Pride and Pursuit: A Pride and Prejudice Variation, page 14
He would have to offer her marriage. This he knew, and he had known it from the moment they fled the inn after Wickham attacked. She would have to accept him. The damage to her name and her family would be irreparable should she not. And this broke his heart, not because marriage to this spark of light would be painful to him, but because it would be painful to her. He had a choice; he could be the cad and abandon her to the slings and arrows of society, with little detriment to himself. She had none.
She should be allowed to choose her own husband, to marry a man she loved. And that choice had just been removed from her. And he was the ultimate cause, and she would resent him forever because of it.
With this gloomy thought, he pushed away the dream of cuddling her close, and wished the bench were wider so he would not be so tempted.
He glanced over and wondered what she was thinking. She had woken with a great smile, but had grown quieter over breakfast, returning to the melancholy of the previous evening. Did she, too, realise what must happen? Was she contemplating the necessity of a life with the man who had ruined all of her hopes?
Was there a beau she had left behind in Hertfordshire? He did not believe so, for why, then, would she have gone to London to enjoy the balls and soirees she had mentioned? But there might be somebody about whom she had hopes, now all dashed.
He could not offer her the sort of life she had imagined, but he could offer her something. He was a wealthy man, with a great estate and fine home. If he emphasised her material gains in accepting him, it might lessen the blow. He gritted his teeth and swallowed. Yes. This is what he would do. He would speak rationally about their predicament and about his wealth and status, and not cause her more grief by professing an affection she could not hope to reciprocate.
The thought saddened him, but he could see no alternative, and soon was quite decided.
At last, the occupants of Mr Bingley’s carriage arrived at their final stop of the day, a comfortable coaching inn near Wolverhampton. Despite his much happier disposition whilst walking with her in the village earlier, Mr Bingley’s mood had soured again as soon as they all climbed back into the coach, and the last leg of the journey had been as uncomfortable as the first. Not for the first time did Jane wish one of the gentlemen had chosen to ride beside the coach for a while. She quite envied the stalwart major, free to amble beside them on his own horse, quite removed from the awkwardness inside.
She had even dared such a remark, opining that had she the choice, she would enjoy a canter on horseback, better to enjoy the scenery. Mr Bingley had looked quite aghast at her words. “I would not wish to arrive at our next lodgings smelling of horse and all the more covered in dust.”
The colonel had just glanced outside to where Major Hawarden’s form was silhouetted against the shifting landscape and opined that he found the view from inside to be perfectly adequate.
The discomfiture, it seemed, would enjoy no abatement.
Thank heavens they had, at last, come to the end of the day’s travels.
Major Hawarden had once again ridden ahead and was waiting for the carriage with a servant for the trunks and a groom for the team. Colonel Fitzwilliam leapt out at once to confer with them and see to their rooms, and after entering the establishment, the group separated almost immediately. Jane had already proposed dining quietly in her own chambers this evening, which sentiment was now echoed by her father and Mr Bingley. The colonel concurred, stating business he needed to attend to with Hawarden, and offering his apologies. But nobody seemed too put out to spend the evening alone. They had, it seemed, exhausted their desire for each other’s company after the day’s travel, and Jane was thankful for the reprieve from this silent duel that was playing out.
Her father kissed her goodnight and disappeared with his books, leaving Jane to do likewise. She wished for the company of the happy Mr Bingley, but what was more than appropriate in the busy streets of a market town in the brightness of the afternoon was quite unacceptable in the confines of an inn after sunset, and thus Jane retired alone to her room.
This night, she slept somewhat better than the last, being more accustomed to the noises of an inn and less concerned at having no assisting maid. Knowing her father was in the room right beside her calmed her worries as well, and she woke in the morning feeling much improved from yesterday.
They took a quick breakfast together before climbing once more into the now-dreaded carriage for another interminable day’s travel. There appeared to be some unspoken détente between Mr Bingley and the colonel at breakfast, and Jane prayed it would continue once they resumed their journey.
There must be some sort of pleasant conversation to break the gloomy mood, although so many topics had been attempted and abandoned. The weather, the state of the roads, and the latest novels had all been canvassed and examined, and the men, so Jane imagined, would have little interest in London fashions and they, in turn, seemed to have reached some unspoken agreement to avoid all topics deemed unsuitable for a lady’s ears.
She asked Mr Bingley about his sisters, to which he replied in short and unflattering sentences, and then she canvassed the colonel about some of the places he had seen on campaign. He graced her with a grin that made his eyes shine and spoke on for a time of Paris and Italy, as Mr Bingley’s pleasant face grew stormier and his curt responses to questions sullen.
Oh dear. This was not helping. When the colonel finished his recitation and the company in the carriage lapsed once more into silence, Jane was almost relieved. Still, the silence was stifling. She must try again.
“Can you be certain, Colonel,” she asked at last, “that there will be enough room for us all at your hunting lodge?”
Mr Bingley leapt to Jane’s topic. “I would be very pleased to procure rooms for us all at some local establishment.” He puffed out his chest. “No expense is too great for Miss…er, Miss and Mr Bennet, my new neighbours. I would be honoured to be of use.”
