‘Well ...’
The carriage swayed, and I swallowed, my mouth dry.
‘It is fine. Just read it,’ I said, feeling decidedly green. ‘I need the distraction.’
Jane coughed delicately. ‘So in this scene, our hero, Mr Darcy, proposes to our heroine, Lizzy. Keep in mind that she has taken a dislike to him because of hisdour temperament and, up until this point, has had no reason to suspect his regard for her.’
Lucinda nodded enthusiastically, and I groaned inwardly. I nearly asked Jane to read a different scene but had not the strength of mind (nor stomach) to do so. And indeed, hearing Mr Darcy profess his ardent admiration for Lizzy would help to remind me of Max as it was described so well. When Jane reached Lizzy’s fervent (and, some might say, rather punishing) rejection speech, I noticed with some amusement that Lucinda was captivated by the story. She was leaning forward and hanging on to every word.
From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.
Lucinda let out a whoop. ‘Oh, she is so forthright in her derision! I imagine Mr Darcy does not take kindly to Lizzy saying that!’
‘Indeed he does not,’ said Jane with a wry smile. ‘He thanks her for her time and gives her his best wishes for her health and happiness, then hastily leaves the house with his tail between his legs.’
Lucinda laughed out loud, and I could not help but smile too.
‘I am glad it is only a story!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am sure I would not like to meet a man like Mr Darcy in the flesh. He seems so brusque and scary!’
Jane looked at me enquiringly, and I shrugged. She may as well know since she was his niece.
‘You have met him, dear,’ said Jane. ‘He is your uncle.’
Lucinda’s mouth hung open. ‘What? Mr Darcy is Uncle Max? But that means ...’ She turned to look at me in wonderment. ‘Are you ...?’
I nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Aunt Jane has cleverly invented a story involving your uncle and me. Of course, she has taken many liberties.’ I narrowed my eyes at Jane, and she laughed. ‘And she has not written about the more private aspects of our story.’ Aspects involving red wine that would forever remain a secret between Max and me.
As Lucinda and Jane fell into a discussion about the plot and how she had contrived to make Mr Darcy more insufferable than his counterpart, I had a strong image of Max riding his horse alone with a glum lookon his face. Suddenly, I felt a terrible longing to be with him—to leap from this wretched carriage and jump on the nearest stagecoach back to Derbyshire. Thankfully, at least he knew where to write to me, and we could still correspond. I had managed to add a postscript to my letter before Mrs Bromley took it to the post office the next morning.
PS: Dearest, our circumstances have changed somewhat since I wrote the above, and we are now to take a short trip to visit Mr Hart’s castle. I do not particularly wish to go. But Lucinda and Jane are most excited about it, and I did not want to spoil their fun. Mr Hart’s father will be in attendance, as well as Jane and I, so Lucy will have chaperones in abundance! Still, it might be best not to mention the excursion to Seraphina. I will write to you from Hartmoor Castle, Love your Fliss x
***
Despite Mr Hart’s assurance that we would arrive at the castle before sundown, we did not. We rolled along in pitch darkness for quite some time before the carriage finally ground to a halt. A feeling of overwhelming relief rushed through me as it felt like I had been grappling with a gloopystomach for hours.
‘At last,’ I said, throwing open the carriage door. Eager to alight and breathe the air, I descended and stepped directly into a pile of fresh horse droppings.
‘If only you had waited for me to assist, Mrs Fitzroy, you could have avoided that,’ Mr Hart’s amused voice drawled from behind me as I wiped my soiled boot on a clump of grass on the roadside.
‘If only we had arrivedbeforesundown, then I could haveseenwhere I was stepping, Mr Hart,’ I replied dryly.
He warned the others about my misfortune as he assisted them from the carriage. Lucinda emerged tired, pale-faced, and rumpled, followed by Jane, who seemed in much better spirits.
‘I am so excited to see your castle, Mr Hart,’ she said, peering into the darkness and pulling her shawl around her for warmth as there was a nippy chill in the air. ‘But pray, where is it?’
‘Just a short walk through those trees,’ he said, gesturing vaguely off to the side. ‘We will be using the back entrance.’ He collected a lantern from his driver, who was giving the horses some oats and who, I assumed, would then be delivering our luggage. But I was quickly learning it was not wise to assume anything when it came to Mr Hart.
‘Why can we not use the front entrance?’ I asked warily.
‘The door is locked from sundown to sunrise as my father does not like to receive visitors during that time. But Maurice knows we are coming and will have the fire lit in the parlour and a hot supper ready for us. This way, if you please, ladies.’
He held the lantern high and strode off down a narrow path into the trees, and we had no choice but to trail after him like lambs following their shepherd.
Indeed, the thought of a warm firelit parlour and hot supper did motivate me to start walking, so he had said the right thing.
‘Who is Maurice?’ I questioned, attempting to scrape the remnants of horse dung off the side of my boot as we went along.
‘Our butler’ was the reply. I had further questions, but his curt tone stopped me from asking them. Besides, I needed to comfort Lucinda, who was gasping every time she brushed by a twig. An owl hooted above us in the trees, and she almost jumped out of her skin.
