“If there is hot food, you will find plenty to do,” Anders jested. “Your stomach will see to that.”
Johnson answered the jibe cheerfully. Darcy left them to their duties and returned inside.
The parlour where he waited was small but decently kept. A fire burned in the grate, doing battle with the draughts that crept under the door and through the ill-fitted window. An elderly clergyman slept unobtrusively in one corner, his chin upon his chest; two tradesmen in the other spoke in muted tones.
The landlord came to inform Darcy, with a bob and a whisper, that the “fine lady” had been given the room in the back and that the younger lady had gone with her. The apothecary had been sent for, from the next village, and he was sure the man would arrive as soon as his horse could carry him.
Darcy paced before the fire, hands behind his back. He forced himself to calculate stages and distances instead of counting grievances. If they lost two hours here, and half an hour at the next change of horses, and another half hour evening and morning for the sake of Mrs. Hobart’s nerves, he might yet reach London only a day later than intended. If the weather did not worsen. If the apothecary did not insist upon a longer rest. If Mrs. Hobart did not discover another cold or fresh palpitations whenever their progress was too quick.
It had taken a good deal of time, but he had almost persuaded himself that the delay could be borne when the door opened and Miss Bennet entered.
She stopped, visibly surprised to find him there, then collected herself. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “How does Mrs. Hobart?”
“Astonishingly near death for one who has just eaten a basin of broth and two slices of bread,” she said before checking herself. She pressedher lips together in the manner of one who was summoning stores of endurance. “She complains of great weakness. The landlord’s wife has prevailed upon her to lie down and she awaits the apothecary’s opinion. He is with her now, but I believe she will be well enough.”
“I am glad to hear she is no worse,” he said.
That drew from Miss Bennet a brief, involuntary smile. She came nearer to the fire, holding out her hands to the flames. He saw that they were reddened with cold.
He had nothing left to say. Instead, he found himself unreasonably aware of the way the firelight picked out a loose curl at the nape of her neck, where it had escaped from her pins, and of the fine line of her profile as she watched the flames.
Georgiana would be with his aunt already, but he knew she would wonder where he was. The knowledge sat like lead in his chest. Yet when he looked up, Miss Bennet stood silhouetted against the light from the fire, winter light from the window behind her catching the curve of her cheek.
For one traitorous moment, he forgot to be angry.
Then Mrs. Hobart’s voice rang out, indistinct, but certain to be issuing fresh demands, and reality returned: the two women had used his duty as a gentleman to keep him here, just as Lord Matlock kept servants waiting, just as the entitled always did. He looked away from Miss Bennet’s profile and felt his mood darken with renewed resentment.
“I wished to thank you,” she said, after a moment, “for sending for the apothecary. You have spared me the fear of having neglected my duty to her.”
“It was nothing but prudence,” he replied. “If she is truly ill, we cannot in good conscience proceed without advice. If she is not . . .” He paused. “Then a medical opinion will at least prevent further delays.”
Her lips curled up into a little smile. “You put it plainly.”
“I have discovered that plainness, however much it may give offence, generally produces less confusion than flowery speeches.”
Her eyes flickered at that, recalling, he had no doubt, the last occasion upon which he had attempted plain speaking with her. There was a lengthy silence, broken only by the low tones of the tradesmen, the snores of the clergyman, and the small pops and crackles of the fire.
She turned slightly, so that she could speak with him. The movement brought her nearer again, her eyes meeting his.
It was absurd, he told himself, that a mere look should so disturb him.
“I was thinking of our travel.” She paused, as though weighing each word, then continued. “Longbourn is ten miles off the Great North Road. Pray, Mr. Darcy, would such a distance be considered a very great deviation, in a journey such as ours?”
Darcy was irritated all over again, for he now understood that her recent courtesy had all been to request yet another favour. He spoke abruptly. “Ten miles off the road, and ten miles back again, in winter, upon by-ways that may be worse than the turnpike? Yes, I should call it considerable. It would be, at the least, the better part of a day lost, once one counts the time for changing horses.”
She inclined her head, as if this confirmed what she had already calculated. “I see. I asked only because . . .” She brought her hands to rest on a chair back, and they tightened for a moment before she took a breath and relaxed them. “My family is there. I thought—foolishly, perhaps—that if the road brought us so near, it might be possible to simply return home and try again when the weather improves. But I am sensible that it is a great deal to ask, and that your own duties cannot be postponed for the sake of my wishes. Thank you for the information.”
There was nothing importunate in her manner. She stated her desire as if it belonged to some other person and she had already resigned it.
He ought to have admired that restraint. Instead, he again felt an unreasonable annoyance. How much calculation lay behind that gentle appeal? Had Mrs. Hobart prompted her? Had the older woman advised that a princess who made such pretty sacrifices would be even more beloved?
“Doubtless the Thurnian ambassador awaits you in London, for by now he must have had word of your delay,” he said, testing her willingness to persist in her scheme outside of her companion’s presence. “Your grandfather certainly expects you; each day’s delay increases the chance of dangerous weather at sea. I cannot, in conscience, turn aside merely to gratify a private inclination, however natural it may be. Longbourn must remain ten miles off.”
A faint change passed over her features, so quickly that he might have missed it if he had not been watching her so closely. Her eyes shuttered, and a little of the colour left her face.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “You are perfectly right. Pray forgive me for having troubled you with a notion that could not be entertained. You have been very patient with us.”