Chapter Twenty
The coach rolled on, and Elizabeth had never felt more alert.
Eventually, Sir Reginald cleared his throat. “There is a little inn upon this way, rough in its manners, but tolerable in its comforts. We shall stop there to rest the horses and take some refreshment. After that, I trust we shall make more cheerful progress.”
Elizabeth pressed her thumb more firmly along the seam of her glove. A rough little inn, known to Sir Reginald by name though he had come only recently from Thurnia.
Or so he said.
The hedge fell away on one side, revealing a slope of white broken by a few low houses, their roofs dark under the snow. Chimneys sent up thin threads of smoke. Somewhere a dog barked, then another answered. The sky settled into a flat, heavy grey.
“We have arrived,” Sir Reginald said.
The coach swung through a gap in a low wall into a cramped inn-yard.
A shaggy dog rose from beneath the water-trough, barked once in a perfunctory manner, then slunk away.
Two ostlers hurried out, stamping their feet.
One had a scarf wound about his neck to his ears; the other’s nose was as red as if it had been polished.
Both stared at the carriage with frank curiosity, but when Sir Reginald let down the window to speak to them, their manner altered. They were quick and respectful.
“Fresh team ready, sir?” the man with the scarf asked, as if the question were a formality rather than a doubt. “We have four yonder.”
“Very good,” Sir Reginald said. “Change them and give the spent horses a feed. We shall take a hot meal inside and be away again.”
“They’ll be ready, sir,” the other replied, already moving towards the leaders.
There had been no talk of names, no astonishment at his orders, only an easy obedience that seemed . . . expected.
Mrs. Hobart nudged Elizabeth and nodded toward the door.
The house itself was low, its roofline sagging here and there, as if the weight of snow had pressed upon it too often.
Smoke grimed the plaster near the chimneys.
The windows were small and set deep, like eyes that watched everything before it.
The inn-door opened, and a stout man with a rag over his arm came forward, wiping his hands as he bowed.
“Good day to you, Sir,” he said, his gaze travelling from Sir Reginald’s coat to the carriage and then to Mrs. Hobart and Elizabeth. It lingered long enough upon Elizabeth to make her look away. It was not improper, exactly, but it was shrewd.
“You are the landlord?” Sir Reginald inquired.
A smile played upon the man’s lips. “Mr. Briggs, Sir, at your service. We have a parlour ready, if you are minded to take something hot while my men change the horses.”
“You are very obliging, Mr. Briggs,” Sir Reginald replied. “Whatever your kitchen can contrive in haste. We shall not trouble you long.”
“You shall have the best available, Sir,” the man said at once. “Mrs. Briggs will see to the ladies.”
Whether the landlord’s eagerness sprang from an acquaintance with Sir Reginald, or only from the sight of a well-hung carriage and a gentleman who spoke as if he expected to be served, Elizabeth could not determine.
The ostlers were already at work, shouting, laughing, tugging at buckles.
A woman she thought must be Mrs. Briggs greeted them as they entered. “This way, ma’am. Miss.”
Inside, the passage smelled of old beer and boiled onions.
Rushes lay upon the floor in a patchy manner, worn thin where many feet had trodden.
Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the taproom as they passed the open door: low ceiling, smoke-blackened beams, a fire that smoked more than it burned, a few men in rough coats at the tables with pewter pots before them.
Conversation dropped as Mrs. Hobart and Elizabeth went by, then rose again with a changed note.
She could not hear the words, only the shift in them.
The parlour to which Mrs. Briggs led them contained a fire that had been poked into grudging activity, a square table with a clean but coarse cloth, two chairs, a settee, and a cracked looking-glass over the mantelpiece that reflected the room in a wavering, unreliable fashion.
“It is very snug,” Mrs. Hobart said, with a gallant little shiver. “Quite a pretty room. Do you not think so, my dear?”
“It will serve us well, I am sure,” Elizabeth answered. Privately, she thought that Mrs. Hobart had complained about much nicer rooms than this.
She went at once to the small window, as if she merely wished to admire the snow. In truth she looked keenly to see whether there was any other house nearby that might offer a refuge. But there was nothing.
Sir Reginald removed his gloves with unhurried care.
“I must speak with Mr. Briggs about the road and the horses,” he said. “Ladies, I entreat you to warm yourselves. You will be served directly. If you have any orders for the kitchen, leave them with Mrs. Briggs.”
He smiled, collected his gloves, and left the room. Elizabeth had the odd sensation that he took a little of the air with him.
Mrs. Hobart sank into the nearest chair and stretched her hands towards the fire.
“To think of being here, upon a lonely road, in the care of such a gentleman. Would you ring the bell, dear? I should like some hot tea and a little something to eat. Travel is so exhausting to those who are no longer young.”
Elizabeth obeyed. When Mrs. Briggs answered, Elizabeth stepped a little forward.
“If you please, Mrs. Briggs,” she said in a composed tone once she had asked for tea and whatever food the kitchen might send, “might you also procure for me a small quantity of paper, a pen and ink? I have a letter which I am most anxious to write.”
Mrs. Briggs’s round face drew itself into an expression of distress. “Paper, Miss? Oh dear, we are quite out. We have a little for Mr. Briggs’s accounts, but it is not fit for a lady to write upon. As for ink, the last we had turned thick as treacle, and there is no stationer in the village.”
“Is there not a parsonage near, where such things might be borrowed?” Elizabeth asked. “Or a magistrate? I should be much obliged.”
Mrs. Briggs shook her head. “The parson lives three miles off, and the road that way is shocking. Mr. Briggs is churchwarden, and he will not send a horse there till the thaw. My apologies miss, but there is none to be had.”
As the woman turned to go, the door stood open long enough for Elizabeth to see the bar: a large account book upon it, spread wide, and upon its page a dark, glistening stroke that looked like fresh ink.
She said nothing. To call attention to it would be to accuse Mrs. Briggs of falsehood.
If the woman lied, Elizabeth thought it might not be on her own account.
“Then I must wait,” Elizabeth said. “I thank you for your trouble.”
She slid her hand into her cloak pocket in search of a handkerchief. Instead of linen, her fingers met something hard and smooth.
For a moment she did not understand. Then the scene rose before her mind as sharply as if she were again yanking down that ridiculous pile of mattresses, dried peas bouncing in every direction.
The peas. They were still in her pelisse; she had decided to keep them and see whether they would grow. And Mr. Darcy knew she had them.
Not that Mr. Darcy would ever see her message, she chided herself. He was on his way to London.
An idea struck her, hard and sudden—had that been a lie as well? Had they somehow delayed Mr. Darcy to keep him from accompanying them? Her heart beat fast enough to hurt, and for a moment it was difficult to breathe.
The dried peas were rough against her palm.
As they waited in the passage for the coach to be brought round, Mrs. Hobart busy scolding the post-boy for the draught and Sir Reginald speaking low with Mrs. Briggs, Elizabeth caught the maid’s eye and beckoned her a little aside.
“If a gentleman comes asking for me,” she whispered, keeping her back towards the others, “you are to tell him that I am Miss Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire. He will be Mr. Darcy of Pemberley,”
She dipped her hand into her pocket and poured most of the dried peas into the girl’s palm. The girl stared at them, then at Elizabeth.
“If he questions you,” Elizabeth said, closing the maid’s fingers gently over them, “you may show him these. He will understand.”
Before the maid could speak, Mrs. Hobart bustled over and urged her to the door. Sir Reginald offered his arm. Elizabeth allowed herself to be handed into the coach once more and took her place upon the worn squabs.
She was heartily sick of carriages.