Chapter Twelve
Darcy woke before the first hint of dawn had touched the shutters.
For several blissful moments he did not move.
The room was wrapped in darkness, the fire burnt down to the palest embers.
He was aware of Elizabeth before he opened his eyes.
Her hand still rested lightly against his, their fingers barely touching now in sleep, and the quiet rhythm of her breathing punctuating the early morning silence.
He loved her. It struck him as the simplest thing in the world to love her.
And all of the obstacles he had considered seemed little more than the smallest inconveniences.
He was a gentleman, she was a gentleman’s daughter.
They were—in every way that mattered—equal.
He had always thought romantic love a self-indulgent thing.
Like an overindulgence in gambling or strong drink—pleasurable in the moment but ultimately irresponsible.
Affection might grow between a well-matched couple, but it was hardly a necessity for a respectable marriage.
Watching Bingley moon after Jane Bennet had often left him privately despairing of his friend's sanity.
But now, now he had met the person who seemed as vital to him as breathing, he found that he understood every poem he had once dismissed, every sonnet he had once considered overwrought and every lovesick fool he had ever secretly pitied.
They had not been exaggerating. If anything, language had failed them.
He watched her for a long time. In sleep she seemed younger, her lively wit and ready expressions softened into perfect peace.
A curl had fallen across her cheek and he found himself wanting to reach out and brush it aside, to feel the silkiness of her hair and smoothness of her skin beneath his fingers.
He did not dare break the spell that was the most perfect night of his life.
Instead, he slipped carefully from the bed, pausing only to look back once before leaving the room.
That was his Elizabeth, the woman he would marry.
The one he would build a life alongside.
The weather had transformed the world whilst they slept.
The storm had blown itself into memory, leaving behind a pale blue morning washed clean by days of rain.
Everywhere the inn had come alive with renewed purpose.
Stable boys hurried across the yard carrying harnesses over their shoulders whilst ostlers led horses from the stables to be groomed and watered.
Coachmen who had spent days pacing the yard now inspected carriages in readiness for departure.
Labourers returned from the bridge with muddy boots and cheerful faces, reporting that the temporary crossing would bear coaches, and travellers were busy settling accounts and arguing good-naturedly over the quickest route home.
For the first time since Darcy's arrival there was laughter instead of anxious speculation.
Hope, he reflected, was remarkably infectious.
He had scarcely crossed the yard when Thomas—the footman he had tasked with hunting down the Frosts—appeared from the lane at a brisk walk, his horse flecked with dried mud from a long ride. The moment he recognised his master's figure he removed his hat and smiled broadly.
"I thought I should find you here, sir," he said, jumping down from his mount.
Darcy crossed to meet him. "You have news?"
"I do, sir. Good news."
Thomas reached into his coat and produced a folded letter.
"I found Mr Frost yesterday evening. The flood carried the road away entirely near Barley Cross, but he managed to get the horses clear before the bank collapsed.
He and his wife took shelter at a farm to the east until the water subsided.
The carriage has since been recovered and one of the wheels replaced by the blacksmith there.
Mr Frost asked me to tell you they mean to collect Miss Bennet tomorrow morning, God willing. "
Darcy closed his eyes for a brief moment thinking of Elizabeth’s reaction to the happy news. "Thank God."
Thomas continued. "He was greatly concerned that Miss Bennet should know he had not abandoned her, sir. He spoke of little else."
Darcy looked towards the inn windows. "She will be relieved." He smiled almost to himself. "And I have the privilege of being the one to tell her."
???
Elizabeth woke later than she intended.
For several moments she remained perfectly still beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling while memory returned in a gentle wave.
She remembered laughter whispered into the darkness, conversations that had wandered from childhood to books and back again, the warmth of Darcy's arm about her and the extraordinary tenderness of his kiss.
It had possessed none of the confidence of a practised admirer.
It was tentative, reverent, and she held her fingers to her lips tracing the memories held there and smiling at the sweetness of the thought.
But soon pleasure was replaced by the harsh reality before her.
She had behaved as a wanton. A sensible young woman did not fall in love with a gentleman she had hated just days before whilst trapped in an inn by a flood.
A sensible young woman most certainly did not invite him into her bed, however innocent the circumstances.
And love, was it love? Or simply circumstance?
What must he think of her? But her traitorous heart would not allow her to wallow too deeply.
It whispered that he had called her "his heart".
That he must surely declare himself, and very soon.
That he was the most honourable and gentlest of men.
She smiled before she could prevent herself.
It had not felt reckless. His arms had felt like the safest place in the world.
By the time Martha arrived with hot water Elizabeth had schooled her features into something approaching composure, though it required rather more effort than she cared to admit.
"You look cheerful this morning, ma'am," Martha observed as she busied herself with the dressing table.
"Do I?"
"I reckon everyone does. They say the bridge is passable again."
Elizabeth looked instinctively towards the window. So the end was approaching. The thought, which ought to have filled her with relief, settled unexpectedly heavily upon her heart.
???
Elizabeth wandered down to the inn with no particular occupation. She wished to bid farewell to a couple of fellow travellers, but in truth she wished to see him. To convince herself that the previous night had not been a dream or passing fancy.
She caught sight of Darcy (for now he was just Darcy in her heart and mind) as she passed an open doorway leading to the yard.
He was speaking animatedly with Thomas near the stables.
Darcy looked up as though sensing her presence.
Their eyes met across the courtyard and he smiled at her.
A true, dazzling smile, no hauteur or arrogance, just unguarded warmth.
She saw Thomas look towards his master with a wry grin of his own and she looked down, suddenly embarrassed.
Tamping down her own smile, she continued on to the parlour where she might find Mrs Prentice and a couple more of the ladies she had been briefly acquainted with over the past days.
