Pride and Pursuit: A Pride and Prejudice Variation, page 13
Had she been of brighter spirits, she would have laughed at the notion. This, the man who had stolen her family’s carriage and who had abducted her, who had brought her into his nightmare of certain danger, and who was now leading her through the most remote side lanes in northern Wales, was her rock in this storm. He was the one she felt she could trust completely. What delicious irony.
But he had, over the past several days, proven himself. Had he been of a less gentlemanly disposition, there had been a great many occasions for him to take advantage of her perilous state. They had been alone, out of sight of any other eyes, for long days, and had slept in the same room—no, the same bed—and not once had he given her the first cause for alarm.
Were he another man, one not so high in society and well connected, with such expectations that must be placed upon him, she could even consider herself fortunate to be in company with him, for he would make some woman a caring and considerate husband. A pang of regret now replaced her trepidation. He would, were he another man, make an excellent husband for her.
But now she must take what comfort could be found, and she welcomed his embrace and fell into it, letting her own arms wind about his back in reciprocity. They stood thus for several minutes until her eyes dried and she felt the dampness from his coat start to soak through her own rustic dress.
“You are wet…” she began.
“We are wet.”
“Look there, Will. Against the wall. Is that an old hearth? It is stone and will not burn. Might we build a fire, do you think? Did we bring enough wood?”
Whether they had enough for the fire to burn through the night remained to be seen, but it was enough for now. With the flint they had purchased and some kindling, they soon had a little flame going. Another examination of the overhang proved that they were not the first to take shelter under the remains of the roof, for there was a pile of twigs and branches that some other soul had left at some point, now suitably dry to burn. Elizabeth made a note to find some similar wood before they departed for the next traveller in need of such.
The problem of their wet garb remained. Neither had any alternative, save their night clothes. But they could not stay as they were, else they would surely become ill. Will must have been thinking something similar.
“If you wish to change and dry your dress by the fire, I can go out…” His hands dropped to his sides, palms facing forward in some sort of appeal.
“No. Then you would become even more soaked, which would benefit neither of us.” She took a fortifying breath. “We have been together in our night clothes before—”
“Whilst hidden under blankets in our separate beds!”
“—and there is no reason why we should not do likewise now. We have blankets to cover ourselves. There is no shame in it. If you will avert your eyes whilst I change, I can do likewise for you. Our blankets should be tolerably dry under the canopy. It only makes sense.”
A slow nod signalled his agreement. “Very well. We can move the cart thus,” he pulled the front to shift it to a different angle, “to make a screen. Please, change. I must look after Dobbin, anyway.” His face flushed pink, which was endearing in so self-regulated a man, and Elizabeth’s smile came more naturally. As he retrieved what he needed from the cart, she slipped behind it and shucked out of her wet garments and into her night rail, before throwing the blanket over her shoulders as a protective cape.
As Will did likewise a few minutes later, Elizabeth went to work laying out her clothing close to the fire, using some of the branches from the corner as a drying rack. It was not perfect, but it would do.
Dobbin seemed content in his corner, munching on hay and drinking water from the metal pail they had brought along. His large equine presence did not help to improve the smell of the place, but it did provide a bit of extra warmth, for which Elizabeth was grateful.
They ate a quiet meal of cold pies and some cheese, and huddled against the wall, waiting for their clothing to finish drying.
Will was the first to broach the question Elizabeth could not form into words.
“Where are we to sleep?”
She glanced down. The earth beneath their feet was rough stone, damp and covered with small rocks and pebbles. It would not do.
“The cart,” she ventured, “will not be very comfortable, but it has room for both of us and is dry. If we spread out some of the remaining hay, it might be serviceable.”
His eyes flew open. “Both of us?”
“Unless you prefer to sleep on the rocks over there. I cannot think you will get much rest, though. And the ground, even with this shelter, looks quite wet. If you must, you can take the cart and I can sleep tomorrow as we drive.”
Something of his former hauteur came over him and he looked rather offended. “I cannot allow a lady to sleep—or not—on hard and wet stone whilst I rest on a mattress of sorts. It goes against my every principle.”
“Then we must both sleep in the cart. I repeat my promise that I shall not compromise you, Will.”
His back stiffened with alarm before his handsome face cracked into a smile. “You tease me, Miss Bennet! Very well. After all this time we have spent together, it can hardly cause any more damage.”
Damage? Is that what she was to him? Damage?
She blinked back unexpected tears and turned away with the pretence of setting up the cart.
Of course he would consider this “damage.” With his strict principles, he would feel himself honour-bound to offer her marriage. They had been alone together for several days, had slept in the same room, and now in the confines of the same narrow cart. Many a young lady had been ruined for far less. That she and he both knew that the extent of their impropriety was using each other’s given name, but society would not judge their proximity kindly.
If he were to walk away, he would be able to go on with his life, this adventure commanding little more than a raised eyebrow in places, and in all likelihood, a clap on the back in others. In time, he would marry somebody eminently suitable and forget her, the “incident with that chit from Hertfordshire” nothing more than a half-remembered joke.
