Elizabeth thought about this. “You know, I think I am. Perhaps something more substantial than broth? I truly feel much better.”
Molly seemed uncertain about whether such a meal would be allowed, but obediently left to ask ‘himself’—or so Elizabeth assumed.
Cautiously she stood, noting with distaste that her frock—never one of her favourites—was wrinkled beyond belief. In her stocking feet, she took several experimental steps around the small room, pleased to find that she wasnow quite steady. Molly returned with a tray—soup again, but a much heartier version. Once the meal was consumed, Elizabeth felt almost her usual self.
Molly carried out the empty dishes, promising to give assurances to ‘himself’ that she was really quite restored.
With the return of her health, Elizabeth’s mind fastened again on the problem at hand, and the many questions begging to be answered.What kind of character has Mr Darcy? Why did he rescue me from Mama’s designs? If he is honourable enough to the point of marrying me in the process of saving me from Mr Collins, why did he treat Mr Wickham so abominably? Why did hemarryme?
Besides all that, there were so many important details absent from her splintered memories. Who even had married them? Mr Palmer? Her mind was fuzzy on the order of things, but she remembered being at Longbourn with Mama and Mr Collins and then riding in a carriage. There had been a licence, she somehow recalled, although she could not remember any details about why she knew this. Why could she not remember a ceremony, or even the foggiest notion of a church? There was a memory of a stranger, an older man, offering her a peppermint. Was he a vicar?
At that moment, she spied her half-boots resting beside the hearth.
These were questions only Mr Darcy could answer, and she was no child, afraid of treading the stairs of a respectable establishment in search of him. He might not be in a private parlour, or even the tavern proper. If thatwere the case, however, someone could fetch him from his room, could they not? She donned her shoes.
A glance in the mirror, unfortunately, told her that her hair was a wild mess, her dark curls having taken on a life of their own—and there was no brush available to tame it. It would be best to wait for Molly, and ask her to obtain an audience with her benefactor.My husband.My husband?It seems impossible.
She waited. And waited. The girl did not return.
Her impatience with the entire situation grew to unbearable proportions. Finally, she freshened herself as best she could with the bowl and pitcher of water provided, and quickly left the warmth and quiet of the small chamber before she could change her mind.
“Mr Darcy!” cried a snivelling voice. “Where is my bride?”
Darcy sighed. He knew he ought to have waited for a private parlour to empty, but in his relief at hearing of Elizabeth’s apparent recovery, he had opted to forego one in favour of immediate fortification. He had been nearly trembling with relief and elation at the news of her improvement. Reluctantly, he turned to face his accuser.
“She never was your bride, idiot,” he said—not bothering with politeness.
A second person rounded on him.Wonderful. A duet of dunderheads. Just what Elizabeth does not need—a public spectacle.
“What have you done with my daughter?” Mrs Bennet shrieked.
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she looked as though she might begin beating him with her reticule. Every person in the inn—including Molly, he abruptly noticed, who wassupposedto be waiting on Elizabeth—turned to stare at them.
“Tell me now or I shall search every room in the place!” she screeched.
He would not allow it—and nor, he suspected, would the innkeeper, whose bushy brows were already drawn together in a frown. This was a respectable inn, and the attention they were drawing was anything but.
“Listen to me,” he growled in the low tones of one accustomed to deference, his eyes narrowed in wrathful command. “If either of you have a brain in your head, you will turn round immediately, and walk out that door. There isno onehere. Everyone is safe. Everything you desire shall be returned to you with no harm done, but only if youquietlyleave. Do it.Now!”
The last word was uttered with such vehemence that the two before him quailed, slumping accordingly into a compliant obedience. In fact, everyone in the entire room seemed to find something or someone else to look at.
That is right. Nothing to see here. As long as they departed without a fuss, there was unlikely to be any scandal. He could maintain Elizabeth’s choices for her, as he was honour bound to do, and which he knew shewould prefer. His own preferences mattered little in comparison.
But into that sudden quiet, a soft voice emerged. “Mr Darcy, I would speak with you, please.” He swivelled to meet it. Elizabeth—lovelier than he had ever before seen, pink-cheeked, her long hair tumbling and curling over her slim shoulders and a crumpled dress, looking for all the world as if she had just emerged from his bed after a long day of play—stood at the inn’s stairwell.
“Mama? Mr Collins?” she questioned, her confusion obvious when they, too, turned to look at her.
And then the awful voice, the voice he hated most in all the world, the voice of one he had wished beyond reason that he would never have to hear again, called out loudly, derision in every word.
“Well, well, well, Darcy. How fortunate that I spotted your carriage. Methinks the cat has been caught cavorting with the canary, with a few sweet feathers still sticking to his lips.”
Elizabeth was not stupid. She heard and understood Mr Wickham’s insinuation; she supposed he might be excused for some misinterpretation of the circumstances, but she did not appreciate his blatantly coarse—and loudly stated—assumptions.
Darcy shot to his feet, glaring, anger pouring from him; he was a good half a headtaller than Mr Wickham, who reddened, but did not move away. Mrs Bennet glanced at the two men warily, as if she had just grasped that the situation might be a bit beyond her touch. Mr Collins took an actual step backwards.
“Shut. Your. Mouth,” Darcy ordered, his voice low and wrathful.
