by Jennifer Joy
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “He has already surprised you once. Who is to say he will not surprise you again?”
“I pray you are right. In the meantime, I will agree with Mr. Darcy and declare that you and Mr. Bingley will be incandescently happy together.”
Jane sat up, her shoulders straight and proud. “I shall not be content with anything less than incandescent happiness,” she said through her widened smile. “As soon as Mr. Bingley … Charles … wakes, I shall him tell how happy he has already made me because he proposed before he fell ill. I am not so desperate to accept the offer of a gentleman delusional with fever. I would have waited until he was well.”
She soaked the linen in freshly melted snow and dabbed it against his neck.
Elizabeth chuckled. “Do not tell Mama.”
“I know the futility of wishing things were different, Lizzy. I was certain of Mr. Bingley’s affection before our hands were forced into each other’s. I am content, and I wish the same for you.” Jane rose to warm her hands before the fire. There were two more oak logs. Mr. Darcy would return with help before they burned.
Mrs. Darcy. Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy — Elizabeth tried the name. He had offered his friendship, and she knew he would try to be the best companion she could want. Friendship was good, but it felt cold when she longed for more.
She sighed, shaking off her gloomy thoughts. Her future was determined, and she would make the most of it.
Focusing on his better qualities, Elizabeth said, “I enjoy Mr. Darcy’s conversation. My comments do not soar over his head as they do with so many others.”
Jane agreed. “You will have to be more cautious what you say in front of him. He will understand your meaning where others do not.”
“I do not know if that is comforting or not,” admitted Elizabeth.
In fact, in the long stretch of hours during which she and Jane imagined happy endings for everyone, a conversation in which Jane had the definite advantage, Elizabeth concluded that Mr. Darcy’s ability to understand her real thoughts disconcerted her greatly.
At one point, she concluded that had circumstances been different, she and Mr. Darcy might have become friends — and then something more — of their own free volition. Now, she would never know, and she regretted the loss.
She rebelled at the thought of a forced marriage, at a compromise neither she nor Mr. Darcy had orchestrated. She could only imagine how he must feel about it. Duty was as cold an emotion as indifference.
Of all of her sisters, only Mary might be content with such an arrangement. She would have accepted her fate with all the piety of a self-sacrificing maiden. Not Elizabeth.
Afternoon faded into evening, and still there was no Mr. Darcy.
Jane tended to Mr. Bingley, holding his head up, so he might drink water and converse about trifling things until he succumbed to restless sleep.
Darkness fell around them, and Elizabeth reminded herself how early the sun set in the winter months. Perhaps the village was farther away than they had supposed. Perhaps the roads were still too dangerous to travel, and Mr. Darcy had been obligated to walk a great deal before meeting with anyone.
She rubbed the glass of the window and squinted her eyes, expecting to see swaying lanterns any minute. She held her breath to listen for a farmer’s squeaky cart and for voices.
Elizabeth knew her pacing and constant peering made Jane nervous, so she encouraged her sister to sleep while she stayed up, watching, waiting.
When the last piece of oak burned, Elizabeth broke the legs off of the table to add to the fire. Nobody would miss the three-legged table.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her. When she awoke, it was daybreak.
Springing to her feet, she looked about in a panic. Had she missed their rescue?
Where was Mr. Darcy?
Chapter 20
Elizabeth and Jane shared the last of the stale bread, drinking cup after cup of melted snow to swallow it down.
Jane leaned closer, her eyes looking worriedly over at Mr. Bingley, who kept throwing off his coat and pulling at his shirt. One moment he shivered so hard his body shook, and the next, his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. “He is not improving, Lizzy.”
Anxiety chewed at Elizabeth’s stomach. She could not swallow another bite of bread, no matter how hungry she had been moments ago. Something was dreadfully wrong.
“I do not know what has delayed Mr. Darcy’s return. I fear he has had an accident,” she admitted.
