Chapter Fifteen #3
“They all resemble their grandfather,” she said, with emphasis. “It is quite remarkable. Anyone may see the royal blood in them. Your father was much the same. There can be no mistake about the house.”
Darcy thought of Adrian’s narrow, sardonic face, and the miniatures he carried of his family. He and his father both resembled the queen’s family. But he did not accuse. He merely set this new piece beside the others in his mind.
The impression that began to form was that Mrs. Hobart had been interested in Thurnia and had gathered what information she could.
However, her knowledge was both incomplete and stale.
How much of what she poured into Miss Bennet’s ears was exact, and how much was coloured by her own vanity, he could not tell.
He knew only that Miss Bennet’s imagination fed upon it as upon cool water after a long march.
It was in this way that they passed the day. They stopped to rest the horses, ate something at one of the better inns before they travelled into Cambridgeshire.
At last, just as the light was fading, the coach began to lose speed. The motion altered. The noise of the wheels changed as the ground beneath them smoothed.
Darcy looked out. The road opened into a broad yard, well-kept.
Lanterns hung under a neat archway. A large brick front rose beyond, the windows large, the light within clear.
Smoke rose from wide chimneys. Ostlers came running, stableboys called to one another as they prepared to receive new arrivals.
He felt a draught at his ankles and an impatience that had nothing to do with cold. He was weary of posting houses. His mind went, for a moment, to Darcy House, to the fire in his own library, to Georgiana at the pianoforte.
All this delay was wearing on him. He was sure that his aunt had received the post he had sent before leaving Pemberley—today, if not sooner—and would fetch Georgiana home with her at once. But he wished to see his sister with his own eyes, to know that she was well.
He also had to speak to his uncle. The earl could be relied upon to pursue any advantage once he had identified it without considering that the object of his efforts might not wish it, and Darcy had not yet had the opportunity to make his views plain.
Miss Bennet sighed. The sound brought him back to the present.
She was looking out at the house with something like relief. It was, he knew, one of the better inns on this road.
“At last,” Mrs. Hobart exclaimed, peering over Miss Bennet’s shoulder, “a house fit for us.”
The carriage drew up to the door. Darcy stepped down and turned, hand outstretched. “Miss Bennet.”
She took his hand and descended with grace, gathering her skirts clear of the step. Mrs. Hobart followed with a great deal less grace and a great deal more commentary upon the state of the yard.
The innkeeper came forward, bowing.
“Mr. Darcy, sir,” he said, “it is an honour. We will have supper up at your pleasure.”
“You are very good, Mr. Lowell,” Darcy said. “I travel with Miss Bennet and her companion Mrs. Hobart. We will require a private parlour and proper accommodation for all.”
“Miss Bennet, Mrs. Hobart,” he said. “You are most welcome. We shall do our best for you.”
Mrs. Hobart bristled. Her lips moved upon the beginning of a forbidden word. Darcy only cleared his throat softly. He did not look at her. He did not need to. Mr. Lowell had heard enough to know that there was a story here, and that the gentleman who paid the reckoning did not wish the story known.
The passage was warmer than at the last inn. The smell of roasting meat filled it. A boy ran ahead to have fires lit in the chambers.
They entered a long room with a good fire and a clean floor. Two winged chairs and a settee sat near the hearth. A table waited, ready to receive whatever the kitchen could produce.
Miss Bennet moved to the fire at once, holding her hands out towards it, then drawing back as if she would not appear to take the best place by right.
“The necessary must be near,” Mrs. Hobart said. “I insist upon hot water. The pillows must be plumped. The bedwarmers must be filled. The sheets must be warm.” She sank into the nearest chair with a sound like a punctured bellows.
Darcy listened. He heard everything she named. He heard also the spaces between the words, the places where she caught herself.
He stepped nearer to the fire, more to place himself between Mrs. Hobart and the door than for any need of heat.
Mr. Lowell reappeared, wiping his hands upon his apron.
“If it pleases you, sir,” he said, “we expect another party this evening. A gentleman delayed by the storm, but he sent word that he would be here tonight. I thought you might wish to know it. Gentlemen like to be aware who may be under the same roof.”
Darcy did not ask the man’s name. He knew before it was spoken.
“Sir Reginald,” the innkeeper said. “Sir Reginald Whitmore.”
Mrs. Hobart’s hands flew to her breast.
“At last!” she cried. “He is here. I knew he would find us. I knew he would come.”
Miss Bennet was quiet, contemplative.
Darcy looked towards the door.
Though he had expected to see Miss Bennet to her family before meeting him, Sir Reginald’s reappearance had always been a foregone conclusion.
Yet Mrs. Hobart’s recent omissions now sat heavy in Darcy’s mind.
Her stale knowledge, her half-swallowed titles, her eagerness to speak for Miss Bennet instead of letting the young woman speak for herself.
The tales spread along the road. The highwaymen who had lain in wait where a simple party of travellers should have passed unremarked.
She was a vain woman, and not nearly as intelligent as her charge.
Could she have been tricked into believing herself suitable for the task of chaperoning a young princess?
Sir Reginald might be an honest envoy in the pay of someone with ill intent.
He might be a fool. He might be something else entirely.
Whatever he was, whatever was happening here, Darcy had no intention of stepping back and leaving Miss Bennet to the combined management of a man he did not know and a woman whose story had given him pause.
They went about their business, but it was not two hours later when the sound of wheels in the yard echoed faintly through the floor. A carriage door slammed. Voices rose. The inn woke into fresh activity.
Mr. Darcy turned from the fire as footsteps approached along the passage. The murmur of the innkeeper’s tones came first, then the deeper answer of another man. The latch lifted, and a man walked into the parlour.
“Sir Reginald,” Mrs. Hobart said with every sign of relief. “At last.”