Within the carriage, the silence altered its character. It ceased to be merely awkward and became something almost substantial, like anotherpassenger between them. Mrs. Hobart, having arranged her shawls about her shoulders with great show, closed her eyes and assumed the resigned expression of a martyr determined to bear her sufferings in silence.
Elizabeth doubted very much that Mrs. Hobart slept. The faint tightening at the corners of her mouth and the occasional delicate sniff suggested that every jolt of the carriage and every slight sway offended her sense of how a princess ought to travel. Elizabeth almost smiled, for Mr. Darcy’s coach was, if anything, better sprung than their own had been. Then she remembered thatshewas the princess in question, and the smile would not come.
Mr. Darcy sat beside her, his shoulders set straight, his gaze turned towards the window. The line of his jaw was firm, his mouth grave, his dark lashes casting shadows upon his cheek. He looked, Elizabeth thought resentfully, like a man well practised in ignoring what did not please him. And just now, that thing was her.
Another mile passed in strained quiet.
At length, Mrs. Hobart stirred, adjusted the ribbon under her chin, and said in a tone of laboured cheerfulness, “I must say, Mr. Darcy, I am relieved that we are once more upon the road. An enforced stay at so inferior an inn is not to be recommended to any person of delicate nerves.”
“I am glad that you feel yourself recovered sufficiently to travel, madam,” he replied, with scrupulous civility. “The delay was unfortunate.”
Mrs. Hobart pressed a hand to her bosom. “If I suffered, I did so willingly, that Her Highness might be preserved from every danger.”
Was the women rewriting what they all knew had happened? Elizabeth coloured. “Mrs. Hobart, I have told you before—”
“Princesses, my dear,” Mrs. Hobart continued, quite undeterred, “have a duty to accept such sacrifices. It is the order of things. Those beneath them must exert themselves, so that they may be kept from harm.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze shifted from the window to look Elizabeth up and down. She could not be sure, but his expression seemed to convey both aggravation and contempt. Then he turned to Mrs. Hobart.
“Indeed,” he said, in a tone that might have passed for agreement to a less attentive ear. “There are some who are most ready to sacrifice for others.”
Elizabeth’s spine stiffened at his sarcasm. She opened her mouth, but Mrs. Hobart spoke over her with a little laugh.
“We must speak plainly, Mr. Darcy. Had you not offered your carriage, we might be languishing still at that dingy inn or worse, required to hire some farmer’s cart. Sir Reginald will be most gratified when he learns of your gallantry towards the royal house of Thurnia, even if you could not be persuaded to take us north.”
Mr. Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Sir Reginald must not be misled. Be under no illusion that my offer was anything more than necessary prudence. To leave two ladies stranded while their own carriage lay disabled would have been . . .” He turned to Elizabeth. “Ungentlemanly. We are travelling the same road. It was a simple arrangement of convenience.”
Elizabeth could not help it; she said, more sharply than she intended, “You are determined, sir, that no one should mistake you for a man who acts from generosity.”
His eyes were dark and unreadable. “If my conduct appears generous, Miss Bennet, it is only because you choose to forget that I have been pressed into service.”
Mrs. Hobart gave a little cough of disapproval. “‘Pressed,’ Mr. Darcy? Surely you exaggerate. A gentleman is never pressed into serving a princess. He is honoured.”
“I would be honoured,” he said, without looking away from Elizabeth, “to serve a princess.”
The emphasis upon the final word was so slight that Mrs. Hobart did not perceive it. Elizabeth did.
Her fingers curled in her lap. “Then I am sorry that you have been so ill-used.”
For a moment she thought he would answer her with equal heat. His glance dropped instead to her hands, and some of the anger left his face.
“If I have been ill-used, Miss Bennet,” he said as though he begrudged the words, “it is by the weather and the roads, not by you.”
It was as close to an apology as she had heard from him. She did not know what to do with it. Before she could decide, he lifted a hand and rapped twice upon the roof of the carriage.
The coach slowed at once. Elizabeth felt the change in the movement even before Mr. Darcy let down the window nearest him and leaned out a little.
“Anders,” he called, raising his voice above the rumble of wheels, “how far to the next posting house?”
The answer came back upon the chilly air. “Six miles at least, sir.”
Mr. Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Have you seen any other travellers upon the road since we left the last turnpike?”
“Only that farmer with the hay-waggon an hour since,” Anders returned. “No one else at all. The road is uncommon empty.”
“Very well. Go on, but take it slowly when we reach the hollow. I do not like that stretch, and the landlord told me the post comes through there about this time of day. Listen for the horn and be prepared to give way if it does.”
“Yes, sir.”