Mr. Darcy had said he would bring help, and Elizabeth did not doubt he would stop at nothing to keep his promise. Which meant he must have been stopped….
Jane pressed her fingers against her cheeks, her eyes fixed worriedly on Mr. Bingley. She could not leave him. Elizabeth would not ask it of her.
That only left one option, and Elizabeth was determined to take it. “Burn the chairs if you must, Jane. I am going out to see if there is anyone nearby. I will walk to the village if necessary, but I will bring help.”
Jane did not like it, but there was nothing else to be done. Truth be told, Elizabeth felt better doing something rather than waiting.
It had not snowed for two days now, and Elizabeth soon found the trail Mr. Darcy had cleared. It made her efforts much easier. Her half-boots easily fit inside the large prints of his Hessians. His stride was longer than hers, but she soon turned it into a game where she hopped from boot print to boot print, her eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth soon found herself on the road. Cart tracks carved a path through the snow. Encouraged at the site, she followed them toward the next village, taking comfort in the occasional boot step on either side of the cart marks.
She walked, following Mr. Darcy’s trail and that of the cart. Jane would worry if she did not return soon, but she had to press on. Elizabeth rose to the tips of her toes, looking down the path as far as she could see, willing a carriage to appear on the road.
A strange sound made her stop. She held her breath. The icy breeze rustled the bare branches of the trees lining the other side of the road. Had she imagined it?
And then she heard it again. A jingle. The sound of a horse’s harness.
She ran as quickly as her snow-soaked skirts permitted.
Elizabeth’s lips chapped, her cheeks burned, and her lungs protested, but she pressed on until she saw a cart and horse.
Waving her arms over her head, trying to make herself as large as she could, Elizabeth ran until they saw her. There were two men, laborers from the looks of them.
Lightheaded, she dropped her hands to her knees, the puffs of her breath clouding her vision. She could run no longer. Nor did she have breath enough to shout.
She must have been an appalling sight, for the men looked askance at each other as they drove their cart nearer. Two more men she had not seen rode in the back. They carried hunting rifles. Mr. Darcy was not there. Strange.
Standing erect, she gasped, “Did Mr. Darcy send you?”
The man holding the reins frowned while his three companions exchanged glances.
Elizabeth’s elation at their impending rescue quickly turned to concern. She asked, “Did a gentleman not arrive in your village recently seeking help? His appearance would be a little rough after what he has been through, but his clothes are fine. Nobody would mistake Mr. Darcy for anything other than a gentleman.”
The driver pressed his lips together and shook his head. The other three men scoffed.
Elizabeth looked around her as a new explanation for the men’s confusion occurred to her. “Did you see nobody fallen beside the road? Or perhaps there is a house where he might have been received between here and the village?”
They whispered among each other but gave her no reply.
“From whence do you come?” she asked, her desperation intensifying.
Were these men even from the village? Who were they, and why did she sense their mockery?
The man holding the reins l
ooked between her and the other men with him. “We came to help you, miss.”
The man seated beside him glared at her. She returned his glare. Some help they were.
“How do you know Mr. Darcy?” he asked.
Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest. Considering the men had not even bothered to introduce themselves nor reassure her Mr. Darcy was well, much less inquire after her health or that of the other travelers, she balked at answering his question.
She would say as little as possible. “Mr. Darcy was kindly conveying my sister and me to London with our chaperone when two highwaymen stopped us on the road. We were robbed and left for dead in the snowstorm.”
One of the men sitting in the back of the cart said, “That is quite the story.”
Another said, “A convenient one.”
Elizabeth’s agitation with the men grew. Some rescuers they were, delaying their rescue with impertinent comments. No doubt, they thought she had arranged the whole thing merely to trap Mr. Darcy and secure another wealthy husband for her sister. Little did they know….
She kept her sarcastic thoughts to herself. Pesky flies were easier caught with honey than with vinegar. And the fact remained that she needed their help (no matter how unwillingly they gave it.)
