Chapter 25
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Even after certain delays in rising that morning, their carriage left London before the city was properly awake and bustling. Hooves struck quickly over the road, sharp in the quiet, and the carriage moved south with all the speed Darcy had been able to command.
As the outskirts of London gave way to the countryside, Elizabeth slept against him.
At first, she had resisted sleep, insisting with admirable firmness that she was not tired, that she had slept perfectly well, and that there was no reason he should suppose her unequal to a morning’s travel after only one day of marriage.
Ten minutes later, her head had come to rest against his shoulder, and not long after that, her hand had gone slack in his.
Darcy had not moved since. He held her carefully, one arm around her shoulders, his other hand resting over hers, and looked down at her with a feeling so deep and quiet that it had no immediate name.
His wife. The word still startled him. It seemed at once too new to be believed and so right that he could not imagine how he had existed without it.
He had heard her called Mrs Darcy the day before, spoken by servants, by Bingley, by Mrs Gardiner, and by Georgiana in a tone of triumphant delight.
Each time, it had struck him with fresh force.
Elizabeth was his wife. She had stood beside him before God and man, had placed her hand in his, and had spoken the words that bound them together for the rest of their lives.
And now, less than a day later, he was carrying her away from London in pursuit of her missing father.
It was not the beginning he would have chosen for her. Had he been free to arrange the matter according to his own wishes, he would have taken her to Pemberley first. He would have shown her the house properly, no longer merely as a guest, but as its mistress.
Darcy would have watched her walk through the gallery, the library, the music room, and the gardens she had already begun to love. He would have given her quiet days. He would have given her safety. Instead, she had been given a hurried wedding, a cold morning, and the road to Portsmouth.
Elizabeth shifted slightly in her sleep, and Darcy lowered his cheek briefly to her hair.
The thought was unjust, and he knew it almost as soon as it came.
He had not given her this trouble. Mr Collins had done that.
Mr Bennet, in his own careless way, had done some part of it as well.
Darcy had given her what he could: his name, his heart, and every effort he possessed.
It would have to be enough, if only until he could give her more.
Sleep was a mercy for her. Wakefulness left Darcy with the road, the woman beside him, and the facts of a search that had grown more uncertain with each passing day.
He had begun the moment Elizabeth had shown him the express that made the danger plain.
Before they left London for the licence, he had sent men to every place Mr Bennet might reasonably have gone.
The coaching inns near Gracechurch Street, the public houses most frequented by travellers from Hertfordshire, the post houses on the road south, and the few acquaintances in town whose names Elizabeth could supply.
There had been no neat answer waiting for them.
After so many months, too much had faded.
Innkeepers remembered gentlemen badly unless they had caused trouble, spent lavishly, or died in their beds.
Drivers remembered faces only when those faces were attached to unusual complaints, missing luggage, or unpaid fares.
Mr Bennet, Darcy had learned with increasing frustration, had a remarkable talent for passing through the world without leaving much trace behind.
Yet the search had not been useless. No body matching Mr Bennet’s description had been reported on the London roads.
No nameless gentleman from Hertfordshire had been found in the hospitals Darcy’s men had visited.
No watchman or magistrate had recorded any death that could be easily connected to him.
It was not proof of safety. Darcy would not insult Elizabeth by pretending it was.
But it could have been worse. In a search this thin, the absence of the worst news had to count for something.
More importantly, Mr Bennet had come to London.
That much was nearly certain. One driver recalled taking up a gentleman near Meryton who had asked for Gracechurch Street and had spoken little for the rest of the journey.
The description was imperfect, but close enough to matter.
Another man, employed at a posting house south of the river, believed he had seen the same gentleman some days later, this time asking about coaches bound toward the coast.
Darcy looked down at Elizabeth, sleeping so peacefully and trustingly against him, and felt his arm tighten around her before he could stop it.
Portsmouth was the most likely name to emerge from the confused accounts.
One public stage driver, after much pressing and more coin than the information was probably worth, had admitted that he might have carried such a gentleman part of the way.