Elizabeth had taken no more than a dozen steps before a voice hissed, "Miss Bennet."
She stopped automatically, though the words sat oddly upon her ear.
Turning slowly, she found Captain Henderson standing alone in the passage that led towards the smoking room.
He had exchanged his regimentals for a dark blue travelling coat that had seen better days and held his hat tucked beneath one arm.
There was an easy confidence about him, charming but oddly empty, like a painted facade with nothing behind it.
Her stomach lurched but she inclined her head politely. "I believe you are mistaken, Captain. I am Mrs Darcy."
His smile widened wolfishly. "Ah yes," he said with a hollow laugh. "So everyone here believes."
"I do not understand you."
"No?" He took a slow step nearer. "I understand rather more than you know, madam."
Elizabeth's fingers tightened around the folds of her skirt, panic rising. "I fear I have no notion what you mean."
"I imagine not." His eyes travelled leisurely over her face and he licked his lips with a crude leer. "You play the part exceedingly well."
She made to step around him, but he moved to block her passage.
"If you will excuse me—"
"By happy coincidence, I happened to be in the courtyard yesterday afternoon."
She looked at him steadily, refusing to betray the fear that was sliding through her veins.
"I have heard enough, quite enough sir—allow me to pass."
He gave a short laugh. "Friends, then?' Was that how it went? And then all those very proper 'Miss Bennets' and 'Mr Darcys.' Curious language indeed between husband and wife."
Elizabeth looked into his hard, cruel face, no trace of charm remaining and could not think of a single thing to say.
"So," Henderson continued softly, "you are not Mrs Darcy after all. You are merely a bit of skirt travelling with a gentleman for his… pleasure."
The words struck with such force that she felt physically winded. "You forget yourself, sir," she said with more confidence than she felt.
"Do I?" He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. "No, Miss Bennet. I think it is you who have forgotten yourself. Respectable ladies do not spend nights in gentlemen's bedrooms. Only one type of lady does that."
"We have done nothing that needs to trouble your conscience." She lifted her chin, though her heart had begun to pound. "You presume very much."
"I merely recognise a charming lady when I see her. A charming lady who gives her favour… for a price. Or are you a fallen gentlewoman who enjoys a little adventure? I could give you plenty of adventure, my dear."
Before she could retreat he reached for her wrist. His grip was not painful, but firm enough that she could not immediately free herself. "Captain Henderson," she said, hating the note of pleading that had crept into her voice.
"There is no need to pretend with me. I have never been fond of simpering flowers. I prefer a lady of… experience."
"Release me."
Instead he drew her a fraction closer.
For one horrified second she simply stared at him, unable to believe she had so completely mistaken his character. "How dare you."
"Oh, come now—"
Before she fully understood what he intended, his hand tightened upon her arm and he dragged her towards him. His mouth came down hard upon hers. For one dreadful instant she froze.
Only hours before she had experienced her first kiss.
Darcy's had been like a question she instinctively knew the answer to, so gentle it was like a breath against her lips, carrying with it a promise that he would never take what she did not willingly offer.
This was nothing like that. Henderson's mouth was hard and insistent, heavy with stale tobacco and spirits.
It was an act of possession, an invasion that filled her with revulsion.
She tore her face away. "No, unhand me." The shout echoed through the passage.
Henderson grabbed at her again.
"I said no!"
The next sound was not her voice but Henderson’s roar of surprise as his body jerked back, followed by the sickening crack of a fist meeting bone. Henderson staggered sideways into the wall with an oath, one hand flying to his jaw. Burke stood between them.
"I believe," he said with terrifying calm, "the lady has made herself perfectly plain."
Blood welled slowly from Henderson's split lip as he straightened, one hand pressed against his jaw.
His eyes moved from Burke's broad frame to the expression upon his face and, for the first time since Elizabeth had made his acquaintance, there was no trace of easy confidence in them.
Instead he seemed to be calculating whether he wished to continue the encounter.
"You struck an officer."
"I did." The reply was clipped and menacingly calm.
"You'll answer for that."
"I think, sir," Burke said, flexing his bruised hand, "that your first concern ought to be offering thanks that I stopped at one."
For a long moment Henderson said nothing.
His pride plainly urged him towards retaliation, but his judgement proved stronger.
Muttering a foul curse beneath his breath, he snatched up his hat from where it had fallen, cast Elizabeth one last poisonous look and strode from the passage with what dignity remained to him, though the hand clamped against his swelling jaw spoiled the effect.
Only when the sound of his footsteps had entirely disappeared did Burke's expression soften. He turned immediately to Elizabeth, who remained rooted to the spot, every part of her trembling so violently that she scarcely trusted her own legs to support her.
"Miss Bennet..."
The gentleness in his voice caused a sob to rise in her thought. She swallowed it down with difficulty. She shook her head before he could continue. "I am quite well."
It was an absurd thing to say. She was not hurt, not really.
But she felt unclean in a way she had never imagined possible.
Henderson's kiss still seemed to cling to her skin, and with it came an overwhelming tide of shame.
She knew, somewhere beneath the confusion, that she had done nothing to deserve what had happened.
Even so, another voice whispered that she had been foolish; that she had already behaved like a wanton, that this is what happened to women who gave away their affection outside the bounds of marriage.
She had invited Darcy to her bed. If she had behaved with greater caution, greater reserve, perhaps none of it would have occurred.
Burke seemed to read the thoughts passing across her face. "Miss Bennet," he said quietly, "whatever you are thinking, dismiss it. Dismiss it entirely, Miss. You listen to me, I’ve been in the world a fair bit longer than you. This was not your doing."
Unable to endure another moment of his compassion, Elizabeth gathered her skirts and hurried away before Burke could stop her, before Darcy could appear, before anyone might look upon her and see the shame that she felt rushing from every pore.