“I am grateful for your help, sirs. The other gentleman who was traveling with us has fallen ill. What began as a cold has developed into a fever, and he is in need of a doctor.” Surely, that would inspire their sympathy.
“Climb on,” the driver said, motioning behind him to the cart.
“Do you know where to go?” she asked, standing at the back of the cart and clambering onto it when none of the men offered assistance.
“I know the place,” he said, flicking the reins and sending her lurching forward.
Elizabeth did not fall off the edge, although she came perilously close to it. It occurred to her it was not the wisest decision to put herself at the mercy of four strange men, but how else was she supposed to help Jane and Mr. Bingley?
Oh, where was Mr. Darcy?
Having nothing to clutch in her hand to use as a weapon, Elizabeth kept as close as she safely could to the edge of the cart. She was fast. She would make a run for it if it came to that. And she had strong nails. Elizabeth squeezed them against her palm. They would do.
The cart turned off the road, and she saw the cottage ahead. Jane must have been waiting near the window, for she soon appeared at the door.
Without a greeting or a single word of introduction, the men filed past Jane into the cottage while the driver held the horses.
Elizabeth cast Jane a glance, whispering to her when she got nearer, “They are not much for conversation, but at least they will take us to the village.” Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. She would not know how to answer if Jane asked why their manners were so abrupt.
The men emerged, Mr. Bingley’s arms draped over their shoulders. They carried him to the cart with all the delicacy of a farmer carrying a sack of potatoes.
Jane exclaimed, but her concern went ignored.
Elizabeth marched into the abandoned house and retrieved her book, making haste lest they desert her. They were capable of it. She considered grabbing the heavy kettle. It would have made a worthy weapon had she, Jane, and Mr. Bingley not been outnumbered. In the end, Elizabeth decided to leave the vessel behind.
She crossed her arms with her book clutched over her chest, bursting in frustrated rage at the rough manners of their so-called helpers. Had she and Jane been capable of carrying Mr. Bingley into the village, Elizabeth gladly would have done so rather than accept the help of these brutes. But they did need their help, and so she held her tongue (though it pained her greatly to do so) and climbed back onto the cart.
The driver clucked for the horse to walk.
Poor Mr. Bingley had no comfort offered to him, sprawled out as he was on the wooden platform. Jane arranged the tablecloth into a padded ball which she placed under his head. He was too weak to complain, but he tried to smile at her.
It was a long, silent trip down the road. Elizabeth watched for Mr. Darcy’s footsteps until they were too trampled to distinguish.
Trails of chimney smoke pierced the sky as they neared the village. Laborers looked up and nodded at the men as they passed. Women and children stepped out of their homes, dozens of eyes looking at Elizabeth and Jane. They were not friendly looks.
Houses lined the path now, and the snow yielded to mud. They reached the village square and stopped in front of the post inn.
A rotund man with red cheeks and dark whiskers polished a tankard in his hand. He shouted to someone behind him as he descended the steps to the back of the cart.
His glares were directed to the men instead of to Elizabeth. It was a welcome relief from the dirty stares and disapproving scowls she had endured since first encountering the men on the road. Elizabeth was beginning to think she had done something terribly offensive of which the villagers were aware, and she was not. It was ridiculous.
A young man joined the innkeeper, and they each held out a hand to assist Elizabeth and Jane down from the cart.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, clamping her teeth over her tongue lest she make a comment regarding the other men’s lack of common courtesy. They were not safe yet, and she had yet to see Mr. Darcy.
A portly woman with cheeks as red as the innkeeper's met them at the bottom of the steps. “Welcome to the Crown Royal Inn, ladies. Mr. Jolly and I are pleased to have you as our guests,” she said.
The innkeeper grunted in agreement, thus identifying himself as Mr. Jolly.
Looping her arms through Elizabeth’s and Jane’s, Mrs. Jolly pulled them inside so quickly, Elizabeth had to skip to keep up.
