shaken loose by the morning’s haste. When the maid brought in ham and toast, Darcy, almost before he knew it, moved it nearer to her rather than to himself.
“You should partake, Miss Bennet,” he said. “The road is long, and the next posting inn may not be equal to this.”
Her brows rose a little at the unusual courtesy, but she smiled and obeyed. The glance she gave him over the rim of her cup held a shade of surprise, and something warmer.
Mrs. Hobart spoke with great animation of the hardships of travel while she pretended not to look at either of them. Darcy noted the effort.
The yard outside was hard with frost. Darcy handed Miss Bennet into the carriage, then Mrs. Hobart, and climbed in after them.
He took his place as usual upon the forward facing seat, ignoring Miss Bennet’s smirk as he did so. Outside, Anders spoke to Johnson. A whip cracked, and they rolled out of the yard.
Miss Bennet placed her hands in the muff in her lap. It was plain but well-kept, much like the rest of her person; nothing in her dress cried out for notice, yet nothing was careless. She cast a brief glance at his left arm, then looked away as if she did not care.
The carriage had gone some miles in near silence. The wheels beat out a steady measure; the leather creaked; Mrs. Hobart sighed at intervals.
At length Miss Bennet looked up. “I believe,” she said, “that we must have some conversation, Mr. Darcy, or we shall rattle ourselves quite out of spirits before noon.”
“Very proper,” Mrs. Hobart observed. “An accomplished young lady ought always to be able to converse upon polite subjects suited to her sex and station.”
“Accomplished women, then,” Miss Bennet replied.
“An excellent subject.” She glanced towards the window, where her own reflection sat wrapped in cloak and shawl.
“I begin to suspect that the true hardship of an English winter does not lie in the cold, but in the injustice it does to young ladies’ accomplishments. ”
Well, he would play this game. It would at least pass the time. “Which accomplishments would you say suffer most under such strictures?” Darcy asked.
Mrs. Hobart drew herself up. Her reticule rustled as she began to answer the question he had posed to Miss Bennet. Would she do so if Miss Bennet were truly a princess?
“A young lady must play the pianoforte with taste, draw with elegance, speak French, sew with neatness, dance with grace, and know her station, whether that station be low or”—her eyes slid towards Miss Bennet—“high. She must be attentive to religious instruction, assist with charitable works, and comport herself in a manner that reflects honour upon those who have the care of her. In some situations, she must learn to receive foreign ministers, and—”
“Mrs. Hobart,” Miss Bennet said, with a slight bow of her head, “you make me afraid to move. If one poor girl must perform all this in public, I do not wonder the nation complains of a want of accomplished women.”
“A girl who has had proper training from her cradle,” Mrs. Hobart persisted, “will not find it so impossible. In certain courts, the ladies of the royal house—”