There was a certain cruel clarity in the choice. Elizabeth’s fingers curled inside her muff. She could take offence at his tone, refuse, and remain at the Lion until some miracle wheelwright descended from heaven. She could trust to Mrs. Hobart’s determination to drag her north through snow and uncertainty. Or she could accept the one safe road that had presented itself and put herself under Mr. Darcy’s protection.
Elizabeth imagined what Papa would wish for her to do. He would want her to be safe. He would also be amused to learn she had met her match in obstinacy while the king’s servants made such a muddle of conveying one young lady to the palace.
She wanted to go home. “I am very much obliged to you, sir,” she said. “We shall accompany you to London.”
Mrs. Hobart hissed her name under her breath, but Elizabeth did not look at her. Mr. Darcy inclined his head in the barest of bows, as if they had agreed to nothing more than the time of breakfast. His gaze travelledto Mrs. Hobart and back to Elizabeth. “There is room for three trunks along with my own luggage. The rest must follow when your own carriage is mended.”
Mrs. Hobart looked as though she would like to argue, but she did not. Perhaps even she saw that to protest further when Elizabeth had agreed would do more harm than good.
“We shall be ready,” she said, her voice clipped.
Darcy turned back to his men. At once there was movement: straps checked, trunks shifted, instructions passed. The yard returned to its business.
Elizabeth stood very still. The cold had crept through her shoes and into her toes. Her breath came sharp in her chest, as if she had been running.
Beside her, Mrs. Hobart muttered furiously. “Impertinent man, speaking of you as if you were a governess. ‘Not anEnglishprincess’—he will answer for that.”
“Please do not,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Mr. Darcy is doing us a kindness.”
Mrs. Hobart’s expression was severe. “You are much too ready to excuse insolence. You do not yet know what it is to be royal.”
No,Elizabeth thought,I do not. And I am not certain I wish to.
By the time a half hour had passed, Elizabeth felt her patience had been packed and repacked as often as the luggage.
Mrs. Hobart flew about the room like a small, irate bird, complaining that they should have hired a maid. In between grumbling about that, she was also insisting that this gown was essential and that one impossible to leave behind.
“If we must abandon anything, it must not be the blue silk,” Mrs Hobart declared. ”His Majesty favours blue. We have it upon the best authority.”
“Whose?” Elizabeth inquired, truly curious. She tightened the strap on her trunk and rang for a footman to carry it to Mr. Darcy’s carriage.
“Why, mine, of course.”
She recalled that Mrs. Hobart had been living in London for the past two years. Well, if the king had altered his taste since then, she was sure she could manage. She said as much to Mrs. Hobart.
The woman paused to look at her. Mrs. Hobart’s smile did not reach her eyes; they sharpened, as though she were taking Elizabeth’s measure and found her wanting. “The king’s preferences must always take precedence.”
“Even in the colour of my gowns? I think not.”
“You speak as if you have a choice, my dear.”
Elizabeth closed the valise. She had been invited to the palace, not commanded. “I always have a choice, Mrs. Hobart.”
It was with this frosty state of affairs that they descended again to the yard. Anders and Johnson were directing the loading of the remaining trunks. Mr. Darcy himself stood aside from the bustle, glancing over a list he held. His expression was faintly displeased, but then, she had yet to see any expression upon his face that was not some variation of displeasure. She had made a poor first impression upon the man, and he had given her no chance to amend it.
Elizabeth could not deny a fondness for quick judgements herself; but she hoped she was not so implacable as to refuse anyone the opportunity to reveal more of their character and improve her opinion. First impressions were a fragile foundation on which to rest so much certainty.
He looked up as they approached. The wind lifted a strand of hair from beneath Elizabeth’s bonnet and blew it across her cheek. She tucked it back without thinking. It felt suddenly too intimate, doing such a small domestic thing under his gaze.
“MissBennet,” he said. “Mrs. Hobart.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth dipped a shallow curtsy that was properly respectful and not, she told herself, in any way resentful. The fact that her knees felt as if they belonged to someone else was neither here nor there.
Mrs. Hobart gave a curt nod, as if he were a footman who had performed his duties.
Mr. Darcy gestured towards the coach. “I will sit facing forward. You may share the seat with me or sit opposite.” His face was as motionless as granite and just as cold. “You will forgive me if I do not surrender my corner entirely.”
Elizabeth almost said she would prefer to ride upon the roof with the luggage, but good sense prevailed. “We are excessively obliged for your gracious solicitude, sir.”