Chapter Seventeen #2
“He travels,” Darcy said, pressing ahead, “without a single Thurnian servant. Without guards, without a courier, without even a secretary. He arrives in England alone, hires whatever post-boys and horses he can get, and makes his way to Hertfordshire. When he finds you, he proposes to travel ahead of you, leaving you to ride in a hired coach with no protection save a chaperon he recalls from two years prior who happens to be living in London. A chaperon, I will add, who subsequently announced your rank aloud in public in more than one inn.”
“That is a rather dark way of viewing the matter,” Miss Bennet protested.
“Sir Reginald is known to my father Mr. Bennet, sir, having carried a message to him from the king some four years ago. If His Majesty wishes me to travel quietly, who am I to question that? Had it not been for the weather separating us, we would even now be in Edinburgh, boarding a ship bound for Thurnia.”
“Have you travelled a great deal, Miss Bennet?”
She glared at him. “No.”
“His plan displays not a careful consideration of your safety, but a reckless disregard for it. And as a gentleman, I must ask why. Why would a king send his granddaughter into the world under such a flimsy arrangement?”
She hesitated. “It does sound somewhat odd, though I must point out that you have not travelled with a valet or any footmen.”
“I am not a royal,” he said. “My valet was meant to follow, and I have my coachmen with me. No, I fear this may be worse than odd.”
“You must be careful, Mr. Darcy,” she teased, “or you will turn this whole business into a gothic novel.”
Why could she not take this seriously? His reply was sharp. “If it ends with you safe with your family, it may be as gothic as it likes.”
Any humour drained from her countenance. She arched an eyebrow. “Which family would that be, Mr. Darcy?”
“Your family in London. Or at your uncle’s estate.”
“Because you believe that is the only family I truly have.”
“I did not say that . . .” He might not have said it, but his expression must have shown it, for her frown grew ponderous.
Almost desperate now, he said, “Either Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart are precisely what they claim—or they are not. If they are, their conduct is inexplicable. If they are not, then we must ask what they gain by carrying you away.”
“Carrying me away?” she hissed. “They are escorting me to London. If I am not a princess as you assert, then I am merely Miss Bennet of Longbourn. Why would anyone go to such lengths to convince me that I am born of a royal lineage if I am not?”
He stared at her. Did she truly not see it? “It is only necessary that others may be persuaded that you are.” There were many methods by which they could make her profitable to them, most of which did not bear thinking about.
“Why would my family tell me that I am a princess if I am not?” she inquired.
“I do not know. I assume—”
“You assume a great deal,” she said. “You assume that my uncle, who has raised me as his own daughter, has lied to me all my life. You assume that Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart are villains. You assume I have no judgement. You assume—”
“I assume,” he cut in, “that you are quick and brave and unused to suspecting ill in others, and that you have an unsettling tendency to laugh at danger.”
“I do not laugh at danger,” she retorted. “I only refuse to imagine it behind every bush.”
“That is not what I—”
She flung him a look that was half anger, half hurt. “You think me a fool.”
“I do not—”
“Oh, but you do,” she said. “If I had any sense at all, I would know that it was impossible for me to be a princess. That is what you are thinking.”
Frustration snapped the last of his restraint. “Allow me to finish, if you please.”
She waited, but he could see that he had lost her.
“If you had more sense,” he burst out in a harsh whisper, “you would stay where you are known and loved, instead of trusting your future to the first man who calls himself a king’s envoy!”
Darcy leaned towards her as though drawn by an invisible string, placing one hand against the wall beside her head, trapping himself as much as her.
His eyes were upon her lips and he bent his head.
Her breath came in short puffs as her eyes met his.
They remained there, caught in the terrible space between wanting and having, until a door slammed downstairs and Darcy’s last shred of reason reasserted itself with brutal force.
“I cannot,” he said, voice rough and low. She was not a princess. He could not allow himself to give in to his feelings for her until she admitted that or simply realised that it was not true. He pushed himself back from the wall. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely.
Elizabeth stared at him, colour high, eyes suddenly bright.
Darcy wished he could take it all back. That he could make her believe him. It struck him then, that she must feel the same way about him.
But he was right.
Elizabeth recovered first. “I thank you for your courage in the hollow,” she said before he could order his thoughts and speak again.
“But I must beg your pardon, I had not understood that your assessment of my judgement was quite so poor. I will take care not to trouble you with the expression of it again.”
