Her father would be in his library at Longbourn, she knew, with the windows fogged by the contrast between fire and frost, his book upon his knee, his mind distracted by nothing more alarming than the thinness of the newest volume’s argument. He would see her handwriting, smile, and expect to be entertained.
She began with the weather and its consequences. That was safe enough. The storm, the snow upon the roads, the necessary prudence of a change of route. She told him that their journey proceeded tolerably though their equipage, timeline, and party had been altered, and that they had met with an incident upon the road that was already concluded to the satisfaction of all concerned. She did not relate particulars—she was not certain what would be safe to write.
She glanced to where Mr. Darcy sat. He had declared, not half an hour ago, that he wished no more talk of princesses while she travelled under his protection. He had stated the thing as a condition, a duty, almost a law. He had not been unkind, but he had spoken in an absolute tone that allowed for no exceptions.
Elizabeth looked back at her page.
When at last she had filled the sheet with such cheerful reassurances as she could contrive, along with a separate note to Jane and a promise to write again when they reached London, she sprinkled sand upon the ink, then raised her head.
The words she owed Mr. Darcy—the simple ones, the obvious ones, the ones any lady might offer any gentleman who had stood between her and death—lay unspoken still.
Outside, in the yard, she heard the muffled bustle of men changing horses. Within, the small fire struggled on the hearth, sending up occasional sparks.
Elizabeth looked at Mr. Darcy’s sleeve, at his now-sealed letter on the table, at the doorway through which Mrs. Hobart would shortly come bustling with fresh complaints. She did not know how she was to thank him, or when, or what words might suffice. She knew only that silence would not do.
For the present, however, she sat and waited, her letter ready in her hand, her gratitude burning in her chest like a secret she could not yet bring herself to speak.
Chapter Fourteen
Darcy regarded what he had written with a dissatisfaction he could not quite justify.
First he had written a quick note to his cousin Fitzwilliam, in which he mentioned Miss Bennet, Mrs. Hobart, and the ambush. He was circumspect in his explanations, for he had no desire to draw attention to Miss Bennet again, and the post was not always secure. Still, he suggested that Fitzwilliam pay Adrian a visit—if the men had failed with Miss Bennet, whom they believed a Thurnian princess, they might not be above seeking out an actual Thurnian royal, who was known to travel about England a great deal.
He did not think it likely, but then, nothing about the past several days had been likely either. He would rather be thorough. He wrote the direction and set it aside.
Then he had written to Georgiana. It was a clear account she could share with his aunt that included his route, the condition of the roads, the cold, and a small interruption upon the road that had been resolved. He had informed her that he was well and that he travelled in company with a young lady of sense and her companion, who had been inconvenienced bythe weather. He supplied every fact that duty required. He had also asked after his sister’s situation at Matlock House, and whether she found it more congenial than school.
When Georgiana’s letter was complete, the ink had dried on Fitzwilliam’s. Darcy folded the paper, sealed it, then tucked it into his pocket.
The ink on Georgiana’s letter was still wet. He would wait a few minutes before folding it.
The little parlour was quiet, with the only sound a pen scratching across paper as Miss Bennet wrote to her family. The landlord’s footsteps and the distant stir of the yard reached them only in dulled echoes. The fire guttered; the single small window admitted a grey, grudging light.
He watched her for a moment, her head bent, dark curls catching the fire’s glow, one hand resting upon the edge of the page, the other moving with purpose. The nib did not hesitate. She knew very well what she meant to say, and to whom.
Darcy doubted that any part of it concerned Thurnia.
He remembered her in the hollow, facing down men with pistols as if they were overgrown schoolboys in need of correction, and afterwards in the carriage, cutting up her own shawl without a second thought.
It did not seem the conduct of a woman who had invented a royal bloodline for the sake of consequence and comfort. In fact, all her behaviour in the four days he had known her did not support that conclusion.
His first judgement at the Lion did not, perhaps, dissolve entirely under this observation; the imposture had been too elaborate, the folly too great, for any man of sense to allow it. But he had less faith in the notion that she herself had contrived the falsehood. No, if there was any deceit, she appeared much more likely to be its subject than its author.
The conclusion altered nothing that had occurred. Yet the thought would not be dismissed—Mrs. Hobart was more likely to be behind the deception than Miss Bennet was. In fact, Miss Bennet might just as easily be a victim in all of this. The thought engaged that protective part of him that had required he shield her from the highwaymen. It sat in his mind like an unwelcome guest, refusing to remove when requested.
The ink was dry. He folded and sealed his sister’s letter and wrote the direction. Then he pushed back his chair.
“I will see about the horses,” he said.
Miss Bennet looked up. There was no colour in her cheeks beyond what cold and fatigue could account for, but her eyes met his steadily.
“You are very kind,” she said.
The words were simple. They ought not to have touched him. And yet, they did.
He inclined his head and left the room, his letters still on the table. He passed through the hall, which smelled strongly of turnips, and stepped outside. He had misplaced Georgiana’s Blue John stone and wanted to check the coach to see whether it had fallen out. He hoped he had not lost it in the hollow.
His carriage stood a little apart, its dark flank streaked with mud. One of the inn-boys was brushing at the wheels with more zeal than method. He mounted the step and opened the door.