A groom let down the steps. Mr. Darcy turned at once and held up his right hand.
“Miss Bennet,” he said.
There was no hesitation in his tone, as if he trusted her to accept without argument. She placed her gloved hand in his. The support he gave as shestepped down was steady, neither officious nor neglectful. The yard felt treacherous beneath her feet, half mud, half ice, and she was grateful for the firmness of his grasp.
Mrs. Hobart followed with much sighing. Mr. Darcy gave her such assistance as civility required, then guided them both towards the inn door.
The house itself was modest, lower than the Lion, its windows small and dull, its door warped by years of weather. Smoke from the chimney drifted in a reluctant line above. A boy came at a run from the stable, tugging his forelock; a man who appeared to be landlord followed at a more cautious pace, wiping his hands upon an apron.
Mr. Darcy spoke first, his voice calm and certain.
“Darcy,” he said. “Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, travelling with Miss Bennet and her companion. We require a private parlour for a short time, while the horses are changed. The ladies have been some hours upon the road.”
The landlord bowed.
“Sir, you are welcome. We are humble here, but we shall do what we can. A parlour, to be sure, and a fire. We had a message from the post that there was trouble upon the road behind. Highwaymen, they say. I hope you have not—”
“We came that way,” Mr. Darcy said. His tone did not invite conjecture. “The matter has been dealt with.” He produced a card and a sovereign. “If the magistrate wishes for particulars, he may write to me in London. For now, you will oblige me by seeing that no tales are told in your yard that will encourage any further attempts. The ladies have had excitement enough for one day.”
“Indeed, sir, indeed.” The landlord took the card and bowed again, more deeply. “No tales from my house, you may depend uponit. This way.”
Mrs. Hobart drew herself up at the mention of highwaymen. Her mouth opened. Elizabeth could almost see the word forming upon her tongue.
Mr. Darcy looked at her.
“MissBennet,” he said, with the same quiet emphasis he had used in the carriage.
Mrs. Hobart closed her mouth.
“The parlour?” Mr. Darcy asked, though it was not truly a question.
The landlord led them through a narrow passage that smelt of smoke and cabbage into a small room. It contained a table, three mismatched but serviceable chairs, a fireplace in which a sluggish fire burned, and a single small window filmed with frost.
Mr. Darcy set Mrs. Hobart into one the chairs and drew another forward for Elizabeth.
“Pray be seated, Miss Bennet,” he said. “I shall speak to the landlord about refreshment.”
Elizabeth felt she ought to be seeing to their comfort, with Mr. Darcy injured. But she could see he did not mean to relinquish any control at this moment, and she would not repay his service to them by fretting over him. It would only embarrass him.
Mrs. Hobart began at once to revive with the greatest energy. She turned up her nose at the sight of the fire, which she pronounced paltry, and informed Elizabeth that no princess had ever been so shamefully treated upon the English highways.
“If Sir Reginald had any notion that such things occurred,” she declared, “he would never have permitted us to be separated. To imagine that you should be forced to alight before a common thief. It is insupportable.”
Elizabeth took off her gloves one finger at a time. Her hands looked quite ordinary, only a little reddened by cold. Only the faint smell of the spirits reminded her of what they had done.
Mr. Darcy returned with the landlord at his heels. Arrangements seemed to have multiplied. There was to be tea and stew. While they waited, something hot arrived from the kitchen that might charitably be called broth. The landlord seemed impressed, confused, and flattered by Mr. Darcy’s patronage.
“Pen and paper,” Mr Darcy added, as if it were a natural part of a bill of fare. “For myself, and for Miss Bennet, if you please.”
“Certainly, sir, certainly.” The landlord backed out, promising all things at once.
Mrs. Hobart made a great business of declaring that she must compose herself. She said enough that Elizabeth understood she required the necessary, and Elizabeth nodded her off.
The door closed behind her.
Mr. Darcy went to the small writing desk nearer the fire, drew the single rickety chair near it, and sat. When the paper came, he took it up with a hand that, Elizabeth could not help noticing, was a little unsteady. He set the sheet upon the table, uncapped the ink, and dipped the pen. He was not long, and when he had finished, he made room for her.
Elizabeth sat for a moment with the pen poised above the paper, feeling singularly unequal to the task of being cheerful.