by Nora Kipling
“There’s chicken for luncheon,” Mrs. Gardiner said as she puffed up to Elizabeth with a smile on her face. She was followed by a noisy duck who was trying to nip at her skirts. “Oooh, nasty little creature,” Mrs. Gardiner said, but it was with affection for the little thing as it attempted again to clamp its bill around the hem of her skirts.
Elizabeth smiled and made her way across the yard to the entrance to the small inn. She ducked under the doorway, it was an older building by the looks of it, and was welcomed inside.
A cheery room greeted her, with brightly scrubbed wooden floors, and mirrored lanterns. There were small windows with the shutters thrown open to the light outside, and single long, low trestle table with rounded stools along it for eating. Mr. Darcy was standing beside it, talking to the innkeeper, a portly man who nodded after every other word.
“Yessir, Mr. Darcy, right as soon as my Elsa can have the pot pie up. A short ale for yourself, and barley water for the ladies?” he asked, looking past Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth, and her aunt who had come in behind her.
Mr. Darcy nodded and the innkeeper bustled off through the door that must have lead to the kitchen, likely a room that the inn shared with the little house off the side of it. There was a clatter of pots, and then the door swung closed.
Mr. Darcy smiled as Elizabeth approached him.
“Perhaps not the finest of dining experiences,” he said, looking apprehensively at her.
“Oh no, do not say that Mr. Darcy. It is quite charming, and very acceptable to me,” she said as she looked around. For while it was small, it was clean, with a new-swept hearth and fire crackling away in it. She had no reason to turn her nose up at such an honest, if humble, place to eat.
“Your uncle and I stay at such places when we travel,” Mrs. Gardiner said, “when there’s no finer to be had. They’re small as they have everyone sleep on the floor here after the dinner is served, and while it’s not much privacy, it can be quite jolly if someone has a fiddle and fancies a bit of a tune.” She sat without hesitation, groaning. “Oh that carriage is lovely, Mr. Darcy, but my bones are protesting every mile, and we’ve so many left to go.”
“I apologize for each bump,” Mr. Darcy said with a smile as he and Elizabeth both took their seats as well. Elizabeth stretched her legs out under the table, relishing the ability to do so without knocking up against the seat across from her as was a problem in the carriage, or worse, possibly brushing up against Mr. Darcy.
She imagined that very thing, for a moment, and shot him a furtive look, her cheeks flushing. He did not notice her glances, and for that she was grateful. She did not want to appear in any respect a flirt, especially given the nature of their trip to Scotland. But still, she looked at Mr. Darcy from beneath her lashes and wondered about him.
Did she dare trust her new perceptions of him, when they were ever so much more favorable than the old? Just being in his presence was very calming, and she doubted she could have made the journey to Gretna Green without him. After he had saved her from that blackguard, Mr. Wickham, at the bookshop in Meryton, she’d had many quiet daydreams of him rescuing her from a variety of terrible situations that made her think that she ought to stop reading all of the gothics that Lydia was constantly buying; they were quite clearly giving her the wrong types of ideas.
It was, more or less she thought, the problem that she and Mr. Darcy had not had an opportunity to discuss the conversation at the bookstore, the one in which he proposed to her mere moments after Mr. Wickham had attempted to take liberties with her.
The innkeeper interrupted her thoughts as he came out with platters of food, a good ploughman’s luncheon of cheese and cold meats, as well as a fine-looking roasted chicken. Her stomach growled, unreasonably hungry and not at all in tune with the desire of her mind and heart to abstain from eating, for when she was heart-sick she often wished she did not have to eat. The ride must have jogged her appetite, for she tore into her plate of food with relish, and made a small noise of pleasure as the salted ham melted in her mouth.
Mr. Darcy chuckled, and she looked up at him. He was smiling, one hand around his jack of ale. She swallowed, and delicately dabbed at her lips with her handkerchief.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, although she had a suspicion it was the manner in which she ate her food that caused him amusement.
“It is just a joy to see someone take such pleasure from their food,” he said, and then cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing. “My sister… Georgiana, has always been fond of her meals, and I thought I might never meet a lady who so delighted in a repast as she.”
Well, his comment did not seem unkind, but even still, her own cheeks were blushing in return. Mrs. Gardiner washed down a hunk of cheese with a long pull of barley water, before sitting back with a sigh.
“What is life, if not to enjoy exceptional food and the company one keeps while partaking in it?” she asked. Mr. Darcy murmured his agreement with a contented noise, before applying himself to his meal again.
If they hadn’t been on so awful a mission, Elizabeth mused, she would have quite enjoyed the meal.
Chapter 3
Fitzwilliam Darcy
On the road to Gretna Green
* * *
Mr. Darcy felt a deep, disturbing guilt as they arrived at the first inn. They had barely made twenty miles that day in travel, far less than he had expected, and they’d need to trade horses around luncheon on the next day if they ended to keep up, or increase their speed at all.
Miss Bennet and Mrs. Gardiner were excellent traveling companions, if only because Mrs. Gardiner talked just the right amount with not too little so as to be uncomfortably silent or too much gabble so as to drone on, and, well, he was hopelessly in love with Elizabeth Bennet.
