Chapter 25 #2
“Then we shall make use of their pity.”
That drew the faintest smile from her. “You are ruthless, Mr Darcy.”
“Where your father is concerned, I mean to be.”
She studied him for a moment, and whatever she found seemed to settle something inside her. “I love you,” she said.
He had heard the words from her before. He had heard them yesterday, and he hoped to hear them every day for as long as he lived. Still, they struck him with the same quiet force each time.
He lifted her hand and kissed it. “And I love you.”
“Even after I slept through the first part of our heroic pursuit?”
“Especially then. It gave me an hour in which I was not contradicted.”
“That must have been very restful for you.”
“Immensely.”
She laughed softly and rested against him once more, not sleeping now, but content for a little while to let the road carry them south.
They stopped near midday at an inn along the road. Loath as Darcy was to lose the time, the trail was already months cold, and nothing would be lost by an hour’s delay. Elizabeth had eaten very little before they left London, and he would not have her reach Portsmouth exhausted.
The meal was brief: bread, cold meat, cheese, and tea served in a private parlour that looked out over the yard, where horses were being changed and ostlers moved briskly through the noise and steam of travel.
Elizabeth ate because he asked her to, and because, after one look in his direction, she seemed to decide that becoming faint before Portsmouth would not advance the search.
“You are watching me,” she said, taking up her cup.
“I am.”
“Is that to be a habit?”
“Very likely.”
“Then I shall have to become accustomed to being observed while eating cold beef.”
“I have every confidence in you.”
That made her smile, which had been his intention. It lasted only a moment, but it was enough.
They were on the road again before the hour had fully passed.
The rest of the journey offered little comfort.
The day brightened, then warmed, and the air in the carriage grew close.
Elizabeth did not sleep again. Sometimes she spoke, sometimes she fell into long stretches of silence, her eyes fixed on the passing road as if she might hurry the horses by force of will.
Darcy knew better than to interrupt those silences too often. He had learned already that Elizabeth did not always wish to be soothed. Sometimes she wished only to be trusted with her own fears.
By the time Portsmouth came into view, the sun had begun to lower, and the character of the road had changed.
There was more traffic now, more noise, more signs of a town shaped by the sea.
Carts loaded with goods rattled past them.
Sailors moved in groups along the streets.
The air carried salt, smoke, fish, tar, and the damp closeness of a harbour crowded with ships and men and business.
Elizabeth leaned nearer to the window. “So many people.”
“Yes.”
“He could be here and yet impossible to find.”
“He could be here,” Darcy said. “That is the part we shall begin with.”
She turned from the window and looked at him. Whatever answer she saw in his face seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded once and sat back.
The inn Darcy had chosen stood on one of the better streets, respectable enough to receive a gentleman and his wife properly, and near enough to the principal routes of travel that enquiries could begin at once.
His servant had ridden ahead and secured rooms, and by the time the carriage drew up, the innkeeper himself was waiting near the entrance with the careful attention due to wealth and good horses.
Darcy handed Elizabeth down. Her fingers tightened briefly on his before she released him.
Inside, the inn was clean, busy, and full of voices. A fire burned low in the grate despite the season, more for damp than cold, and the smell of supper drifted from somewhere beyond the passage. Darcy allowed only the necessary civilities before asking to speak with the innkeeper privately.
They were shown into a small room near the back of the house. Elizabeth sat beside Darcy, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her posture was composed, but he had learned enough of her by now not to mistake composure for ease.
The innkeeper was a stout man of middle years, with shrewd eyes and the cautious manner of one who had answered many questions from travellers and trusted very few of them.
“You are looking for a gentleman, sir?” he asked.
“I am. Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, in Hertfordshire. He may have come through Portsmouth some months ago.”
“Months ago?” The innkeeper’s brows lifted. “That is a long while, sir.”
“I am aware.”
The man glanced toward Elizabeth, then back again. “And you do not know whether he lodged here, nor the exact week he arrived?”
“Not yet.”
The innkeeper made a low, thoughtful noise and said nothing.
“The man in question is my father,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “We have reason to believe he may have come this way.”
His manner softened a little then. “I am sorry for it, ma’am.
Truly. But Portsmouth sees a great many men.
Officers, sailors, merchants, passengers, gentlemen with business, and gentlemen with none they care to name.
If your father was here months ago and left no letter, no unpaid account, no disturbance behind him, it may be difficult to find anyone who remembers. ”
“We understand the difficulty,” Darcy said. “But we mean to ask.”
“That you may do, sir. I can have my people think on it. You may speak with the ostlers, and I know men at two other inns who might answer if asked properly. But I would not have the lady expect too much.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened in her lap. Darcy saw it and covered them with his own.
The innkeeper hesitated. “If the gentleman has not written in so long, and if no one has had word of him…”
Elizabeth finished it for him. “You think he may be dead.”
“I would not presume to say it.”
“But you think it.”
The innkeeper looked uncomfortable. “I think, ma’am, that when a man has been missing for months, all possibilities must be considered.”
For a moment, the muffled noise of the inn beyond the door seemed very far away. Darcy felt Elizabeth’s hand stiffen beneath his.
“We have considered them,” he said. His voice was harsher than he intended, and he checked it at once. “But we have not yet exhausted the search.”
“No, sir,” the innkeeper said quickly. “Of course not.”
Darcy stood. “You will make the enquiries you mentioned. Quietly. I will pay well for true information, but I will not pay for invention.”
The innkeeper bowed. “I understand you perfectly, sir.”
When the man had gone, Elizabeth remained very still.
Darcy sat again beside her. “Elizabeth.”
“I know he may be dead,” she said. “I have known it from the beginning. I only dislike hearing strangers say it.”
“As do I.”
She drew in a careful breath, then another. “We came here for the truth. I cannot object because the truth may be dreadful.”
“You may object as much as you like.”
That startled the smallest laugh from her, though it came too close to tears. “May I?”
“Frequently, if necessary.”
She looked at him then, and he took both her hands in his.
“We will begin tonight with what can be learned in this house,” he said.
“Tomorrow we will go to the harbour, the other inns, the posting houses, and anyone my men have not yet reached. If he was here, someone may remember him. If he left, someone may know how. If he died, there will be a record or a witness or a grave. We will not leave you with only guesses.”
Her mouth trembled, but she steadied it. “And if there is nothing?”
“Then we keep looking.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as there remains any place to look.”
She held his gaze for several seconds. Then she leaned toward him, just enough that he could draw her into his arms. “I am glad you are here,” she said against his coat.
Darcy held her carefully. He was angry at Mr Bennet for disappearing, at Collins for forcing this cruelty upon her, and at every careless circumstance that had brought his wife to a strange inn to ask whether her father might be dead.
More than that, he loved her, and he would do whatever remained to be done.
“I am here,” he said quietly. “And I am not going anywhere.”