“There.” Elizabeth held the paper and newly inked pen towards him. “Now, what were you attempting to say?”
It took him a moment to recall, for his mind had emptied of all else but the vision of Elizabeth at the writing desk in the yellow morning room. At length he wrote,
I shall settle any debts accrued.
And replace your uncle's carriage.
She began to object to this, and he forestalled her by adding,
It is the very least I can do. You have saved my life.
“But your life would not have been endangered were it not for me.” She raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. “I have been used to your reasoning being less easily gainsaid, but I shall forgive you this once since youhavebeen injured, and on my account.” She did not allow the conversation any further latitude and instead held up his crumpled list. “These questions are more sensible. I will answer them as best I can, if you are not too tired?”
Darcy agreed with a smile and watched as she pulled a chair closer to the bed and made herself comfortable in it. Mrs Stratton’s dress was too large for her; it masked the lightness of her figure. The excess fabric ruched and slid over her hips in exactly the route a hand might take were it to navigate the same curves.
“Very well, question one.”
Darcy started, clenched his jaw to keep from mouthing an oath, and forced himself to attend to the matter at hand.
Elizabeth smoothed the crumpled list upon her thigh with the palm of her hand and read aloud his first question, aboutthe length of his indisposition, then answered, “Today is Friday. The accident occurred on Tuesday. You were insensible for much of Wednesday and Thursday.”
Almost three days. That would explain the beard.
“I have answered this next question twice already,” she said, and he was poised to beg her forgiveness when she looked up and smiled wickedly at him. “’Tis a good thing I know you to be such an ill-humoured man, else I might think you meant to tease me by asking me to repeat myself so often.”
Darcy could not look away from the bewitching glimmer of challenge in her eyes and certainly had not the wits about him to invent an adequate riposte before she grew impatient and continued without one.
“There is the innkeeper, Mr Timmins, and his nephew, Master John. A merchant from Bristol—Mr Stratton, and his wife. Mr and Mrs Ormerod. Mr Ormerod is a parson. Lieutenant Carver—a soldier, obviously—and Mr Latimer, who claims to be an actor, but whom I believe may just be overfond of wine and verse.”
Darcy chuckled and instantly regretted it for it made him cough, which was agonising. Elizabeth passed him the glass of water, and though he was grateful, he wished to God he could cease appearing so confoundedly infirm before her. To cover his mortification, he took up the pen and wrote,
Not many people.
“No, but enough, for it is a very small inn—and full.”
Fortunate they had rooms for us then.
She smiled faintly and returned to looking at the list. “Thenext two questions have the same answer, I suppose. Mr Timmins is a dear man, but he has some manner of affliction that affects his posture. His back is stooped, and he seems to suffer weakness on one side of his body. His nephew cannot be older than my youngest sister, for he still has the voice of a choirboy. Mr Ormerod is seventy if he is a day, and his wife is as frail as he is ancient. I have yet to see Mr Latimer sober enough to stand up without listing, and Lieutenant Carver is in possession of only one of his legs. I doubt either of them could outrun a snail. Mr Stratton has no discernible affliction other than being a tradesman, and that does not trouble me half as much as I am sure it troubles you. He is never apart from his wife, and I have no reason to suspect that either of them are not respectable people.
“So you see, I have reasonable cause to believe myself safe, but nobody upon whom I could reasonably impose to help me tend to you, or whom you would be content to do so.”
There was something mesmeric about the way Elizabeth presented an argument. She was pert without being impertinent, factual without being prosaic, teasing without being cruel. It made Darcy wish to disagree with her simply to hear more. He picked up the pen.
What about your uncle’s coachman?
“He left with Merryweather—Mr Stratton’s man.” His puzzlement must have been obvious, for she shifted impatiently in her seat and began again. “The coach in which I was travelling overturned, as you know. Mr Stratton was the only person here with another, and he very generously lent us the use of it to transport you back here. His man and my uncle’s then returned with the carriage to the scene of the accident to collect—” She faltered. Darcy mouthed the deceased man’sname for her, at which she nodded gratefully and continued. “It was their intention to deliver him to London and inform my uncle of what had happened. It can only be assumed that they, too, have been hampered by the weather, for no help has arrived and Merryweather has not returned with the carriage.”
She paused to sip some water. Darcy knew not whether they were limited to one glass by circumstance or whether she had unconsciously drunk from his. Either way, it gave him a strange thrill.
“In regard to what I have told people of our situation, the answer is as little as possible,” she said, returning to the list. “We are neither of us known in this area, so it matters little what assumptions have been made. I hope we shall be gone soon enough to be quickly forgotten.”
He yearned to assure her he would do whatever it took to protect her reputation, but such promises were not in his power to give. He watched her, shamed to consider what she must think of his reticence. She kept her eyes downcast, however, and he could not guess her opinion.
“I confess, I do not know the answer to your question about provisions. Mr Timmins does not appear to be short of supplies, though we are obviously in want of anything fresh.”
That was concerning.
Can someone not be sent on foot for more? This Stratton fellow, or the young lad?
