“But did you actually write to those ladies and confirm their recommendations?” The Colonel pressed. “It seems odd that Lady St. Clair would provide a reference, especially as her daughter is only ten and not yet out of the schoolroom. I know the family; their eldest son serves with the 11th Light Dragoons.”
Darcy shifted uncomfortably. “I trust my judgement of character. But no, I didn’t write to them.”
Was his confidence misplaced? Had he put Georgiana at risk by failing to investigate Mrs. Younge’s references more thoroughly? Darcy glanced across at Miss Elizabeth, who sat opposite, her head resting against the cushions and her eyes closed. He had been captivated by her—then embarrassed, ashamed that he could admire a woman of such modest means: the daughter of a minor country squire, with a vulgar mother and ill-mannered younger sisters. Yet, until the shocking claim that Georgiana was now travelling up the Great North Road with Wickham and Mrs. Younge, nothing in Miss Elizabeth’s manner had deserved reproach. The moment he’d convinced himself she was unworthy of his notice—her features unremarkable—he found her face transformed by the moonlight spilling through the carriage window, highlighting her clear skin and the dark lashes brushing her cheeks. Fool, he muttered inwardly; but whether he was foolish for admiring her, or for disdaining her, he was unsure.
An hour after leaving Meryton, their carriage rolled into the courtyard of the Crown Inn on Tower Hill in Luton.
“Let’s refresh ourselves and water the horses,” the Colonel said. “I’ll see if anyone has noticed a carriage with two ladies and a gentleman fitting Wickham’s description—unlikely, but it’s worth checking.”
When Elizabeth returned to the carriage, it was nearly ready to depart. “Wait a moment, I’d like to see to the horses,” she said.
She approached each horse, laying a gentle hand on its shoulder and speaking softly.
“Are you a horse whisperer now, Miss Bennet?” Darcy quipped, shaking his head as he climbed irritably back into the carriage. “Let’s not waste more time and end this charade.”
Elizabeth paused at the front offside horse, running her hand down its foreleg. She called to an ostler, who had just finished watering the team. “This horse is about to lose a shoe—please have the farrier look at it.”
The ostler examined the hoof and called for the farrier when he spotted the cracked shoe.
“You’ve got a gift, ma’am,” the farrier said, pulling out the nails while his apprentice fetched a replacement. “Another two miles and it would’ve come right off.”
Elizabeth climbed back into the carriage, the Colonel resuming his seat opposite. He looked at her with curiosity.
“No, I don’t talk to animals,” she said wearily. “But when I’m close—especially when I touch them—I have a sense of what’s likely to happen. Some things are certain; others fade away like dreams.”
“Perhaps, Miss Bennet, you should join the army,” the Colonel replied with a smile. “Lord Wellington would find your talents very useful.”
She laughed. “If I joined the General’s staff, I’d probably only be able to tell when he’ll be served an over-spiced ragout rather than his favourite mushroom and beef pie. As for reading Napoleon’s mind—unless you can sneak me into a ball, I doubtI’d be much help. My French is serviceable, but he’d surely question an Englishwoman asking him to dance!”
* * *
The steep climb into the Chiltern Hills towards Stopsley was punishing for the horses, gaining one hundred and eighty feet of elevation in less than two miles, struggling up a narrow, icy lane. Their fast clip along the turnpike from Meryton was now reduced to less than walking pace—only for the coachman to lean on the brake as they descended to the village of Lilley, then to ascend once more to Great Offley.
“Miss Bennet,” said the Colonel, after an hour had passed, as they rested the horses ready for the descent to Hitchin. “Can you say whether we will be ahead of Wickham?”
“My apologies, but I do not know. Let us reach the town, and then decide the best course.” Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy smirk—oh, that she could give up this frantic chase across the county. But since she had become aware of Miss Darcy’s peril, as she and Mr. Darcy had passed down the line at the ball, the urgency of meeting the girl, of confronting Mr. Wickham, so pressed upon her she could scarce ignore it.
Some two tedious hours after leaving the Crown in Luton, they finally reached Hitchin, their carriage pulling up outside the Sun Hotel.
“Darcy, check the Angel Inn while I make inquiries here,” the Colonel said, springing from the carriage with Darcy close behind.
An ostler came to tend the horses while the coachman and under-coachman climbed gratefully down from the bench. Elizabeth, eager for a breath of air, walked along Sun Street toward St Mary’s Church, its spire commanding the northern end of the street. She spotted another inn, the Swan, squeezedbetween a row of shabby buildings at the far end of the market square, about a hundred yards away. Outside the Swan stood a rented post-chaise, its rear wheels oversized, baggage tied across the front axle between the wheels. A postilion waited by the offside horse; curiously, there was no footman in sight.
Elizabeth quickened her pace. She recognised that chaise—she was sure of it. As she approached, a young woman stepped out of the inn. Elizabeth knew her at once.
“Miss Darcy! I had no idea you were in Hitchin. What a pleasant surprise. I’m here with Miss Lucas—we were just about to have breakfast at the Sun. Won’t you join us?” Elizabeth spoke lightly, hoping that posing as an acquaintance would buy her a few moments, enough perhaps for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy to return and see her with Miss Darcy. Her own blue silk gown was out of place in the drab morning bustle of the market town.
Georgiana looked bewildered. “Y-you must be mistaken, ma’am. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Still, she hesitated, as if unsure whether to step into the chaise, unsettled by someone who clearly knew her name.
“Oh, but we have, Miss Darcy. You can’t have forgotten—we took tea with Lady Matlock, your aunt. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was most attentive.”
Mr. Wickham’s head turned sharply; he grabbed Georgiana’s arm and tugged her toward the carriage. “Come, Georgiana. We must go.”
Georgiana lowered her eyes, twisting her handkerchief. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t recall our tea, but… perhaps you are mistaken.”
Elizabeth edged closer, hoping to catch Georgiana’s gaze. “Please, Miss Darcy, if you can spare a moment—Miss Lucas would be so disappointed. She mentioned your skill at the piano-forte only yesterday.”
Wickham’s grip tightened. “We really must be on our way. Good day.”