The colonel was not to be outdone. “There is no worry about that, my good fellow. Rest assured; we shall find a bed for each of you with little difficulty.”
Jane wondered at the size of the place. She had visited a hunting box with her father once whilst travelling that he had pronounced very fine, with two separate bedrooms on the ground floor, and a loft above where three or four others might sleep if they did not mind sharing the space. If that was considered comfortable, the colonel’s family’s lodge must be even larger still. She envisioned an entire storey above the main hall and kitchens, rather than only a loft. A grand hunting lodge, indeed!
Her father seemed to direct his thoughts along a similar line. “Are you certain the lodge is of sufficient size?” he asked at last. “We will be six once my daughter and Mr Darcy are retrieved.”
No one dared correct his words to ‘If they are retrieved’.
“I shall share with Lizzy,” Jane announced with determination. “We have shared a bed in the past, and I am so anxious to see her safe, I would gladly do so again.” I might beg it, even.
“Your sisterly affection does you great credit, Miss Bennet.” The colonel bowed as best he could in the confines of the moving carriage. “Be assured, you will have the choice to sleep where you will.”
Once more, Mr Bingley cast a malevolent glare at his rival from the corner of his eye.
Oh dear. This was a most unpleasant journey!
What was he thinking?
Elizabeth had tried to approach the new day with a brighter mood, but the further they travelled, the more Darcy seemed to sink into melancholy. He said little, responding to her questions and comments with few words, seeming sad more than angry. Could it be worry, that the closer they came to their destination, the closer he came to a possible confrontation with Mr Wickham? Surely, though, he would talk about that. They had achieved a degree of intimacy that would not allow barriers to such a conversation.
But it seemed more internal, more personal than that. She felt as if she were somehow the cause of his distress.
It must have been because of the previous night, when they had ended up asleep in each other’s arms. He seemed most embarrassed, and in any other circumstance, she would have felt likewise. To sleep not only in the same room as a man not her husband was bad enough, but in the same bed, and then in such proximity that a grain of sand would not have fit between them, well, that was quite unthinkable!
But it had been cold, and he had been warm, and—she had to admit to herself—his arms felt good around her. They felt right. Perhaps she should have rolled away when first she opened her eyes, but it was too comfortable to lie like that, cosy and protected, and she had not wanted to move.
And now, she recognised, he must be scolding himself further, for with each growing intimacy, he would have less and less choice but to offer for her. And, from the look of gloom on his increasingly dear face, he did not cherish the idea.
She would have to assure him soon that she expected no such offer, and that he was free to pursue his own wishes. She would not hold him back. The smile she forced herself to wear grew heavy, and before many more miles had slipped beneath them, she had given it up entirely.
Despite the clear skies, the roads were still soft and muddy from the rains, and progress was achingly slow. When they passed through a village—something rather rare on these back lanes through the mountains—they replenished their supplies with the dwindling contents of Will’s pockets. How many more days would they have to travel? Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, she could snare another rabbit or two to extend their money. If only they could find another well-supplied shack along their route.
As the hours passed, however, the skies grew leaden once more, along with Will’s mood. Whatever he was pondering, he spoke not a word of it, but his shoulders sagged more with each passing mile, and his replies to Elizabeth’s occasional comments shorter.
“’Tis the weather and the weight of my plight,” he responded to a pointed question, before lapsing once more into heavy and brooding silence.
Still, it did not escape Elizabeth’s notice that not once, during the worst of his blue devils, and despite the very real threat of both more rain and Mr Wickham, was he rude to her or impatient or cruel to Dobbin. Instead, his few unprompted remarks were concerned with her comfort and the wellbeing of their stalwart horse.
Foul mood and perilous circumstances aside, Mr Will Darcy was a good-hearted man. It made Elizabeth’s own burden easier to carry.
Eventually, luck was with them when they took shelter from another sudden downpour in an old barn. This one was not abandoned, but the farmer, also biding his time under the leaky roof, was welcoming and cheerful. The man was a ruddy fellow with a deep voice and a great laugh that seemed to take the edge off Will’s black mood. The farmer spoke little English, but he smiled a great deal and the bright fire in a grate and the hot fragrant broth that simmered in a pot above it needed no translation. When the man produced two more small bowls to pass over, Will’s temper eased even more.
What surprised Elizabeth the most, however, was Will’s passable command of the Welsh language. He paused and stumbled a bit between words, and often attempted sentences a second or third time, but the effort was clearly appreciated and the farmer grinned and laughed all the more. Between the two languages and many smiles and exaggerated gestures, the travellers were offered space in the barn to sleep for the night.
“I am not sure…” Will began. “We must move on. I wish to arrive at Coed-y-Glyn as soon as possible, and we have hours before dark.”
The farmer understood that much, and gestured to the sheeting rain that poured down past the open doorway.