But she would always be tainted. Her lot would not be sly winks and nods of wordless approval, but the scorn of matrons, the derision of young men, and shunning by her contemporaries. Her name would be destroyed in society, and she would drag her family with her. Her dear Jane, her younger sisters Mary and Kitty, and even silly, flirtatious Lydia, would all be tarred by association with her, never to marry, except to those far beneath them in society, never to be accepted into the homes of their friends again.
Her mother would suffer a fit of nerves that might well carry her off, and her father… well, he would be satisfied to live out the rest of his days in the solitude of his library, never to be bothered by visitors again. But her mother and sisters… they must be thought of with compassion!
And Will, of course, would know this. If his story about his sister were true, he would be suffering the same concerns about her. Thank heavens he had interrupted Mr Wickham’s vile scheme, but should the story get out, even Georgiana Darcy’s reputation would be damaged.
With this in mind, Will would almost certainly offer her marriage. And she would almost certainly refuse him.
It was not that the thought of marriage to such a man was distasteful. Indeed, quite the opposite. Although they had known each other only a few short days, and despite the inauspicious manner of their meeting, Elizabeth had come to esteem the man. No, that was too cold. She more than esteemed him.
She liked him.
His rough country garb and unkempt growth of beard could not disguise the fact that he was a gentleman in every way that mattered. He was kind and considerate, had a fine and well-educated mind and a good understanding, possessed a variety of interests that she claimed as well, and above all, he treated her with respect.
When she had clambered up that tree like a hoyden and shot the rabbit, he had not turned in disgust and disparaged her unladylike behaviour, but rather, he had watched in awe and then lauded her skills. He had not snubbed her admittedly poor musical skills in favour of his sister’s superior abilities, but instead had joined her in song. He listened to her, conversed with her as an intelligent person, and treated her like a lady, no matter the circumstances. This was a man she could well come to love.
And this was why she must refuse him.
He deserved better than to be leg-shackled to a country lass he had only just met, and by such dire accident. She would bring him down, for how could he move in his own circles if the chatter behind closed doors was always about his low-bred wife? Her father was a gentleman, it was true, but she could never match the manners and elegance of one born into such exalted circles and raised to be an exemplar of her sex.
This, she could come to manage. She could attempt to refine her manners and how she held a teacup. She could live with the wagging tongues and the disdainful huffs. But she could not force Will to marry somebody he did not love. She would always be an obligation rather than a passion, and he would, in time, come to resent her.
Instead, she decided, she would ask him to tell her family that she had died along the journey. Swept away by a raging torrent, perhaps, or tramped under the hooves of a thousand sheep. Her family would mourn her, of course, but they could then continue with the respect of their neighbours and her sisters could marry well. Maybe there would be a position for her at this hunting box they sought, an assistant in the kitchens, or maybe a schoolteacher in the village.
But she could never be Mrs Darcy.
The tears flowed freely again, although she could not quite understand why, and she busied herself with the cart until, at last, they ran dry.
CHAPTER 13
Confessions
What had he said? Darcy shook his head at Elizabeth’s sudden change of mood. Was she crying? She had dashed off at once towards the cart, but he thought he had seen the mist of tears in her beautiful eyes. He made a move towards her to offer comfort and to apologise for whatever he had said, but then recalled his sister, just days ago.
“Leave me be, Will,” Georgie had wept. “When a girl’s heart is broken, she sometimes wishes for solitude, not for the presence of the man who broke it.” At the time, Darcy had been alarmed that Georgiana believed him to be the cause of her distress, rather than that vile Wickham, although Georgie had corrected herself later. But now, when it seemed that he had caused Elizabeth’s present unhappiness, the intent asserted itself on his brain.
He would refrain from intruding upon her misery for now, and hoped that she might condescend to confide in him at some later time.
He stretched and went to see once more to Dobbin’s needs, allowing Elizabeth some privacy whilst she spread the hay into some semblance of a mattress and prepared for sleep. He stoked the fire and checked the clothing, which would hopefully be dry by morning, and arranged the smaller damp canvases around the area as best he could to guard it from any winds.
There were no more tasks to delay the inevitable. It was time to join Elizabeth in the cart. He was already in his nightshirt, so all he needed to do was crawl into the cart under the canopy and try to pretend she was not there.
But the sounds emanating from the cart were not reassuring. Elizabeth seemed to be moving and rolling over again and again, clearly not comfortable.
“Is there a problem?” he whispered through the growing darkness. “I hear you shifting. Is something amiss?”
There was a long space of silence, then the sound of her moving around again.
“The hay,” she breathed at last, “is not what I had imagined. It is rough and irritating to my feet and head, where my blanket does not cover. I have tried to arrange the blanket to cover it all, but then there is not enough to cover me! If only we had thought to purchase some other lengths of cloth. I would take down the canvas canopy, but we need it to keep us dry. Oh, bother! I might be better trying to sleep on the cold and wet stones.”
She sounded quite miserable. Darcy could picture her, brows drawn close, bottom lip quivering, and he wanted to do nothing as much as pull her into another comforting embrace. But that was impossible.
She shifted again, a restless sound from under the canopy. He had a thought.
“We could…” Darcy started, but then went silent.
