Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, appalled at herself. Mr. Darcy thought her either a deceiver or a dupe. He had made that abundantly clear. That she found him handsome, clever, and charismatic—that she had wanted his lips to touch hers—it made no sense at all.
There were other things that made no sense. She had retreated to her room the night before, shut the door with what she had hoped was greatdignity, set the candle down, and wondered, for the first time, why she had not been provided with a maid.
The memory of their quarrel unfurled before her with painful clarity, every word that she might better have left unsaid repeating in her mind. She shut her eyes, but it did not help. Mr. Darcy’s face remained, stern and pained, his mouth set as if he would say more but had decided against it. Of all the ways for the evening to have ended, she had contrived the one that left them in open enmity when she owed him more thanks than she had ever expressed.
A log shifted in the grate with a small sigh. Elizabeth turned her head. The fire had nearly burnt out. She drew a breath and swung her feet to the floor.
The boards were like ice. The sensation was bracing, and she almost welcomed the bite of it. There was no help for what had passed between them. She could at least face him with composure at breakfast, and if an opportunity arose, she would apologise. She would not allow pride to stand between them when their acquaintance was so soon to be ended.
Elizabeth hoped Prince Adrianwasa good friend to Mr. Darcy. Perhaps they would then meet again with this matter of her title resolved.
She had half a mind to go down at once and take refuge in the common room, but she could hear Mrs. Hobart in the next chamber—sniffs, rustlings, the decisive thump of a trunk being shut—and did not wish to endure being scolded for being in the common room on her own.
She dressed and waited until the noises next door subsided, smoothed her skirts, and went down.
The private parlour they had been granted for their use opened off the main passage, away from the fire and the easy conversation of the common room. A small table had been laid before the hearth. There were eggs and toast and marmalade on the table. A maid poured her a cup of tea.
Mrs. Hobart sat near the fire, wrapped in a shawl. Her cap ribbons had achieved a defiant height, as though they had done battle with the wind. She held her teacup in a manner that suggested she found the cup imperfect but had resigned herself to using it.
“Miss Bennet,” she said pertly, rising a little. “I was about to seek you. Sir Reginald is quite determined that we should lose no more time. Pray sit down. As you can see, I have taken the liberty of ordering breakfast for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hobart.” Elizabeth moved to her place at the table. “Has Mr. Darcy been down this morning?” she asked casually, concentrating very hard upon the marmalade.
Mrs. Hobart’s brows rose. “My dear child, he has been up since some unconscionable hour. Gentlemen are always exacting about their arrangements.”
Elizabeth’s hand, which had been engaged in cutting her toast, paused.
“Is he—” She wondered if he regretted almost kissing her. She felt ashamed that her only regret was that he had not. “Is he well?”
“He appears entirely himself, I assure you,” Mrs. Hobart replied. “Sir Reginald says that Mr. Darcy acquitted himself well and that he has proved a useful ally. That is high praise.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze to her plate. Mr. Darcy had acquitted himself well, and she had repaid him with impertinence. The man was sceptical that she was a princess; why would he not be? Why had she seen fit to quarrel with him about it when they would soon be in London and he would hear the truth in a way he could not doubt?
She lifted her teacup to her lips. The liquid trembled slightly, and she curled her fingers more firmly about the porcelain to hide it.
The door opened, and Elizabeth’s gaze shot up. But it was only Sir Reginald.
A trace of moisture clung to the hem of his coat and the brim of his hat. His gaze swept the room, noted Elizabeth at the table, and softened.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing. “I trust you have had a good night’s rest.”
“You are good to enquire, sir. I am well.” She could not help but look behind him. “Is Mr. Darcy with you?”
Sir Reginald came a little further into the room. There was nothing in his manner but grave courtesy.
“Mr. Darcy was up early, Miss Bennet, anxious to be on his way. He has already set out.”
“Already set out?” The question escaped her before she could stop it.
Mrs. Hobart shifted in her chair, the fringe of her shawl whispering against her sleeve.
Sir Reginald inclined his head. “He departed an hour ago, at least. Maybe two. I regret that you were not informed sooner, but he was desirous that your rest should not be disturbed.”
Of course he had not wished it. He had been set on escorting her yesterday, but that had been before their argument upon the landing. What point was there to remaining in her company when they were at such odds?
Sir Reginald’s gaze rested upon her face. “I own that I had not expected him to go so soon,” he said. “He appeared much occupied with your safety. But I persuaded him that so close to London, with the weather clear and all of us travelling together in my carriage, you would be safe with us.”
“It is a pity he did not stay to take his leave,” Mrs. Hobart said with a sniff. “But I suppose he found us a burden happily relinquished.”