“We cannot travel in this, Will.” Elizabeth noticed her hand was once again resting on his forearm. It seemed so natural now, this gesture of intimacy, that it was reflexive; he said nothing but covered her hand with his own. “You might tolerate the rain, but Dobbin…”
“No. Of course. I cannot expect the poor creature to slog through this. Perhaps it will ease in a while.”
The farmer waved his arms again and said something that Will clearly understood, and a short conversation in Welsh ensued.
“Very well,” her companion breathed at last. “I accept defeat. Another night it is, and this place is as comfortable as any we shall hope to find.”
And the deal was done, with great expressions of gratitude and more well-meaning smiles and exclamations.
They continued their journey the following morning under somewhat brighter skies and with lighter moods. The roads were still muddy and progress slow, but the small bag of food the farmer had given them made the journey less onerous and they travelled with little complaint for some hours.
“How much further is it to your cousin’s hunting lodge?” Elizabeth asked Will as they took a mid-day stop to allow Dobbin to rest. They had found a log by a meandering stream on which to sit and ate some brown bread and hard cheese as the horse drank his fill from the clear water. “We have been three days on these roads, and have seen hardly another soul. I am beginning to doubt that this mythic lodge even exists. Is it, perhaps, in the land of the fairies, to be discovered only at midnight on a single day of the year?”
“And guarded by a fierce red dragon, perhaps?” Will’s laugh was a welcome change from his sombre mood of the morning. “Fear not, milady, for I shall slay the dragon for thee. In truth, Elizabeth, I had hoped to be there by now. The rains have made the journey a great deal slower than I expected, and I had forgotten how steep the mountain paths could be. But these are parts I have seen before. If we make good time, tonight we sleep in a village called Llandrillo, about ten miles from our goal, and tomorrow we shall achieve lands surrounding the lodge.”
He did not look relieved, and she inquired about this.
“I confess, I am concerned. I must consider our approach carefully. If Wickham guesses our intention, and I feel certain he must, he will have the place watched. He knows the lodge exists, and I now consider it would take no great effort to discover its exact location. A joking question at a tavern, or a coin in some footman’s hand, will give him everything he needs. All the roads leading to Coed-y-Glyn, I am certain, will be under some sort of surveillance by some men in thrall to his charm and his purse. My purse, rather, since he must surely have stolen everything of mine he found.” He gave a great sigh as he began to pack the rest of the bread back into the basket.
“Then all of this, this long and miserable trip, has been for nought!” Elizabeth cried.
“No, not at all! I had considered this. Listen: all the roads will surely be watched, but I know the area well. There are ways into the park that do not rely on the roads. If we do not pass through the village, but come around from the woods at the back, there are tracks. I shall explain as we come closer, when you can see what I mean. But trust me, please.”
He peered into her eyes, and she could not refuse him.
Why were his eyes so appealing? What was it in his countenance that allayed all her doubts? She would not have taken her own father’s assurance so readily, but such was Will’s beseeching expression and calm manner that she found herself accepting his every word.
“Very well. But what of this village where we hope to sleep tonight? Thlan…” she tripped over the unknown name, the foreign sounds fitting ill on her tongue.
“Llandrillo. Let me teach you how it is said.”
They spent a few more minutes on their fallen log, watching the stream bubble past them, as Elizabeth attempted, with uncertain success, to pronounce a sound she had, until listening to the farmer the previous afternoon, never before heard.
The short lesson further brightened both of their moods, and when they harnessed Dobbin back to the cart and started off again a short time later, it was with smiles that did not seem forced.
They would have to have their discussion soon, but after yesterday’s gloom and Will’s fragile mood, Elizabeth was content to leave it for the time being and enjoy the cheerful afternoon’s travels through the beautiful hills and mountains. But all the while, some part of her was painfully aware that this strange episode of unexpected companionship would soon come to a sad and bitter end.
CHAPTER 14
Nearing the Target
The air in Mr Bingley’s carriage was, if anything, growing tenser by the minute. Jane had never been so uncomfortable in society in all her life. Every time Colonel Fitzwilliam paid her attention or offered to assist her with any matter, large or small, Mr Bingley became agitated and surly, and strove to outdo the colonel.
If the colonel complimented Jane’s frock, Mr Bingley showered praise upon her shoes. If the colonel offered a hand over a muddy patch or an uneven bit of path, Mr Bingley offered to carry her across it.
What had, at first, seemed to be gallantries borne of good breeding and excellent manners, had become something of a competition. The colonel could not have missed Mr Bingley’s jealousy—for jealousy it must surely be—and was playing to his opposition, whilst Mr Bingley seemed oblivious to the amusement he was engendering and proceeded to act the green-eyed lover, with or without cause.
All the while, her father sat by, watching with more than his usual sardonic expression, seeming most highly entertained. He said not a word, other than what was required, and kept his nose in one of the several books he had brought on the journey, but Jane knew that he saw all and was as much amused as she, herself, was not.
It was vexatious.
As much as her younger sisters rattled on about the romance of being fought over by two handsome and eligible men, the reality was quite different to what was set forth in novels. There was no heady rush of excitement, no thrill at being so admired. It was uncomfortable, awkward, and put plainly, most unpleasant.
