“Anders, bring the carriage as close as you can manage,” he called over his shoulder. “We may need to use the horses to help clear this mess. Then hand the reins over to Johnson and come with me.”
A young stable lad was struggling to calm the overturned cart’s horse, his efforts hampered by his obvious inexperience and the animal’s understandable agitation. Its breath formed pale clouds in the gathering dusk, and its eyes rolled white with fear. Darcy approached slowly, speaking in low, steady tones.
“Easy, lad,” he murmured, addressing both horse and handler. Anders was soon by his side. “Let my man take the bridle. Step back slowly.” The horse’s trembling gradually subsided under Anders’s firm but gentle touch.
There never was a better man with horses.
“We never saw the other carriage till we were upon them,” the boy said in a plaintive tone.
Near the overturned cart, Darcy discovered the source of the woman’s cries. A gentleman of middle years lay pinned beneath a shifting heap of the cart’s spilled casks, the heavy wooden barrels creaking ominously. The man was conscious and attempting to speak, though his voice was strained with pain and effort.
The lady, though entirely uninjured, was loudly convinced she had been “quite dashed to pieces” and had to be gently persuaded to stand well back so she might avoid actuallybeingdashed to pieces. Then Darcy turned his attention to the man.
“Can you move your legs?” Darcy asked.
“I believe so. I am pinned, but I sank into the mud when the barrels fell on me, which helped. I am bruised but otherwise uninjured.”
Darcy kneeled to assess the situation. The positioning was precarious. The barrels had come to rest against each other in an unstable pyramid, and any hasty movement might cause them to shift further. “We shall have to lift these barrels one at a time. Are you able to move?”
The man grunted. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Good. When I tell you, slide yourself backwards.”
The cart driver came over to help. He was a burly man whose face bore the ruddy complexion of one who spent his days out of doors, and he was strong. It was delicate work, though, as each barrel had to be lifted and moved away while ensuring that those remaining did not shift unexpectedly. Darcy’s greatcoat was soon soaked with spilled ale, and his boots slipped treacherously on the muddy, icy road, but gradually, the trapped gentleman was freed.
The man proved to be a country gentleman travelling with his wife to visit relations in the next county.
“We are most grateful for your assistance,” he said, attempting to brush the worst of the mud and ale from his coat. “I confess I began to fear we should be trapped here until morning.”
“The fault was mine,” admitted the cart’s driver. “I was pushing too hard, trying to make the next town before dark. Came upon this man’s carriage sudden-like, and we both managed to avoid a collision, but I sunk one side in the mud here and tipped the cart. This ‘ere gentleman was helping me to right it. But the horse spooked, and the whole lot went over atop him.”
Darcy organised everything. Johnson unhitched the cart driver’s horse and led it to safety. The spilled barrels were dragged off the road, while the intact ones were set down together nearby. The overturned cart itselfrequired the combined efforts of all the men present to right, a task made more difficult by the icy conditions and the weight of the vehicle.
The coach presented a more complex problem. The wheel was not merely stuck but had sunk deeply into the partially frozen ditch. After a careful examination, Anders and Johnson concluded that it could be extracted, but not without considerable effort.
Darcy released a long breath that froze in the frigid air. “Very well,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Let us set to work.”
Chapter Three
The morning of her departure arrived far sooner than Elizabeth liked. It seemed to her that there ought to have been more time given to recognise such an occasion, or at least enough time to determine whether she was leaving voluntarily or under protest.
She rose before the sun, determined to spend her last quiet moments in the company of those she loved most. The air in her bedchamber was sharp with January cold; her breath hung faintly before her as Sarah, the maid she shared with her sisters, helped her dress in her dark blue travelling gown.
The house was unnervingly still. There was no clatter of pots from the kitchen where Cook would soon begin her morning preparations, no shrieks from Lydia somewhere in the garden pursuing some imagined adventure, no brisk footsteps from her mother in pursuit of a misplaced sewing project or mislaid ribbon. The hush seemed to belong to some other house entirely, not the warm, bustling Longbourn she had always known. Each familiar creak of the floorboards beneath her feet sounded amplified in the silence, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
Her boots creaked faintly upon the stairs as she descended, the familiar sound strangely magnified in the quiet. She found Jane in the parlour,already awake and dressed in her morning gown, a skein of blue embroidery silk trailing forgotten from her lap as she stared into the fire.
“You are awake early,” Elizabeth observed with a faint smile as she crossed the room, her skirts rustling softly against the worn carpet.
Jane looked up, her eyes bright in the lamplight, though Elizabeth could perceive the shadows beneath them that spoke of a sleepless night. “I could not sleep. I thought . . . I hoped I might have you to myself for a little while before anyone else claims you.”
Elizabeth seated herself beside her sister on the familiar sofa where they had shared so many confidences, allowing the fire’s meagre warmth to reach her chilled fingers. “A selfish request,” she replied with mock severity, “which I am very glad to grant.”
Jane’s smile was soft and genuine. “I know you have not yet determined whether you will remain in Thurnia, but once you depart, it may be some time before I see you again. The letters Sir Reginald left spoke of court seasons and duties that might keep you occupied for months.”
Elizabeth endeavoured to keep her tone light, though the word “duties” sat uneasily in her mind. What duties could she possibly be fitted for? She who had never been presented at court, who knew nothing of court protocol beyond what she had gleaned from novels and her mother’s breathless speculations. “Then you must come in the spring, when the roads are not an instrument of torture and the weather is fit for travelling.”
“I do wish your family had allowed you to wait until the weather was more hospitable.”