B006O3T9DG EBOK (45 page)

After town, Darcy enjoyed the quiet, but at times the country was not always amenable to his desire for tranquillity. Oftentimes small hamlets were short on amusements. He had known cottagers to quit their ovens and fields to come to the village for no other reason than to admire his livery. Moreover, many common folk displayed all manner of servile tics and peculiarly reverential bows when they saw him. Darcy was quite used to the absurdities of obsequiousness, but never enjoyed them. He would have paid the publican an extra sovereign to keep word of the stay from being known. (Elizabeth would not know to do so.) Unfortunately, the melee on the road had precluded anonymity.

Whilst Darcy fretted about their privacy, Elizabeth instructed Hannah to see if the inn had such a thing as a large wash tub.

Her husband inquired, “For you or the children?”

She looked at the offending hem of her skirt and was unperturbed.

“If my sloth offends, sir, I shall put my own toilette above that of your children.”

The Darcys’ exchanges had become disharmonious. Elizabeth endeavoured to quell her growing irritation lest it was overheard.

After the baskets, satchels, and trunks were unloaded, Hannah bid a footman to see that water was drawn. In the kitchen, a pot of stew was warming over the fireplace. Even for a man whose taste in all things was discriminating, it looked rather good to Darcy. The serving wench, however, was not. Standing guard over the stew was a toothless woman in a begrimed apron. The publican’s stout wife shooed her away and scurried to serve Mr. Darcy a large pewter bowl of stew. Beside it, she laid a half loaf of bread. He tore off a piece of bread, stuck a corner of it in the stew and popped it into his mouth. As it was still hot from the pot, he had to resort to some unflattering facial contortions to keep his tongue from being scalded.

Notwithstanding the irregularities of his countenance and the stew’s origin, he found it uncommonly delicious. It was good, wholesome fare. To admire rusticity simply because it was fashionable to do so was unacceptable. Nonetheless, it was exceedingly good ragout—good enough for his children. He motioned for Mrs. Heff to have a tray carried up to them.

Despite Darcy’s implied aspersions, he conceded that the inn was clean and tidy. It was, however, little more than serviceable. There was an inn of estimable merit at Meryton. He surmised that Elizabeth had good reason to let apartments twenty miles away. That was not a subject he chose to broach (as he was of the opinion that their distance from Longbourne was a gift he was not in want of questioning). Once their coaches had crossed paths, he expected to stay no more than the night in Chiltern. The ledger showed that Elizabeth had taken their rooms for a week. Her design, had she one, was obscure to him.

Darcy took the stairs to their room in hope of finding some privacy therein to make peace with his good wife. His son, however, awaited him. His eyes looked troubled. This time, Geoff had not escaped from Margaret. She had brought him to his father.

“Beg your pardon, sire,” said Margaret. “The boy seemed so worried I knew you would want to talk to him.”

Darcy nodded to her and waved her on her way. She did leave, but waited just beyond the doorway. Darcy bent down upon on one knee and drew his son to him.

“What troubles you?”

The boy inquired, “Is it true, Papa?”

“Is what true?”

Geoff’s voice trembled.

“Body-nappers—do they steal our teeth?”

In the past months, two of their cousins had lost their baby teeth. That had made the talk of grave-robbers all the more real to Geoff. His father firmly believed that the horrors of stealing corpses should not plague one so young. The very thought angered him. Drawing the boy tightly against his breast, Darcy patted his small back. There was no such talk at Pemberley. The boy was clearly too young to be trotted about the country subjected to morbid talk and rooster attacks. Thank God above that Janie had not been struck by the same fear. Of the two, Geoff was the worrier. His place was already weighing upon his shoulders.

“Do not fear, son,” he crooned. “You are safe. I am here.”

Not entirely placated, Geoff’s voice quavered as he asked, “What of William? Did the body-nappers steal him?”

He did not want to place undue importance on it lest the child’s fears be multiplied.

He stood him down, saying, “No, they did not. Fear not, for I am here and I shall protect you always.”

Vowing it would be so, he beckoned Margaret Heff.

“Sleep well, son. Papa is right here all night.”

To Margaret, he said, “Should the boy....”

She nodded. Taking Geoff’s hand, they walked across the hallway.

From beyond the doorway, Elizabeth watched the tender scene with a divided heart. Her husband’s quiet reassurance of his son was touching. Although she was not surprised, she was still pleased that a man as proud and reticent as Mr. Darcy did not hold himself above issuing such comfort. Yet, she could not help but feel that in doing so, her husband censured her as a mother. He had, after all, believed her wrong in taking to the road without him—and was most displeased that she had then allowed the children to leave the safety of their coach to observe what excitement had transpired.

No doubt he thought that she had behaved unwisely—even rashly. (If she was at fault for any of it, she had to admit that she was curious about the overturned coach herself.) The incident was unremarkable. They had not sustained any injury. Until Duff’s wild stories, it had been a bit of an adventure. Accidents befall the best laid plans.

As she bethought the matter, she became evermore indignant.

