“Tea and toast, please. When there is enough light, I mean to go for a walk.”
“Yes, ma’am, although I am not sure the area is entirely suited to your needs. We are on the Great North Road.”
“Your caution does you credit. See if one of the footmen can be dragged along? If not, then I will be content, though I will be stiff as a mummy by the end of the day.”
My maid must have heard my desperation, and by some means enlisted the youngest footman of our party, introduced to me as Andrew Boyle, to accompany us on our walk. I asked the inn’s day maid for directions to the church and there we went, not on a pleasure tour, but on a mission of exercise.
When we returned, the coach was just pulling up to the front door. Andrew and Wilson exchanged a glance of uncertainty as though not sure what strange thing I would next choose to do, and so I said, “Our timing is excellent. I will enjoy the air on this bench if you will retrieve my things. I would very much like to be ready to depart before Mr Darcy steps out.”
We were ready. My belongings were stowed, and my maid sat patiently beside me in the coach. This effort,however, earned me no approval from my husband. He took for granted that we would depart the instanthewas ready. I wondered if I should modify my stratagem just a little and give him a tiny dose of inconvenience. A caged bear must be made to adjust to his captivity in small doses, I reasoned. To that end, when we stopped for something to eat halfway to Nottingham, I dallied in the retiring room and arrived five minutes after he did in the private parlour. This earned me a look of annoyance but nothing worse—a relief, since I was braced for admonishment.
Oddly, Wilson and Mr Darcy’s valet served the meal. Their reasons for electing to do so were not disclosed, and I really did not wish to know what sort of condition the house’s waiters were in that would require their intervention. Neither did Mr Darcy seem inclined to ask. The food, smelling slightly curdled and heavily seasoned, did not tempt me at all. I took a piece of bread and a slice of hard cheese which I ate only after paring off a thick rind of mould. Mr Darcy, covertly observing this, stiffly apologised for the quality of the meal and spoke to Romney about the need to find another posting house to patronise at this equivalent distance from Pemberley.
In the process of speaking, Mr Darcy cleared his throat twice. His manservant looked askance at him, and I, too, began to closely observe him for signs of an oncoming cold. When the fresh horses were harnessed and the coach brought around to the front of the posting house, I saw his great black horse saddled behind.
“Will you not travel with us this afternoon, sir?” I asked.
He pursed his lips before he coldly replied, “I prefer the exercise.”
“Very well. Might you at least let your valet ride with us?”
“As you wish, madam. Romney, Mrs Darcy wants you,” hebarked. His tone continued to be sharp and impatient. Clearly, he resented agreeing to my suggestion, perhaps more so because he could not disagree with its merit.
Mr Romney, neither warm nor forthcoming, sat primly beside Wilson in a state of professional silence. After the coach was several miles down the road, I said, “I believe your master is catching a cold.”
“It would appear so, ma’am.”
“Riding cannot be helpful, but I suppose no one could suggest otherwise.”
“No, ma’am.”
I subsided into silence for an hour before the coach slowed to a stop. The footman perched behind came to the window and said, “Master will be needing you, Mr Romney.”
I glanced out of the rear window and saw Mr Darcy standing at the side of the road some way behind, retching into the verge.
“That horrible food has made him ill. Go at once. Here,” I said, handing Romney my handkerchief as Wilson dug in her bag for a vial of vinegar.
9
FITZWILLIAM DARCY, THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
Because I always strove to collect myself through the regularity of my habitsbeforemy life had been ruined, I sat down to make an entry in my journal, struggling even to recollect the date. My pen began to scratch, and I read what I could not seem to refrain from expressing.
I began, between Northampton and Nottingham, to understand how a man could put a pistol to his head and gleefully pull the trigger.
“Romney,” I said weakly, “toss this paper in the fire.”
I wondered if and when I would ever be able to make a suitable entry in my diary before falling into bed in a state of utter defeat.
10
ELIZABETH DARCY, THE GREAT NORTH ROAD
Nottingham could not have been reached by anyone more grateful than I. The remaining journey had consisted of four miserable, anxious hours. Mr Darcy, ashen and furious, had entered the coach after being sick on the side of the road. He glared at me when I made some small noise of commiseration, so I fell silent, as was his apparent wish, and watched covertly as he shivered and clutched his belly from time to time. When he appeared to have fallen asleep, I dared not make a sound lest he wake, or worse, lest he only be striving to calm his nausea.
Two more stops were required in order for Mr Darcy to purge his stomach. Each seemed to mortify him beyond bearing, and I was at a loss as to how to look. To appear sympathetic would convey I was witness to his misery. Yet, to appear indifferent would affirm all he believed about me—I entrapped him for wealth and position and would be delighted to see him die. I settled for sobriety and concern, for I honestly felt both. Such a wedding trip we had endured!Could any two people suffer more for a stupid mistake than Mr Darcy and me?
When we stopped for a change of horses, Romney led Mr Darcy inside to a private parlour. When the valet emerged to fetch some tea, I took him aside.