“Miss Bennet—”
“You have made your opinion abundantly clear,” she went on.
“You think me reckless, easily deceived, in need of your superior guidance. I, in turn, cannot adopt your habit of suspecting the worst of everyone I meet. Sir Reginald was an envoy for the Thurnian court four years ago; he is an envoy for the Thurnian court today. I am afraid we must be content to differ.”
He wanted to say that was not what he thought of her at all; that he admired her character more than any woman he knew; that it was precisely because he valued her so highly that he could not bear to see her risk herself.
The words jammed in his throat. Pride, temper, something ugly and ungenerous, all tangled together.
He bowed, as far as he could in their close quarters. “Very well, madam. Good evening.”
Her curtsy matched his bow for cold propriety. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy turned toward his chamber, leaving her there atop the staircase. Every step away from her felt like a mistake, but he could not make himself turn back.
She did not understand him. Worse—it was his fault.
He entered his chamber, where the fire had been made up and a teapot with a single cup waited on the table by the hearth.
Everything was in its place. Only his thoughts refused to follow the example.
He shrugged out of his coat and sat, staring into the flames. The quarrel on the landing replayed itself without his leave.
He had not meant to accuse her uncle of any nefarious behaviour. Yet he had.
If he could not make her see, he would simply have to be on his guard in the carriage tomorrow. He did not relish travelling with Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart, but it was better that the entire party ride in his carriage with his coachmen. At the least, he could see Elizabeth safely to her family.
Not Elizabeth. Miss Bennet.
The fire burned a little too high. He rose, took up the poker more for occupation than need, and shifted a log. As he turned back, his eye fell upon the teapot. He had requested tea earlier in the evening, and the innkeeper must have had it sent up.
He poured. The liquid was dark and unpromising, the smell flat with having steeped too long. He lifted the cup and drank.
Bitterness bit at the back of his tongue. He paused, the cup hovering, and tasted again as if the second mouthful might contradict the first. It did not.
His stomach tightened. He set the cup down with care, as though a sudden movement might spill guilt upon the cloth.
He unknotted his cravat. One angry woman had discomposed him more thoroughly than a crowded ballroom ever had.
No matter. He had done what he could with words. Tomorrow he would act.
He laid out a fresh shirt, clean linen, stockings. He would rise before the rest of the house and present himself at breakfast with his resolution already formed. Whatever the envoy intended, Miss Bennet would be in the Darcy carriage, and Darcy would escort her to London.
He sat near the fire and told himself that his intention to see her to her relations was his duty; that it was not the unwillingness to part from her with her eyes so hard and her words so cool.
The room seemed warmer than it had been a quarter of an hour ago. The fire had died down, yet a heavy heat pressed against his eyelids. He shifted in the chair and found the movement slower than it ought to have been—as though his limbs lagged a fraction behind his will.
His eyes went again to the teacup.
Nonsense, a part of him insisted at once, but the bitter taste would not leave him. His heart gave one hard, resentful beat.
No.
He pushed himself up at once. The chair creaked; his knees straightened—and then, traitorously, softened.
The room tilted. He caught the edge of the table, meaning to steady himself, but his hand slid as if the polish were oil.
He sank back into the chair, more heavily than he intended, breath coming short.
Poison? Drug? The word would not fully form, but the certainty was there, cold and immediate.
He must call someone.
Darcy dragged air into his lungs and tried to raise his voice. “Help—” It came out as a rough, broken syllable. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder, summoning command as he did at Pemberley. “I require help—”
The sound barely reached the far side of the room.
His arms felt oddly heavy. The air thickened; each breath came deeper, heavier. He set his palm against the chair’s arm to rise again, stubbornly refusing to accept the weakness, but his hand would not obey as it ought. His fingers tingled, then dulled.
He stared at the cup, at the dark surface in which the firelight trembled. Bitter. Too bitter. He was always so careful, but the quarrel had distracted him. Now he was paying for that moment of inattention.
Elizabeth. In danger. The thoughts came sluggish and distant. He had to warn her. Had to get up, had to—but his body was lead, his mind scattering like smoke. She would be alone with them. Unprotected.
His head drooped forward, jerked up once, then sank again. The room narrowed to a circle of wavering light. Then even that was gone as his eyes closed and he slid helplessly into darkness with the full knowledge of what it meant.