The extravagance and general profligacy that Darcy laid at Wickham’s charge shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. How astonishingly different did everything now appear in which Wickham was concerned. His designs on Miss Darcy utterly appalled her.
I was so weak and vain.
Darcy had vindicated himself, and how he must hate her for championing such a man. She never told Darcy that she trusted him and suspected Wickham of withholding some part of the story. How dreadfully had she managed this conversation. She just ended breakfast and demanded an accounting as though she still thought the worst of him. As selfish and proud as Darcy had once been, he had been more just to Wickham than that horrid man had ever deserved.
All this time, only one of them had been a good sort of man, and it had always been Darcy.
The door was thrown open, and of course it must be him. She was not ready to raise her eyes; her cheeks were hot with mortification. She felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
“Get up,” he cried.
She started at his harsh tone. She had thought walking away would have calmed his anger. “What? Why?”
“Kirby says they know we are here.”
She stood, mute and confused. Darcy grabbed her wrist and tugged her to the door, and with stumbling feet, she followed, grabbing her letter off the table before she did.
They ran down the stairs, Darcy taking them down the exterior staircase rather than lead them into the inn itself. Were they fleeing into the town? The yard was silent, and Elizabeth ran toward the arch that led out of the courtyard when Darcy yanked her hand and pulled her to the stables.
They ran past the horses in their standing stalls and into the adjacent carriage house. Being Sunday, all was quiet. Darcy led her past the small washing station for the carriages and the tack room. There were large windows at both ends, and all the doors and windows were open, as they ought to be. It seemed a foolish place to hide.
“Someone will see us—” she began.
Darcy made a hushing sound as they went to the post chaises not currently hired. They were all the same, but with varying degrees of wear; all yellow, with one inside seat, no box, and no external seats. Darcy opened the door to one and, without bothering to lower the steps, told her, “Get in!”
She did, not very elegantly. Darcy climbed up after her and, using the side-glass strap, tugged the door shut behind him. He closed the forward window blinds with two quick flips and sat on the floor, gesturing for her to do the same. They were crammed in uncomfortably, with her wedged between the seat and wall with her knees bent, and Darcy in pretty much the same position in front of her, his feet touching the door.
All she could hear was her own heartbeat and the sound of their breathing.
“Darcy,” she said, her voice shaking, “I did not know Wickham was?—”
He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide. “Do not talk,” he muttered, enunciating every word.
He silenced her because Markle’s gang was here to kill them. It still hurt to be pushed away, although she could not blame him after what she had said. She did not know if she wanted to beg Darcy to put his arms around her, or never lay eyes on him again from humiliation. All of her feelings weighed on her, and were compounded tenfold when she heard several horses enter the yard.
Chapter Fourteen
Her hands shook, and the sound of paper fluttering was what made her realise that she still held Darcy’s letter. She was afraid to fold it and put it away lest it make more noise. How many horses had just entered the yard? It must be Markle’s gang; no one else would travel on a Sunday. Elizabeth heard voices calling out, but they were too far away to identify them or hear their words.
Sounds above them told her that a groom was making his way down the stairs to tend to their horses. There seemed to be a lot of talk, and she was desperate to know how many men were out there. Maybe they could escape if there were only a few. When she was certain the groom was outside, she leant forward.
“How many?” she whispered into Darcy’s ear. He shuddered at the near contact. He held up four fingers, then he raised his shoulders and lowered them. Four riders, possibly more or less. Markle, Conway, Colton? Markle might have gathered others to help pursue them.
She wanted to whimper in terror, but it would not be her fault that they were discovered. Darcy was silent, and she could be too. Someone would likely find them regardless, and Markle would shoot them in this old post chaise. The smugglers wouldfind their room, realise that they had recently been there, and then search all of the Bull and George until they found them.
Elizabeth felt absolutely freezing despite how fast her heart was pounding. She swore the post chaise got smaller the longer they sat.
After some time of quiet, she heard more horses’ hooves against the cobblestones and then voices again. Elizabeth pressed her lips together as tightly as possible. She could not cry out. Markle would open the door, shoot Darcy, and then her. The last thing she would know before she died was that Darcy had died too. And he would die believing she still trusted and admired a complete scoundrel.
She heard quick steps enter the carriage house and come closer.
She let out a whimper involuntarily and then clamped a hand over her mouth. Darcy reached behind him and rested a hand on her foot, giving the only comfort he was capable of. Or telling her she had better be quiet.
The top of a hat appeared in the door’s window, and then the door opened, revealing Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face.
Elizabeth immediately burst into tears.
He started, either at the sight of them huddled on the floor or at her sudden weeping.