The man was not certain. He had carried a great many passengers.
He remembered only that the gentleman had been quiet, had asked no questions until Portsmouth was mentioned, and had then paid particular attention.
If that man was Mr Bennet, then he had not merely wandered from London.
He had chosen a direction. A man might go to Portsmouth for many innocent reasons.
A port town had business enough for every class of traveller.
There were officers, ships, merchants, brokers, sailors, families waiting for news, and men who wished to disappear among all of them.
More than the noise and confusion of the town, that possibility troubled Darcy most. A man might also leave England from Portsmouth.
He had not said this plainly to Elizabeth.
Not yet. There was no kindness in offering the darkest possibility before it had substance enough to stand on.
But the thought had travelled with him since the moment the driver named the place, and it sat now like a stone beneath his ribs.
If Mr Bennet had gone abroad, the search would become something far more difficult.
If he had gone aboard a ship under another name, it might become nearly impossible.
Elizabeth stirred when the carriage struck a rougher portion of road.
Darcy loosened his hold at once, though he did not release her. “Forgive me. Did I wake you?”
She blinked, looked first at the carriage window, then up at him. Her expression softened. “No,” she said. “Or rather, the road did. You are blameless for once.”
“For once?”
“I am newly married. I believe I am entitled to speak with great authority on the subject of your faults.”
“After less than a day?”
“I am a quick study.”
He smiled despite himself. “Then I shall be careful.”
“I hope not too careful.” She shifted slightly, but did not move away from him. “How long did I sleep?”
“Nearly an hour.”
“So long?” She straightened, though her hand remained in his. “You should have woken me.”
“You needed the rest.”
“I need to be useful.”
“You are useful asleep if sleep keeps you from collapsing before we reach Portsmouth.”
Elizabeth gave him a look of mild reproach, but there was no force behind it. “That is very sensible, which makes it difficult to object.”
“I shall try not to make a habit of it.”
She looked out at the pale morning beyond the glass.
The fields were beginning to brighten, hedgerows slipping past in quick succession, everything washed in the cool light of early day.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then her face changed, and Darcy knew the whole of it had returned to her: the wedding, the journey, her father.
“When we arrive,” she said, “what shall we do first?”
“I have sent word ahead to make enquiries at the principal inns and posting houses. If Mr Bennet passed through Portsmouth under his own name, we may learn it quickly.”
“And if he did not?”
“Then we ask more widely. Public houses, livery stables, the harbour, any place where a gentleman travelling alone might have been noticed.”
“Sea captains?” she asked.
“Yes. Captains, agents, brokers, anyone connected with passenger vessels. If he sought passage, someone may remember him.”
She absorbed this quietly, though he could see what it cost her. “You think he may have left England.”
“I think it is possible,” he said. He would not lie to her. Not now. Not ever, if he could help it. “But possible is not certain.”
“No.” Her fingers tightened around his. “No, it is not.”
“A port town offers many explanations. Your father may have some business dealings there. He may have meant to return and been delayed. He may have fallen ill under another name, or taken lodging where no one thought to connect him to Hertfordshire.”
“You are attempting to give me several possibilities that are not dreadful.”
“I am attempting to give you true ones.”
That steadied her more than comfort would have done. She leaned back against him, though her eyes remained open now. “I am so glad I came with you.”
“I am glad as well.”
“You need not say so merely because I am your wife and must now be humoured.”
“I do not humour you nearly as often as you seem to think.”
“Good,” she said with a sigh. “I would not have this searched jeopardised by my whims, nor even my desire never to be parted from you.”
He looked down at her, and for a moment the road, the search, and every fear attached to Portsmouth receded. “Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “you will not slow me down.”
She stilled.
“I know you were thinking it,” he continued. “You need not be ashamed of the thought, but you must not believe it. Some people may refuse a servant or distrust a gentleman. They may answer a daughter more readily.”
Her eyes shone, though she did not cry. “You truly think so?”
“I do.”
“And if they pity me?”