“Lady Matlock received a letter from the colonel, telling her he was lodged at the Devonshire Mansion there. Our family was long intimate with the late Duke of Devonshire, whose principal seat in Derbyshire lies not far from Pemberley and Matlock.”
“What a piece of fortune. We do not have to look for him too long. From what I know, there are several scattered hamlets.”
“Not so; it now claims to be a seaside resort. The colonel wrote that it grew fashionable late in the last century, after four of the King’s children spent a summer there.”
Elizabeth smiled, and Darcy’s eyes ordered her to say why.
“If the Colonel knows such particulars, it means he has had leisure to converse with the townspeople. Let us hope he is alone and merely gathering information about Eastbourne’s medicinal airs. But why was he sent there?”
“He told me something of it. Eastbourne is becoming of strategic consequence. The War Office is placing infantry and artillery to defend the bay from French attack between Beachy Head and Hastings. Some years ago, they built a fortress called the Eastbourne Redoubt, where troops are now stationed.”
Mr Gardiner shook his head; the news displeased him. Eastbourne’s importance to the French was plain, and a shadow of apprehension fell over them all.
They took their dinner in the small parlour which the innkeeper had prepared for his guests, both gentlemen observing Elizabeth’s silence. She was far from the cheerful lady who had left London that morning.
“What troubles you, my dear?” asked Mr Gardiner.
Elizabeth laid down her knife and fork. “I am sorry—I cannot eat.”
They looked at her anxiously.
“Elizabeth?” Darcy said as if she were already his wife. He knew her too well to believe her tired or discomposed by the mere inconveniences of travel.
“Until now, speaking with the colonel seemed but a friend’s duty. Now it is far more. In London, the word ‘treason’was uttered more than once, and now, as we draw nearer Eastbourne, I feel we approach the truth of the whole affair. I am afraid I shall not persuade him, or that he may already be married.”
“I know,” Darcy said softly. “I know, and I regret laying such a burden upon you.”
“No; I am strong enough for any burden. It is not for myself I fear, but for him. I dread only that I may fail to make him believe me—believe us.”
Darcy said nothing. His butler was already in Eastbourne, charged with a private mission known only to his master.
“What shall I tell him?” Elizabeth asked.
“Follow your heart, Elizabeth, and let your mind direct the way.”
Darcy’s voice was so assured that her courage revived.
“We know that her father, Mr Henry, is not dead, and is French. You have the letter. Any reasonable person would see enough. Her mother feared recognition by Mrs Bennet and Mrs Phillips, who might have revealed his origin. Then there is the fact that Miss Henry sought an officer at Brighton.”
“This is what we have inferred from all that we know, but can we be certain that it is the truth?”
“You doubt it?” Mr Gardiner asked gravely. “We travel because we are all convinced she is not what she pretends, and that she is with the Colonel for unworthy reasons.”
“Perhaps she merely wished to marry.”
“We have already discussed that,” Darcy said, grieved that he could not hold her and dispel her fears. “The Colonel is no great ‘catch’—he has neither fortune nor title; and such ladies as Miss Henry seek more than an officer in the War Office, unless—”
“Unless he serves some other purpose for them. Enough,” Mr Gardiner interposed. “We shall retire to our rooms; you andMr Darcy may remain ten minutes in the parlour to settle the last particulars. I require sleep.”
This was not wholly true; he was not exhausted, but believed Mr Darcy might better console Elizabeth alone.
Darcy looked his thanks, and once in his arms, Elizabeth breathed more freely. He did not kiss or caress her, but sat in silence, dreaming of a life with this remarkable woman.
“I shall make that devil pay for spoiling my betrothal—you may be sure of it, my love. I shall ruin his wedding day when he weds a virtuous lady.”
“You shall do no such thing, Fitzwilliam,” she said, meeting his gaze.
He laughed outright. “My God, she already speaks like my mother.”
