Chapter Eighteen #2
Sir Reginald handed Mrs. Hobart in first. The companion arranged herself with a soft grunt of effort, then made herself as large as possible by the simple method of spreading her skirts and shawls about her.
Elizabeth followed, gathering her own cloak close to make room.
Her hip pressed firmly against Mrs. Hobart’s.
Sir Reginald entered after them. After a moment arranging himself, he rapped the brass end of his cane against the roof and the carriage rolled forward.
Elizabeth did not look back.
The carriage wheels hummed where they turned onto the Great North Road and the surface grew smoother. Mrs. Hobart’s head drooped a little, but Elizabeth’s thoughts refused to be quiet.
She imagined another conversation on the landing. One in which she had held her temper and said, “Let us examine the matter together, Mr. Darcy. Let us suppose my story is true, and then see where it leads us,” instead of defending every point as if it were an attack upon her honour.
The coach felt smaller with every mile. The air seemed thin, as though she could not draw enough of it into her lungs. She turned her face to the window.
“Miss Bennet?”
Sir Reginald’s voice recalled her.
She turned back. “Yes?”
“You have been very brave these past days, but bravery is no defence against fatigue. If you would prefer to sleep, please do not feel you must maintain appearances with me.”
She forced a little smile. “Pray do not concern yourself on my account. I am well. The fields we pass put me in mind of Hertfordshire. I was thinking of my family.”
“That is natural,” he said gently. “But I hope you will recall that you carry their hopes with you.”
Mamma’s hopes for her daughters. Elizabeth was here for her sisters. Sir Reginald was quite right, it would be best if she focused upon that.
She did try, but each time she made the attempt, her thoughts returned to Mr. Darcy.
Perhaps they would meet again in London.
Perhaps, if she ever came back to England, she would see him one day in a drawing-room or in a theatre box, and they would be obliged to bow and curtsy and exchange polite nothings, as though they had never sat next to one another in a coach or squabbled in close quarters or nearly kissed.
Perhaps.
Or perhaps she had seen him for the last time when he had stood, candle in hand, on that narrow landing and told her that she was a fool. Yet the more she repeated the words to herself, the less certain she felt of anything.
It was intolerable, to sit so close to the others and yet feel so restless. She straightened a fold of her shawl and forced her gaze from the dim pane.
“Sir Reginald,” she began.
He looked up at once. “Yes?”
“I have been thinking of all that has passed,” she said. “Of the trouble I have been, and the inconveniences you have borne on my account. You should know that when we are safely in London, I will write to my grandfather and assure him that none of it was your fault.”
Mrs. Hobart, who had been dozing, stirred. Sir Reginald, however, did not at first speak. His eyes, usually so calm, widened. “I thank you.”
If she had been hoping for a reaction, one that might tell her whether Mr. Darcy’s concerns had merit, she was disappointed. “Not at all.”
They each turned their gazes to their respective windows.
After a time, Mrs. Hobart straightened and looked at Elizabeth. “You are pale. I hope you are not feeling unwell.”
“I am quite well,” Elizabeth said, and rested her head against the side of the carriage so that she would not be required to converse further. She fought to keep her eyes open, but her restless night overcame her at last.
She must have dozed, for when the carriage lurched over a particularly deep rut, she realised the light had brightened through the clouds.
She straightened and looked out. The road had narrowed considerably.
On either side, trees pressed close, their branches bare and reaching.
This did not look like the Great North Road.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Sir Reginald glanced up from the document he had been reading. “We have taken a turning, Miss Bennet. There were reports of heavy drifts upon the main road ahead. This route will add perhaps an hour to our journey, but it seemed the wiser course.”
Mrs. Hobart nodded. “Better to arrive late than not at all.”
Elizabeth looked out again. The road was little more than a lane. No other travellers were visible. The trees seemed to close in overhead, blocking what little sun remained.
“I did not see any drifts,” she said slowly. “The road appeared quite clear when last I looked.”
“The drifts were several miles ahead,” Sir Reginald said.
“I see.” Elizabeth’s hands tightened in her lap.
Mrs. Hobart met Sir Reginald’s eyes across the carriage. It was the briefest of glances, but Elizabeth caught it—a look of understanding, almost . . . complicity. Mrs. Hobart’s mouth curved in the smallest of smiles before she turned her face to the window.
Elizabeth thought of Mr. Darcy’s questions about Sir Reginald’s hired men, about Mrs. Hobart’s incomplete knowledge of the royal family, about why they would travel in winter at all. She thought of his face on the landing, frustrated and certain.
He had doubted her identity, her honesty, her character. He had been wrong about her.
But he might not have been wrong about everything.
The coach rolled on. Before the day was over, Elizabeth meant to know in whose hands she truly travelled.