She could have slept, snored, and drooled the entire way to Gretna Green, and he would not have minded. As he helped her step down from the carriage, he felt the guilt prick him again. He ought not to have the privilege of being in her presence, for one, if he was to marry her sister, he did so with no love or affection beyond that of fond acquaintance, and doubly so, because he had lied to all and sundry about his reasons behind going on the journey to Gretna Green in the first place.
Let his father think it was to fulfill the family honor. Mr. Darcy had done the calculations in his head for their travel. Given that it was a day’s journey to London from Meryton, and another ten days from London to Gretna Green, he knew beyond all doubt that they would never reach the young couple in time to stop the wedding unless perhaps Mr. Bingley and Miss Bennet ran afoul of difficulties or delays on the way.
He knew they were on a fool’s errand, and yet he had persisted because he would give him opportunity to be in Miss Elizabeth’s presence for a few days without any interruptions save Mrs. Gardiner’s presence.
And Mrs. Gardiner may have been no chaperone at all, given how relaxed she was. She joked with Mr. Darcy as they travelled, and he suspected, as they sat down to dine for the evening, that she would indulge in a little tippling now that she was out of Longbourn and on the road. It had been her comment about the whiskey, he thought, as they ordered a fine dinner from the inn’s kitchens.
This inn was much, much larger than the last, and had such a grand stabling area that it boasted at least twenty stalls, and a pasture beyond for the horses to be let out into. Mr. Darcy had commended the best room for the two women, they would have to share a bed, but he did not think they would make much protest of that. The second best was for him, and once their trunks were unpacked, and the carriage driver was tucked away in the corner playing a game of cards, Mr. Darcy was able to relax some.
Elizabeth was quiet as she sat, and he watched her. He’d brought down his secretary to send a few letters before they ate, since the travel was making him weary and he had a strong suspicion that he would need to retire immediately after dining. The secretary gave him employment, and as he pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment, he glanced at Elizabeth over the edge
of the writing desk. She sat, hands in her lap, shoulders pulled back, as she watched the large fire in the hearth, and the fiddler who stood to one side of it, playing a relaxing tune.
The jigs would come later, Mr. Darcy suspected, and he hoped he would be ensconced in his bed by then. Just the mere thought of Elizabeth hiking up her skirts and dancing like a country miss, or serving wench, was enough to set his face aflame and make his chest tighten.
He should tell her, he mused. He should tell her that they hadn’t any chance of catching Jane, and that would she please reconsider her abrupt dismissal of his proposal back in Meryton. He had not done it correctly and he recognized that he’d foolishly rushed to ask her because he could think of nothing else that would complete his happiness than to have her as a wife and partner for the rest of his life.
What then, Darcy, old chap? Will she curtsey and say she will have you? You are an idiot, Darcy. He cleared his throat and Elizabeth looked over at him in surprise.
“Pardon me,” he said and then dipped his quill, deciding to write to his cousin.
* * *
Dear Colonel Fitzwilliam,
* * *
I hope this missive finds you well. You must think me a fool, to chase a woman as I have done. Only I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, would end up entangled as I happen to be, out of obligation and filial duty, to marry a most unsuitable girl. But what could I have done but to agree with what my father proposed? He would have made Georgiana’s life a misery had I not.
That is the only reason I go along with this charade, to possibly save her from ruination. Any brother would, and were you to have a younger sister, I think you would agree to it as well.
The fact that the young miss is fine of feature and figure does not hurt, but I would not want her to warm my bed at night more than necessary to get an heir, and then perhaps only to dispel the rumors of my so-called proclivities.
Speaking of which, have you any more word of how far they have spread? I am not altogether concerned, because at this point, all hope is indeed lost and I may as well be called whatever names they wish to give me, and not marry the girl besides.
To do so would betray the very fabric of my soul, and deny myself my own freedom to live my life as I choose.
Write soon, if you will, Cousin. We are well out of Meryton, the site of this unhappy story’s beginning, but an express should reach me.
It will take us at least ten days to reach Gretna Green, far longer than it ought to be, after which my fate will be sealed.
* * *
I cannot regret that, for at least I will not be tied to one I could not love.
* * *
Yours, in confidence,
* * *
Fitzwilliam Darcy
* * *
He sanded the paper and folded it, and was about to reach for the candle to heat the sealing wax when the tavern girls began to bring their plates. He tucked the letter away in his pocket, he would see to it later, and had the secretary brought back up to his rooms while they ate.
They made small conversation, but he could tell that the two women were wearied from the day of travel. He proposed an early night, if they all desired it, for he would not go up until his rooms until he knew they were safely in theirs.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy, ever the gentleman,” Mrs. Gardiner said, and he felt himself smile at her praise. Would she think that if she knew of his deceit? That the only reason he had even agreed to this trip was to be close to Elizabeth for the entirety of it? He hoped he’d never find out her truth thoughts, and that she would never see the truth in him either.
It was his deepest fear that when they got to Gretna Green and found that Bingley and Miss Bennet had married, that he, Mr. Darcy, would no longer be fit to even be considered a husband for Elizabeth Bennet. After all, what was a man without a fortune, as the joke went?
