Darcy set down his teacup carefully. “Let us hope that by the time anyone at Pemberley, or Longbourn, hears about this, we will already be on our way home to our loved ones.”
She gave a confident nod, but Darcy felt unsettled. By now, Rosings and the parsonage knew they were gone, and even if they did believe for the rest of the day that they had run off together, a subsequent message from this Markle would make the truth of their abduction known.
And I still have little reason to believe they will return us alive.
Chapter Five
There was something equally charming and odd about sitting on the floor and sharing a meagre meal with Mr Darcy. They talked about their homes, their friends, books and music, and even what dessert each liked best. Elizabeth saw more of his wry sense of humour that she had only recently seen hints of, and he talked fondly of his sister and cousin. He was attentive, listened more than he spoke himself, but was quick with an astute reply when he did speak.
She enjoyed talking with him—he was clever and well-informed—and it was far better to have a discussion and distract herself as best she could from the fact that they were locked in this small, miserable room.
Mr Darcy rose to put the tray nearer to the door, but it did little to give them more space. Elizabeth looked round and realised that the room was rather dark; she asked him to check his watch and was surprised that it was only seven.
“I think it is because of the window,” he said, pointing to the small oeil-de-boeuf window near the ceiling. “The sun has dropped below it. There are only a few candles; we shall not have much light in another hour.” He peered out the window for a moment, but it was too high even for him to see anything butsky. “I know you won’t discuss a plan for escape, but we ought to consider what is to be done once we face this Mr Markle.”
“You mean how to assure our captors that I am Miss de Bourgh?”
He blew out a long breath before saying, “I am afraid they will kill us both if they learn they kidnapped the wrong woman.”
“I need not convince them for long,” she said confidently, “and it is clear they knew little about your cousin, or even what she looks like other than she has dark hair.”
“Steamer and the other two might not know her, but we do not know what this Markle knows.”
“It will not be difficult to pretend to be Miss de Bourgh,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice, “if they know anything about her manner, they must know she is often silent. I can defer to you if they ask me anything I cannot answer. Most men assume a woman will be meek. Or I shall pretend to be too frightened to reply.”
Mr Darcy gave her a penetrating look as he sat on the box near the bed. “Is that not likely to happen? Because I feel no shame in admitting the truth of it in my own case, and I still think we need to be ready to escape if the right moment comes.”
She had to reply without showing one symptom of the fear that might overpower her if she thought of it. “I do not think we will have that chance, and I will not risk not getting away and suffering further punishment.” She steadied her breathing. “Mr Darcy, I am not going round and round with you again.”
She saw him struggle to keep his patience before giving a nod of agreement. After watching the small features of his face shift and change, Elizabeth realised he was not impatient with her. Or at least, not only impatient with her.Mr Darcy struggled with being inactive, in having no control, and in having nothing at all to do but wait in fear.
She had to cheer him and keep his attention occupied. “Our time is better spent telling me about your cousin so I can pretend to be her.”
“She is as you saw her at Rosings,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Mute, overly demanding of the servants, and unconcerned with any conversation happening around her.”
Elizabeth could not disagree with any of that. “Is there anything they might expect from Miss de Bourgh, something she might know or have an interest in, that I ought to be able to speak on?”
“Anne is a laudanum drinker,” he said sadly, “with no inner life. She rides in her phaeton, but does not drive it herself. She has never had to express an opinion because her mother does it for her. She does not apply herself to anything and has never wanted to—as best as I can tell, for she says so little for herself.”
Elizabeth regretted thinking that the sullen woman would have been a good match for Mr Darcy. He needed someone to draw him out in conversation, to give him a little liveliness. She twisted her fingers, not liking the settling realisation that someone with her play of mind and willingness to give her opinion would have suited him well.
After sitting a while in silence, she at the foot of the bed and he on the box, he finally said, “Our captors will almost certainly write to Lady Catherine, and given the uproar our absence will have caused, she will of course then realise that they tookyouby mistake.”
“Do you think she might not pay?” she asked, not believing it. It would take years, but her father would pay back Lady Catherine.
Mr Darcy sighed. “I think she would, and she would want to be thanked for it by everyone she meets for the rest of her life. She adores being of use, and saving the two of us and being ableto boast of it would appeal to her.” He looked away. “I cannot believe my aunt would not pay, but the fear is still there.”
There was still the disturbing possibility that everyone at Rosings might think they had eloped. “Does anyone know that on Thursday you intended to…”
It took him a moment to understand her hint. He even blushed a little. “No,” he muttered. “No, I told no one.”
“That is good news. Lady Catherine would not pay for my return if she thought you had at one time intended to present me to her as her future niece.” She added a weak laugh but with little feeling behind it.
“I do not want to believe my aunt capable of such cruelty, even if you had accepted me.”
He said it plainly, calmly, but she heard the disappointment in his voice. Did he still wish that she had accepted him?
What might my answer have been had he not wronged Jane, had he not been arrogant, if he had not called me ‘tolerable’?She looked at him, but he avoided her eye. It did not matter that he was handsome, clever, and not as selfish as she had thought. She could not forget that a significant shade of Mr Darcy’s character was unfolded in the recital she heard from Wickham.
