Mr. Darcy drew the window up again. A thread of colder air lingered in the carriage. Elizabeth studied him.
“You think the road dangerous?” she asked.
“The road is always dangerous,” Mrs. Hobart said, before he could reply. “There are ruts, holes, stones, and God knows what else.”
“I did not speak of ruts, ma’am,” Elizabeth answered. “I meant—” She hesitated. Highwaymen belonged to the past, relegated to pages of novels and to Mamma’s worst imaginings. Yet Sir Reginald had spoken gravely of the need for secrecy and insisted that they avoid certain inns, though thanks to the broken wheel and Mrs. Hobart’s unwillingness to remain silent, both plans had gone badly awry.
Mr. Darcy regarded her for a moment, and when he spoke, his tone had lost some of its earlier asperity. “You must know, Miss Bennet, that there are always those upon the roads who live by other men’s purses. Winter is a hungry season. The emptier a road, the more tempting it is to such men.”
It was not a comfort. Elizabeth drew her cloak closer about her. “You believe we may meet such persons?”
“I never have, and it is my hope that I never shall.” His gaze shifted briefly to the leather case above the carriage door where, Elizabeth knew, most gentlemen kept pistols when travelling. “It is, however, my habit to consider the possibility.”
Mrs. Hobart shivered and reached instinctively for the handkerchief in her reticule. “You will frighten Her Highness, Mr. Darcy, with such talk.”
“You will not frighten me,” Elizabeth said, though she was not entirely sure the claim was true.
She looked out the window again to find the landscape had altered. The hedges on either side of the road had grown higher still, forming a sort of green and white tunnel. In some places the banks rose almost to the height of the carriage windows, their sides patched with old frost and moss. Overhead, grateful for the shelter, a few bare-branched trees leaned inward, their twigs like black lace against the low sky.
The light had a strange quality here. It was not yet noon, but everything looked as though it had been washed in thin grey ink. Elizabeth could no longer see the distant line of hills or the spire of any church. The world had narrowed to the road before them and the high, enclosing banks.
A rook rose with an indignant caw from the hedge as they passed, beating its wings heavily. Somewhere far off a dog barked, the sound quickly swallowed by the banks. Then there was only the grind of wheels, the creak of the leather braces, and the steady rhythm of the horses.
It ought to have felt snug, almost cosy, like a child’s passage through a green lane in summer. Instead, Elizabeth felt as though the air itself had grown watchful.
She told herself not to be foolish. It was only that Mr. Darcy’s talk of danger had troubled her. She tried to think instead of Longbourn, of Jane’s promise to come to her in the spring, of Papa’s books in the pocket at her side.
It did not entirely answer. The sense of something amiss persisted.
Mr. Darcy let down the window on his side a little way again. The cold nipped at Elizabeth’s ankles, but he did not appear to notice. His attention was fixed upon the road ahead.
Elizabeth felt the carriage tilt forward slightly—they must be descending now. The horses’ hoofs sounded flatter as they struck the road, then there was a rattle as they crossed a wooden bridge. Beyond, the road curved between the banks, so that from the carriage they could see only a short stretch of the way before it vanished from sight.
“Is this the hollow you spoke of?” Elizabeth asked.
“It is.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “There is always ice here in the winter. Anders will go slowly.”
As if in answer, the carriage slackened its pace. Elizabeth heard Anders’s voice, calm and low, speaking to the horses. The vehicle swayed, then steadied.
For a few moments, all went on as before. They turned one bend, and then another. The high banks permitted only narrow glimpses of the fields above, a scrap of pale sky, the dark line of a hedge top. Elizabeth saw, or thought she saw, a bare oak upon the rise to their right.
Then, quite suddenly, the horses snorted.
The carriage lurched as one of the animals struck out impatiently. There was a sharp oath from outside.
Elizabeth’s hands grasped at the strap beside her. “What is it?”
Mr. Darcy did not answer immediately. He leaned further out of the window, his gloved hand braced upon the frame. “Anders?”
“There is a tree in the road, sir,” came the reply, tight with vexation. “Or a great limb of one, at least. Come down across the way. Looks to have fallen recently.”
“Is there room to pass it?”
“Not without risking the ditch.”
Mr. Darcy withdrew his head and shut the window. His expression had changed. It was not fear; she doubted anything so simple would show itself upon that face. It was more a concentrated alertness, a gathering of all his attention.
“A tree may fall of itself in winter,” Mrs. Hobart said, but there was an unfamiliar tremor in her voice.