Chapter X #2
By the time Lambton appeared before him, his horse had begun to show signs of the pace at which he had travelled; but Darcy did not notice it. He dismounted almost before the groom had properly reached him and entered the inn without waiting to be announced.
The innkeeper himself came forward, his expression betraying visible embarrassment. “Mr. Darcy, sir, I was just preparing to send to Pemberley.”
Darcy stopped. A sensation colder than alarm passed through him.
“The Gardiners?”
“They are gone, sir.”
At first, he said nothing at all. “Gone?”
“Yes, sir. Left about two hours ago in very great haste.”
Darcy looked at him steadily. “Why was no message sent?”
The innkeeper coloured deeply. “One of the stable lads was taken ill this morning, sir, and the other was out with the post-chaise. I intended – I was just preparing – to send word myself.”
Darcy mastered himself with visible effort. “They left no explanation?”
“Oh, yes, sir. A note was left for you by Mrs. Gardiner.”
The man hastened towards the desk and returned with a sealed note.
His hand closed upon it more quickly than composure perhaps required.
For a brief instant, before opening it, he became conscious of a wholly unreasonable hope – that some minor inconvenience alone had intervened; that the visit was merely postponed; that within a few lines all uncertainty would be resolved.
He broke the seal.
The note was short. Too short.
Mrs. Gardiner wrote with every proper expression of regret and gratitude, but the brevity itself betrayed agitation. Urgent family business. Immediate departure. Deep apologies. Great disappointment at being prevented from accepting the kindness intended them. Nothing more.
Darcy read it twice. Then a third time.
The words themselves conveyed little; yet beneath their studied propriety, he felt distinctly that something serious had occurred.
The innkeeper, meanwhile, lingered nearby with the uneasy air of a man uncertain whether further explanation might still be demanded.
“They appeared in considerable haste. Servants packing everywhere, fresh horses called for directly…”
“Did Miss Bennet seem unwell?” The question escaped him before reflection intervened.
The innkeeper hesitated. “Distressed, perhaps, sir.”
Darcy’s eyes lifted sharply. “Distressed?”
“Well… yes, sir. The young lady appeared greatly agitated. Crying, I believe.”
For one suspended moment, Darcy forgot the other man’s presence.
Elizabeth crying.
The image would not leave him.
Something serious indeed had happened. Something far more important than any disappointment of his own.
Darcy folded the note carefully.
His first sensation, strangely enough, was not disappointment for himself.
It was fear for her.
He remembered now every shade of expression in her countenance the day before: the gradual softening of reserve, the effort towards composure, the quiet sincerity with which she had said: “So am I.”
No, she would not have left willingly. Or rather, he could not endure to believe she had.
That she might, after reflection, have repented the openness of yesterday; that she might have awakened this morning ashamed of having encouraged attentions she did not wish renewed – such possibilities forced themselves upon him with cruel persistence.
He rejected them almost instantly.
The agitation described by the innkeeper, the haste of the departure, the brevity of Mrs. Gardiner’s note – all spoke too plainly of some sudden distress.
Yet the other fear, unreasonable as he knew it to be, would not entirely release him.
Whatever had called her away must have done so with violence enough to overcome inclination, expectation, propriety – everything.
“Did they mention their direction?” he asked in a low voice.
“South, sir. Towards London, I believe.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly.
The innkeeper shifted uneasily. “I am very sorry, sir.”
Darcy seemed only just to hear him. His eyes had lowered once more to the note in his hand.
Only yesterday, he had permitted himself – for the first time since Hunsford – to hope.
The hope had been cautious, restrained, admitted almost against his will, yet it had existed. And because it had existed, its sudden interruption now left behind a sensation peculiarly empty and uncertain.
Not lost, perhaps, but withdrawn again beyond his reach.
After a long silence, he placed the note carefully within his coat.
“Thank you,” he said with restored composure. “You could not have acted otherwise.”
The civility of the response appeared only to increase the innkeeper’s discomfort.
Darcy turned towards the door.
Then paused.
“One thing more. If any further communication should arrive for me regarding the Gardiners or Miss Bennet, it is to be sent instantly to Pemberley.”
“Yes, sir. At once.”
Darcy bowed slightly and departed.
Outside, the afternoon appeared exactly as before – the same bright sunlight upon the street, the same quiet movement among the shops, while his own expectations had altered entirely.
For several moments after mounting, he remained motionless.
Only that morning, he had imagined showing her the house. He had imagined seeing her with Georgiana again. Hearing her laugh. Watching her walk through rooms she had once refused even to visit.
The plans now appeared almost absurd in their simplicity. Yet the sudden impossibility of them struck him with force.
He drew a slow breath and released it unsteadily.
It was unlike him to build expectations upon so little.
More unlike him still to feel their loss so keenly.
Then, at last, with one final glance towards the inn windows, he turned back towards Pemberley.