“Yes?”
He chastised himself for his foolish notion. “No. It would never do. I cannot believe I even thought of it.”
More shifting, then a frustrated short from the cart. “What is it, Will? Just say it. This is no time or place for your elevated social niceties.”
She was correct. He should, at least, make the suggestion. “I was thinking... That is… We have two blankets. We could spread one atop the hay for both of us to sleep upon, and use the other to keep warm.”
He expected an outraged exclamation from within, followed by a string of unladylike invectives against his scandalous idea, but instead, he was greeted with a low hum.
“It is quite shocking,” she said at last. “But we are hardly models of propriety. You have shown yourself to be a gentleman. I agree.”
This was done with a minimum of ado. As Darcy watched, Elizabeth laid her own blanket over the mattress, covering almost the entire length of it. The sun had long set, and only the barest glimmers of firelight flickered through the canvas cover, rendering Elizabeth as a faint shadow against the darkness. He wondered what she looked like, clad in a long white linen shift, her hair wound into a single long braid behind her back. His imagination refused to stop there, and he scolded himself for allowing these images to infiltrate his thoughts.
He slid into the cart, keeping as far to the side as he could, and draped the end of the blanket over his shoulders. It was not the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in, but neither was it the worst. Forcing himself to pretend Elizabeth was not so very close, he fell into a light sleep as the sound of the constantly falling rain provided the lullaby.
How long he slept, he could not say. He drifted to some sort of consciousness in the middle of the night, most uncomfortable. The sky was dark, the clouds obscuring the moon., rendering the air utterly black. He had lost part of the blanket and he was shivering. Only half-awake, he rolled to his other side and was greeted with a sense of warmth. He moved towards it and was met by a warm shape, which pressed itself to him as he pressed towards it. Now he could wrap the rest of the blanket around himself and, with the shared heat from the warm shape, he drifted back into a deep and restful sleep.
When next he roused, the sun was starting to lighten the sky and by what he heard, the rain seemed to have stopped. He drifted into awareness, warm and comfortable, his arms around…
His eyes snapped open.
Elizabeth!
What was he to do? She was nestled against him, her head resting on his shoulder, and his morning affliction was making itself known. He gulped in horror. As lovely as she felt, curled up against him, this would not do. He had to extricate himself without waking her. She must never know that they had slept the night thus. She would be most alarmed.
Her breathing was still and regular; she must still be asleep. He shifted an inch or two and listened. There was no change in her breath, so he tried again. Shift, wait, listen. Shift, wait, listen. Slowly, one tiny movement at a time, he slipped out from her too-pleasant weight. It would be far too easy to grow accustomed to waking like this, her soft and pliant body nestled against him, the scent of her hair in his nose. His arms felt strangely empty now, as if something had been ripped away from him, and he longed to fill them once more with her. But no, it could not be. He rolled to the far side of the cart, for all that it was two feet away, and began to crawl out. It would be best if he were dressed before she woke.
The crack on the back of his head took him by surprise and he choked back a yelp. It was enough, however, to cause Elizabeth to roll over and gaze at him with liquid, sleepy eyes.
“My head…” he began. “The frame for the canopy. I am sorry.” He rubbed the ache at the back of his head where he had banged it. “I did not intend to wake you.”
Her smile almost undid him. “I have been awake for some time.”
Bollocks.
“You were being so careful, I hated to render your efforts moot.”
His face went cold, then hot, as if he could not decide whether to be mortified or embarrassed.
“Please accept my apologies, Elizabeth. I must have moved whilst asleep. I had no notion, no intention of importuning you. It was unconsciously done.”
The smile became a laugh, light and slightly husky from sleep, and he felt it from his toes to the ends of his unruly hair. “I, too, welcomed the warmth in the middle of the night. You have done me no harm.”
But she was doing him a great deal of harm, and he believed his heart would never be the same. As for the rest of him, he dared not consider that.
Instead, he slid the rest of the way out of the cart without embarrassing himself any further and stepped away from the ruins of the church to take care of his personal needs before returning to examine their clothing.
Although the fire had gone out during the night, Elizabeth’s dress was quite dry, as were his clothes, with the exception of his coat, which was still slightly damp. If it did not rain, he could leave the coat stretched on some part of the cart, and use a blanket if he grew cool. He dressed quickly and then went to see to the horse, allowing Elizabeth to dress behind the screen of the cart.
They ate their scant breakfast quickly and set about restoring the shelter to how they found it. Darcy cleaned up Dobbin’s area and Elizabeth went looking for suitable logs and branches to replace the firewood they had used, in preparation for the next needy traveller. Before long, they were on their way again.
The space between them on the driver’s seat now seemed both far too wide and too narrow. Darcy ached to pull Elizabeth close to him once more, to feel her warmth against his side, to allow his arm to drape across her shoulders. She would fit nicely there, her bright spirit easing his soul when the troubles of the world grew too heavy. How, he wondered, would she get along with Georgiana? They might rub along very well indeed. Then his mind wandered further down the path, imagining Elizabeth at Pemberley, sitting with his sister at the pianoforte, or laughing together as they attempted a watercolour of some object no one could identify.