A pauper, came the unamusing reply.
Elizabeth yawned delicately behind one hand and then continued her repast. It was a fine beef stew, all the tastier still for having slowly cooked all day. It filled every empty corner of his belly, and he was almost too satisfied for the dessert, brought out by their serving girl with a flourish: a delicious berry pie, the crust oozing with juices and shiny where it had been stroked with egg-white.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a fine meal at an inn,” Mrs. Gardiner commented as she broke into her slice, making a happy sound around a mouthful and then looking contrite for having been so unseemly. Mr. Darcy just smiled at her, for the rules were a slight bit more relaxed on the road.
“It is a fine inn, but not one I had been to before. It was recommended to me when we stopped for our luncheon,” he said.
“Do you often take luncheon, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “I was under the impression that men did not require such fortification as a mid-day meal, and instead preferred to soldier on until evening after a small breakfast of a meat pie or some other such thing.” She was watching him closely, and a smile teased at her lips as she did so. He wondered if she knew, and that’s why she asked.
“No, I find I am often too occupied with the running of my estate, and other such matters, to stop to eat, although I do find it pleasant when at home to join Georgiana for her tea,” he replied.
“So you stopped out of necessity since you were accompanied by women?” she asked, her brows arching, and he could see the little trap she laid him with her words. Elizabeth Bennet was clever, and he did adore her for it, but he was not going to let her win that particular salvo.
“I stopped out of the pleasure in seeing my travel companions relax and enjoy themselves,” he said. “It matters not that our travel has an urgent reason behind it. Should we not stop, and see all that England has to offer?”
“How very patriotic, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth teased, and Mrs. Gardiner hushed her.
“Oh do stop needling the man, Elizabeth. Mark my words, if you do not learn that men are not to be teased and prodded at, you shall never be offered for,” Mrs. Gardiner’s words were little more than a whisper, and Mr. Darcy pretended not to hear them so as not to add to Elizabeth’s embarrassment at being scolded, for already he could see her cheeks turning a soft pink.
He wished that he could have said right then: Miss Elizabeth’s teasing is nothing but a joy to any man who might be on the receiving end of it. But then they would have both known his heart, and seen him for the fool that he was. Better to remain quiet, and not give himself away.
They ate the rest of their meal in the quiet, enjoying the music that the fiddler played. It was not elegant, but it was pleasant, and he thought he saw Elizabeth’s finger tapping against the tabletop in time with the music. He caught her gaze and she smiled, and he was treated to the rare sight of Elizabeth Bennet lowering her chin out of shyness.
He wished he’d had the strength, right then, to confess to her his feelings again, that they had not been voiced in the heat of the moment after a fight with Mr. Wickham, but rather had been true confessions of his great admiration for her.
But he could not, for she set down her fork, and in an exhausted voice, admitted that she rather felt like retiring immediately, if they would not take offense.
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her own plate, almost empty, and then sighed, before declaring lovingly that Elizabeth a spoil-sport. He watched the two of them gather themselves, wish him goodnight, and then climb the stairs to where the guests of the inn were housed.
All that was left were the two empty plates, and the rather bereft Elizabeth-shaped hole in his heart.
Chapter 4
Elizabeth Bennet
On the road to Gretna Green
* * *
The party of three became more relaxed as the first few days of travel were behind them. Elizabeth’s anxiety at finding her sister had dropped some, enough that she had become comfortable enough in Mr. Darcy’s presence to gentle tease him, and he returned the teasing as well.
She would catch Mrs.Gardiner looking at them from
time to time, a smile upon her face, and when Elizabeth would raise a questioning eyebrow at her aunt, the woman would just shake her head and return to her embroidery.
On the third night, after she and Mr. Darcy had engaged in a rather enthusiastic game of chess which had garnered many an odd look from her aunt, Elizabeth finally brought it up with her once they were back in their room for the night.
Lizzy sat at the dressing table, pinning her hair up into rags, for the inn had provided them both with a hip bath that evening, and she felt wonderfully clean, her hair so clean it squeaked between her fingers as she rolled it.
“Aunt,” she said, her fingers busy twining the long strands of hair onto the clean strips of muslin, “I have a question for you about… mmm, the expressions you have often worn as of late.”
“Expressions?” Mrs. Gardiner asked where she sat at the writing desk, penning a letter to Mrs. Bennet to reassure her that they were still looking for Jane. Mrs. Gardiner had written one every night, although the last few needed to be sent by express if they had a hope in arriving soon enough to calm poor Mrs. Bennet’s nerves.
“Yes, you look as if, it is hard to place it, but I catch you sometimes looking at myself and Mr. Darcy, and you look amused. Is there a jest you’d like to share with me? I have become most curious as to what those glances are all about,” Elizabeth said, tying up the very last curl with a sigh. She shook her head, and felt the familiar, tight sensation of the little rag curls bouncing. Not one was loose, so she could sleep without a concern. She rose from the dressing table and turned to look at her aunt, who was smiling to herself, in that same, vague way.
