Chapter 10 #2
Elizabeth exhaled sharply and glanced again toward the stagecoach. “Mr Darcy, I do appreciate your concern, but the matter is already decided.”
“No,” he said evenly, “it is not.”
Her eyes flashed. “You are remarkably determined for a man who, only moments ago, accused another of disregarding my wishes.”
The words struck accurately enough that Darcy checked himself.
Elizabeth saw it. For one moment, neither spoke.
Then Darcy said, more quietly, “There is a difference between overruling your judgment and refusing to leave you exposed to unnecessary danger.”
“And who is to determine which is which?”
“I am,” he replied.
Elizabeth looked deeply indignant. “That is an extraordinarily arrogant thing to say.”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “I suppose it is.”
The immediate agreement startled her enough that some of the tension shifted from her expression.
Darcy continued before she could object again. “You are exhausted, distressed, and travelling under circumstances which could very easily produce scandal even if nothing worse occurs. I will not stand here and permit it when another solution exists.”
Elizabeth frowned. “What other solution?”
“My carriage.”
She blinked at him. “You cannot mean that seriously.”
“I mean it entirely seriously.”
“Mr Darcy, that is a very generous offer, but as far as propriety is concerned, it would be infinitely worse.”
“It would be worse if you travelled alone with me,” he corrected.
“Which I would be, as there is no other person present.”
“Which you shall not,” Darcy said, already thinking of the practicalities. “There are female servants at Netherfield.”
Elizabeth stared at him as understanding slowly dawned. “You intend to bring a chaperone.”
“Yes.”
“And explain my presence how?”
“As exactly what it will be,” Darcy replied. “A visit to your relations in London.”
Elizabeth looked unconvinced. “People are not generally collected from coaching inns by unmarried gentlemen for entirely innocent journeys.”
“No,” Darcy said dryly, “which is why people must also be given an explanation sufficiently dull that they lose interest in discussing it.”
To his relief, the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. Darcy continued more briskly. “One of the Netherfield servants will accompany you. Preferably one inclined toward conversation.”
Elizabeth looked at him oddly. “You wish for a gossip?”
“Very much.”
Something close to genuine amusement flickered properly across her face. “That may be the most practical thing I have ever heard you say.”
“I assure you, necessity has greatly expanded my appreciation for gossip.”
The coachman gave his last call for passengers. Neither moved toward the stage.
Elizabeth studied Darcy for several long seconds, searching his expression with visible uncertainty. “You would involve yourself in this?” she asked at last. “Knowingly?”
“Yes.”
“You understand what people might assume, and what the consequences might be.”
“I do.”
“And yet you persist.”
Darcy held her gaze steadily. “The alternative is unacceptable.”
Elizabeth looked away first.
The noise of the street was all around them. Horses stamped against the frozen ground. A woman carrying parcels crossed toward the bakery opposite the inn. Somewhere nearby, a church bell struck the quarter hour.
Everything continued with unbearable normalcy.
Darcy watched Elizabeth’s expression shift through hesitation, calculation, and something dangerously close to exhaustion again.
“You are asking me to place a great deal of trust in you,” she said at last.
The quietness of the question unsettled him as nothing else could have done. “You may,” he replied simply. “I swear it.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lifted to his again.
Darcy regretted the words almost immediately. Not because the sentiment was untrue. Because it was too true.
He drew a controlled breath. “You know Netherfield’s servants already,” he continued more steadily. “No impropriety need arise from the arrangement if it is properly managed.”
Elizabeth remained silent.
Darcy could see her weighing alternatives. The stagecoach beside them. London alone. Public curiosity. Fatigue. Fear. Pride.
And then, finally, reason. “There is one servant,” she said slowly, “who might answer your purpose particularly well.”
Darcy waited.
“Edith Smith.”
The name meant nothing to him.
“She is cousin to Sarah Smith at Longbourn,” Elizabeth explained. “Therefore, she is friendly with my family. Better still, Edith is extremely fond of gossip, and entirely incapable of keeping silent when presented with information she believes herself privileged to know.”
Darcy considered this. “Excellent.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “You say that with alarming enthusiasm.”
“Miss Bennet, at present I would welcome a servant capable of spreading precisely the story we require to every drawing room in Hertfordshire before tomorrow evening.”
Against all expectation, Elizabeth laughed. Not fully. The sound carried too much strain beneath it for that. But it was real enough to ease something in Darcy’s chest he had not realised remained tightly drawn.
Good God. His heart raced merely to hear her laugh. The thought was profoundly unsettling.
Darcy ignored it completely. “Very well,” he said briskly. “You will wait here.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “That sounded dangerously like an instruction.”
“It was an instruction.”
“You grow tyrannical very quickly.”
“You may accuse me of tyranny after you are safely out of Hertfordshire.”
A flicker of reluctant amusement crossed her face again.
Darcy stepped back, already preparing mentally for the necessary arrangements. The carriage. The servant. An explanation for Bingley. Another for the servants. Timing.
The entire situation bordered on madness. He should never have involved himself in it. He knew that perfectly well.
A gentleman did not escort an unmarried woman secretly to London after discovering her alone beside a public stagecoach fleeing an unwanted marriage. The circumstances invited misunderstanding from every possible direction.
And yet the thought of leaving Elizabeth Bennet there and riding calmly away was so intolerable that he could not consider it even for a moment.
His gaze returned to her once more.
She stood exactly where he had left her, one hand still tightly wrapped around the handle of her travelling bag, the pale morning wind stirring loose strands of dark hair near her temple. She looked composed from a distance.
Only now did he understand how much effort that composure cost her. Something tightened sharply in his chest. It was not pity. He wished very much that it were.
Darcy inclined his head. “I shall return shortly.”
Then he turned sharply and strode toward his horse with considerably more haste than dignity.
By the time he reached the saddle, one alarming truth had forced itself into perfect clarity. The idea of Elizabeth Bennet marrying a fool like Mr Collins was utterly unbearable.
Worse still, Darcy was beginning to suspect that the idea of Elizabeth Bennet marrying anyone but himself might become unbearable as well.