“Pray come inside with me, ladies. My husband and son will see to Mr. Bingley, but really, I must insist you allow me to see you to your rooms.” There was an urgency in the woman’s words that moved Elizabeth to comply with her wishes.
Jane looked longingly behind her.
Mrs. Jolly said, “Mr. Bingley is in good hands, I promise you, Miss Bennet. I have him set up in the room adjoining yours, and I have arranged for one of my maids to see to your every need. I sent for the apothecary and expect him shortly.”
Elizabeth took heart. Mr. Darcy must have arrived before them for Mrs. Jolly to know their names. But, where was he?
Mrs. Jolly led them upstairs where they were shown into a clean, simple room with a giant bathtub sitting in the middle of the floor.
A maid with a pail of steaming water came in behind them. She dumped the boiling water into the bath, and it was all Elizabeth could do not to jump into the hot, clean water — clothes and all. She looked longingly at the bar of soap resting on the table beside the tub.
Pulling her eyes away from the temptation, Elizabeth asked, “Where is Mr. Darcy?”
Mrs. Jolly stretched herself up to her full height, saying in a tone that brooked no argument, “I have been instructed to see to your needs before you are allowed to see Mr. Darcy.”
“He is here then? Is he well?” Elizabeth pressed.
“He is the one who insisted I personally see to your care.” With that said, Mrs. Jolly turned and closed the door behind her.
The maid entered as soon as Mrs. Jolly had departed, ready to take their clothing to wash while she and Jane bathed.
Jane pressed her ear against the door to the hallway. Heavy boot steps clunked over squeaky floorboards. “You bathe first, Lizzy. I wish to stay with Mr. Bingley until the apothecary arrives.”
Elizabeth was not about to argue with her. As quickly as Jane slipped into the hallway, Elizabeth shed her grimy clothes and slid into the delicious water.
She could have languished in the bath all day, but her need for answers had her scrubbing her hair before the maid could return to help her. She had not yet rinsed when Mrs. Jolly came into the room.
“Please forgive my intrusion, Miss Elizabeth. These belonged to my daughter before she marrie
d.” Mrs. Jolly held up a blue and a pink dress in one hand. Balanced in her other arm was a stack of white unmentionables that brought tears to Elizabeth’s eyes. Never again would she undervalue clean undergarments.
Mrs. Jolly continued, “My daughter is slight like you, but I daresay this pink one shall do for Miss Bennet until her clothes dry.”
Elizabeth smiled at the kind woman. “Thank you for your generosity, Mrs. Jolly. The maid took my clothes away to be washed, and I was wondering if I would have to remain inside this bath until she returned them.”
Mrs. Jolly chuckled. “I can see why Mr. Darcy spoke so highly of you.”
Elizabeth felt her face deepen a shade, unprepared as she was to receive a compliment from Mr. Darcy (albeit through a third person).
She missed him. She had grown accustomed to his presence.
Mrs. Jolly moved to the door. “Mr. Jolly has a plate of food waiting for you downstairs. You had best see to it. I will send for Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth donned the blue morning dress and spencer before the maid returned. Jane slipped back into the room in time to help Elizabeth with the difficult-to-reach buttons.
“The apothecary is here. He is examining Mr. Bingley right now,” Jane said, looking toward the doorway separating their room from Mr. Bingley’s. Elizabeth knew her bath would be a short one too.
Allowing her sister privacy, Elizabeth went downstairs where the smells of fresh bread and rosemary made her stomach grumble. A table with a plate of beef stew and a pot of tea awaited her, and she did not delay in doing it justice.
Just as she sopped up the last of the gravy with a generously buttered piece of bread, the cart driver came inside the inn. He made his way over to the tap where Mr. Jolly stood alone.
He spoke quietly, but Elizabeth heard him. “We found the other travelers just as Mr. Darcy said. Let us pray it is enough to convince them.”
Elizabeth stirred, her chair tottering in her haste as she made her way to the wood counter. “Pray tell me where Mr. Darcy is,” she pleaded.
