“We will manage, sir,” Anders began, but Darcy cut him off with a raised hand.
“This chamber has two mattresses and a small but proper fire. You will sleep here tonight.”
Both men stared at him. “Sir,” Anders said, “we cannot take your room.”
“You can and you will.” Darcy moved to gather his book and his coat. “I can sleep perfectly well in the carriage tomorrow, if necessary, but you cannot drive if you are exhausted and frozen.”
“But where willyousleep, sir?” Johnson asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
“There is a private parlour downstairs that no one is using. It will suffice for one night.”
“Mr. Darcy—" Anders began.
“Get what rest you can.” Darcy’s tone brooked no argument. "I want to be ready to depart as soon as possible tomorrow if the roads are passable.”
The two men exchanged glances, then Johnson nodded. “Thank you, sir. We are grateful.”
He left them and made his way quietly down the back stairs, avoiding the common room where he could still hear the murmur of voices and the occasional scrape of a chair. The small private parlour was the next room down. Fortunately, its door was slightly ajar.
He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him, plunging the room into near darkness. A sliver of moonlight penetrated the gap in the curtains, just enough to make out the shapes of a settee, two wingback chairs, and a small table. The room was cold, though not unbearably so. The wall it shared with the common room’s great fireplace provided enough warmth to take the worst edge off the chill.
Darcy placed one of the chairs at the end of the settee and then lay down, stretching his legs out before him and covering himself with his greatcoat. The cushions were old but comfortable, and if he positioned himself just so, he could almost—
A burst of laughter from the common room filtered through the wall. Someone was telling a story, their voice rising and falling. More laughter followed, earnest and convivial.
Darcy closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep. Tomorrow the roads would clear. Tomorrow he would leave this place and its pack of fools behind. Tomorrow he would be free of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s fine eyes and the accusations that had burrowed under his skin like splinters.
Tomorrow.
The chair creaked as he shifted position. The wall radiated its meagre warmth. And Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley and definitelynotthe Lord of Frowns, lay alone in the darkness and waited for morning.
Chapter Nine
Elizabeth sat up slowly. Her stays pinched. Her head throbbed dully in time with the unpleasant memory of the day before: Mr. Darcy, tall and unsmiling; his cutting words; her own temper flaring until she had said more than she ought. Even now her cheeks grew hot at the recollection. She pressed her hands to them as if she might rub the colour away.
There was a brisk knock and Mrs. Hobart swept in without waiting for an answer, every ribbon in her cap quivering with purpose.
“Oh, good, you are dressed. We must be upon the road. Sir Reginald will be expecting us at the Grey Fox before the end of the day, and I should not like to think what he will say if we arrive after him. You know how particular he is.”
Elizabeth did not, in fact. She knew very little about Sir Reginald at all.
Mrs. Hobart tugged at the curtains with a flourish. “There. Such a warm winter’s day. You really must not glower at it.”
She wasnotglowering, and one could hardly call this day warm. Elizabeth climbed from the bed and went to the back window. Snow lay along the yard in trodden ridges, turned brown where cartwheels had churned it. Stable boys darted to and fro; the breath of horses rose in white plumes.From here, the inn yard looked like some small, bustling stage where every figure knew his cue.
“There is a great deal of activity already,” she said.
“Of course there is. Most travellers are sensible. They do not lie abed when there are miles to cover.” Mrs Hobart sniffed. “Even Mr. Darcy has been up this hour past. I have it upon good authority thatheis keen to be gone.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon the sill. “Then we shall take care not to delay him.”
“I will see our carriage brought round at once.” Mrs Hobart smoothed her skirts.
“Is the wheel repaired, then? I thought it would not be possible without a wheelwright.”
Mrs Hobart clicked her tongue. “The coachman says any number of things. You must not trouble yourself with the fretting of servants, Your Highness. All you need know is that Sir Reginald waits to escort us north. We have delayed too long already.”
North. Towards Thurnia. Towards a kingdom that existed, for Elizabeth, only in her imagination. Across the water to an island with mountains and snow and relatives she did not know. Her stomach gave a small, disloyal twist that had nothing to do with the previous night’s stew.