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Instead she said, "That would be pleasant."

Saye had returned by carriage from his estate the previous evening, having spent two days there over the tenant business that required him; a journey of several hours had brought him back to London in good time. Three days after Adelheid’s farewell call Elizabeth's trunks were fastened, Mrs. Ashby was ready, and the Whitcomb travelling carriage stood before Matlock House, its hired groom attending a pair of fresh horses. Saye inspected the harness with a care that amused Richard. Elizabeth kissed her aunt, embraced Georgiana, and endured half a dozen instructions from her guardian concerning rest, correspondence, and sensible conduct upon the road.

"I shall be sensible," she promised.

"Then we must postpone the journey," Richard said. "I should not recognize you in such a condition."

Saye offered her his arm to the carriage. "I have asked that you take the southern road. The other route has been unpleasant after rain. Mrs. Ashby knows it."

"I shall not forget," Elizabeth said. "And I shall not allow Richard to choose the music at the wedding."

"In that case," Saye answered, "I may permit you to travel."

She settled beside Mrs. Ashby, laughing. The driver took the reins, exchanged a word with the groom, and set the horses moving.

From the steps Richard waved his hat. Saye watched until the carriage turned the corner, then went indoors to attend to a tenant's letter. Neither man had any reason to think the journey would be remembered for anything except another of Elizabeth's cheerful accounts of country hospitality.

CHAPTER 24

The Road to Ashcombe

Ashcombe Park lay somewhat over thirty miles to the south-west of London, comfortably within the range of a day’s travel by a well-horsed carriage, provided the passengers changed horses and the roads remained good. On 5 September 1812 they had left Matlock House soon after eight. The morning of the journey was clear, the sort of early autumn day that persuaded Londoners to speak hopefully of the country. Elizabeth had scarcely slept. Her thoughts moved between the house party awaiting her, Darcy's promised arrival, and the little green book Albrecht had given her. She had packed the book in her travelling bag, where she might take it out whenever Mrs. Ashby grew weary of conversation.

Mrs. Ashby, a cheerful widow with a frank manner and an excellent knowledge of county roads, considered travel an entertainment in itself. She had brought a parcel of sandwiches, a bottle of smelling salts that she assured Elizabeth she had never once needed, and a small workbasket for use if the scenery disappointed her.

"I prefer to be prepared," she said as the carriage passed beyond the crowded streets. "The greatest inconvenience in travelling is discovering that one has allowed other people to decide which comforts are necessary."

"Lord Saye would agree with you," Elizabeth answered. "He is capable of discussing a road for half an hour without once admitting that he enjoys the journey."

"An admirable gentleman. Does he remain unmarried?"

"Yes, though I suspect he would prefer not to be advertised as an admirable gentleman at every house where there are unmarried daughters."

"Then he must marry and be done with it," Mrs. Ashby declared. "I shall tell your aunt so."

Elizabeth smiled, imagining Saye's expression upon discovering that his precaution concerning the southern road had been converted into a matrimonial recommendation.

They made good progress until midday. At a posting inn on the Surrey road they changed to a fresh pair of horses, the inn’s ostlers assisting Whitcomb’s groom with the harness while Pike remained the coachman. Elizabeth stepped down briefly, stretched her legs, and examined the surrounding country. The driver kept his face turned away while checking a wheel. She paid little attention to him; Lady Matlock's steward had arranged the conveyance, and the man had presented references of the proper sort.

When they resumed the journey, Elizabeth took out Minna's green book. A faint perfume of old paper rose from its pages. Mrs. Ashby asked about it, and Elizabeth explained the discovery of her mother's family. She found that telling the story aloud made it seem less improbable.

"A prince for an uncle," Mrs. Ashby said. "And you had thought yourself merely Miss Bennet."

"I am still Miss Bennet," Elizabeth replied. "And I mean to remain so until Mr. Darcy provides me with another name."

"A sensible arrangement. I have known people acquire grand relations and immediately forget the ones who nursed them through childhood."

"That would be an extraordinary way of rewarding affection."

Mrs. Ashby nodded and returned to her work. The countryside grew quieter beyond the last village. Rolling fields gave way to narrow lanes bounded by hedges, and the carriage slowed where the road dipped toward a small bridge.

Elizabeth glanced through the window. The turning was unfamiliar. She was no expert in Surrey roads, but she remembered passing the signpost to Ashcombe on a previous visit. The southern route, Saye had said, would bring them toward a broad carriage drive lined with chestnuts. Here the road was hemmed in by banks of chalk and a deep ditch.

"Mrs. Ashby, is this the road you expected?" she asked.

Her companion looked up. "I thought we should have continued beyond the village. Perhaps the driver knows of a difficulty ahead."

Elizabeth knocked upon the front panel. When the carriage slowed, she called to the driver, whose name she had been told was Pike.