Darcy left her, intending to pass off Fitzwilliam’s letter directly to the landlord for the post. The peas in his pocket which he was careful not to disturb as he removed the missive were an absurd reminder that the world had already surprised him once that day and might yet do so again.
But it would not be because she was a princess.Thathe knew for certain.
Chapter Fifteen
Darcy woke to pale light and the sound of a servant leaving the room.
The chamber was narrow, but clean. Frost had traced delicate patterns on the outside of the small panes. A thin ash lay in the grate where the fire had sunk during the night. He sat up, seeing a clean coat draped over the back of a chair. Anders must have laid it out, an unusual task for a coachman.
He eyed the tight sleeves with suspicion. At least there was no jagged rip in this one, but he had no replacement for his greatcoat. He wished, not for the first time, that Taylor had travelled with him.
He stretched, winced, and then probed around the wound in his left arm with careful fingers. The skin under the handkerchief was a bit reddened and a little warm, but not hot. It was painful but, as Miss Bennet had noted, not too deep. Darcy felt sure that Miss Bennet’s immediate ministrations had prevented any serious infection, and he was grateful to her for that. He took advantage of the water the servant had brought to clean it again.
His ablutions required more time this morning, for every movement of his left arm reminded him of yesterday’s events. He wound the bandageabout his arm again, and though he could not manage so neat a job as Miss Bennet had, it would do. He donned his shirt, then paused, teeth set, and shrugged himself into the coat.
The smart this caused across his upper arm brought a clear memory of the previous day. How Miss Bennet shifted to sit opposite him. Her hand on his arm, firm and skilful. The smell from Mrs. Hobart’s little flask, sharp as any surgeon’s preparation. Cool fingers pressing cloth to stinging skin. Her face bent over his arm, determined, a little pale.
He flexed his hand. The ache was tolerable. He had told Miss Bennet the truth: he had taken worse in the hunting field, or when some half-broken horse had chosen to object to his authority.
He crossed to the glass. The mirror was small and spotted, but it clearly reflected a man who had not slept much. He worked on his cravat as well as he could. The knot was a simple one but came out neat, at least. Nothing in his appearance betrayed that the sight of his left sleeve now made him think, without invitation, of Miss Bennet’s shawl and the strip she had torn from it.
He grunted. This was ridiculous. He had known her a handful of days.
Yet he remembered very plainly her expression at the Lion when he had first seen her properly. A practised impostor, he had thought then, who had amused herself at the expense of honest people’s credulity. A young woman with a taste for soft pillows and large suppers, content to trade on a false title so long as it yielded her comfort.
It had been a neat conclusion. He preferred neat conclusions.
Darcy buttoned his coat and tugged at it once more so that it would settle properly on his shoulders.
He might refuse to accept the title that Miss Bennet claimed. He might doubt the entire tale of a lost princess of a foreign state, fetched from the English countryside to join her family in a palace. But as he haddetermined the day before, he could no longer believe that she herself had contrived the fiction for the sake of a better fire.
If any deception existed, she was not directing the piece.
It was not his habit to accuse a woman of deliberate mischief. Mrs. Hobart was foolish, vain, and fond of hot food, soft beds, and a significance that eased her way. That much was clear. Whether she was also something more than foolish, he did not yet know.
But Darcy knew this much: the person who rejoiced most in Miss Bennet’s supposed rank was not Miss Bennet.
He took up his gloves and hat and went down.
The passage below smelt of damp stone and old beer. Men’s voices sounded from the public room. Darcy stepped toward the small private parlour to find Anders already in the entry hall awaiting him, cap in hand, boots cleaned as far as the state of the roads allowed. He handed Darcy his greatcoat.
Darcy glanced at the sleeve. “Anders, did you mend this?”
Anders shook his head. “No sir, Miss Bennet did. I came in search of you last night but you had already gone up, and she left it with me.”
Miss Bennet had mended his greatcoat.
He would, of course, order a new one made up; Taylor would never suffer him to wear a coat that had been torn. Yet the stitches were tidy, and the act itself a kindness. She must have gone to her own rest later than she could have wished to do him this service.
He took the coat from Anders and touched the mended place. No one had sewn anything for him since his mother died.
“Shall I harness the horses, sir?” Anders said, breaking into Darcy’s thoughts. “The landlord says the worst of the snow lies behind us. If we do not meet another drift, we may reach the White Horse before dark.”
Darcy tore his gaze from the coat to look up at Anders. He nodded. The White Horse at Eaton Socon was his usual inn on journeys to town.
“There is every likelihood,” Anders added, “that we shall reach London tomorrow, if the roads permit it.”
“That will answer. Wait a quarter of an hour before harnessing the horses.”