Clearly, Darcy exaggerated the entire event. After inflating the danger, he accused her of placing her children in harm’s way. Indeed, his words came perilously close to a reproach. He could not injure her more grievously than to criticise her as a mother. Just thinking of it left her all but quivering with outrage.

Taken as a whole, she believed he had treated her with utmost disrespect. The only repair for such an indignity was for him to withdraw his accusations (falling on his knees and beg her forgiveness would be helpful, but highly unlikely). In order to obtain his apology, fractious words might be exchanged. Unlike Pemberley’s vast rooms, the walls of the Chiltern Inn were not impenetrable. If they were to speak contentiously, she did not want to be overheard.

She meant to betake herself from their room altogether, but before she could pass him by, he caught her hand.

He said, “Allow Hannah to see to your needs....”

With a near-violent twist of her wrist, she wrung her hand from his.

“I want,” she said, “A pint of ale.”

Her request astonished him. He caught himself before he laughed. Hers was not a jest.

“My love....”

She whirled and in a harsh whisper, said, “You use me cruelly to improve yourself.”

An expression of injured incredulity overspread his countenance.

He said curtly, “I here beg leave to apologise if I have, in word or deed, wounded you in any fashion.”

That was apology by rote, not one truly meant. Did he think her a simpleton?

She whispered urgently, “You accuse me, not in word or deed, but in your thoughts—with your eyes.”

“Of what do I accuse you?’

When she spoke, it was not what she meant to say. Nonetheless, she believed it true.

“I am condemned for my vulgar relations.”

Her recent visit to Longbourne and the ill-behaviour it harboured was very much with her. Unfortunately, it did not occur to her that she was the author of this accusation, not her husband.

He responded, “I am quite certain that none of us can best the other when it comes to ill-mannered kin. This, I have admitted freely. Surely, you suffer from a higher injury than that.”

Her chin quivered, but she did not weep—despite how deeply she was offended. When she spoke, she still did not tell him what she had inferred from his talk with their son. Perchance that was best. Rather, she spoke of another grievance, one that festered in her breast long before they came to Chiltern Inn.

“We shall not be happy unless I am enslaved by our designing friends—to sacrifice what we have to the caprice of their inclinations.”

Still confounded, said, “I do not take your meaning.”

He truly did not.

“Am I to have a child to please others? Shall that please you? Is that what you want of me?”

He was rendered speechless. She was not.

“I am in want a pint of ale and I shall have it.”

Chapter 61

Purgatory Holds On

It fell apparent with great haste that Chiltern was not to be the idyll that Elizabeth had hoped—or the night of rest that Darcy had supposed. If he was confused by his wife’s anomalous actions, she was in a spin of her own.

As she made for the door, Darcy called to her.

“Lizzy!” said he. “Where shall you go?”

Upon occasion, Mr. Darcy spoke firmly, but he rarely raised his voice. Hence, she paused. She did not, however, gaze in his direction. Nor did she answer. In truth, she was much in need of finding a place where she could sit and think with pleasure of her own ill-use. The drinking establishment below their rooms looked quite acceptable to engage in a bout of self-pity.

“I shall accompany you,” he said, claiming his coat.

She knew that she was nearing compleat want of conduct. Marching into a public room of a public house in any manner was exceedingly ill-advised under any condition—certainly not alone.

She was not so foolish as to refuse his offer—nay, his insistence—upon escorting her. Still, she did not wait for him. She hurried on her way, but by employing two long, purposeful steps, he caught up with her. Although she hastened her pace, she could not stay ahead of him. Indeed, he was all but stepping upon the back of her mud-caked slippers as she walked.

Darcy, of course, was horrified. (He recognised that she meant to injure decorum, but he was uncertain if she was witting of it.) He did not believe that she understood the full nature of his discomposure. True, if they were to quarrel, he wanted to do so in private and not a common alehouse. His very being was repulsed at the thought of entering such a place. The smell, the sounds, indeed, the very bowels of such a place not only insulted his dignity, they fostered another, higher abhorrence. It was a recollection that would haunt him all of his days—one that had not yet come to her.

The other public house had been a far more disreputable place, stinking of vomit and urine. Its habitués turned a blind eye to the indecencies that took place within its walls. He had left its floor stained with the blood of three men. Infuriated beyond any imagining, he had smite them with gun and sword. If any man dared do Elizabeth harm, he would not hesitate to murder again.

His breath grew heavy just recalling that long-past night and he did his best to calm himself. Elizabeth, oblivious to his temper, gaily made her way to a table. As the establishment was empty save for the publican and a lone confrere, she claimed a table in the corner near the fireplace. The earlier rain had brought a brisk, clear night and a draft seeped into the room making the warmth of the fire evermore desirable.

The place was clean, but obviously unused to anyone of higher station that a local squire. Whilst it in no way favoured the other festering canker of a hellhole, Darcy endeavoured to curb his growing pique. By the time they sat, he believed that his dear wife had begun to have a few misgivings about her sudden want of a pint. Neither of them was the sort to concede. The innkeeper hastily came to them, asking Mr. Darcy if they cared for a cut of meat. Darcy shook his head. He motioned for two pints of ale instead.