GREEN

"Mrs. Darcy, are you familiar with the old saying, "If it wasn't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all?"

Caroline sighed. "Yes, I fear I am already quite familiar with it, but something tells me my acquaintance with that sentiment is about to increase markedly."

"I am afraid so. The bridge is out, and not likely to be repaired within the week. The coach with our maid, valet and baggage crossed over just before it failed. I managed to get a message to them to continue on to the villa, but we will not make it."

Mrs. Darcy sighed in resignation and thought that her luck was indeed not quite as good as it could be. She was not as pessimistic in her assessment as her faux‑husband, but she was and had been frustrated for many hours.

It had all seemed so simple in their planning. Their lodgings were in the northeast corner of Paris, and they had to go to a villa five miles west of Versailles. It was a trivial distance to travel, only around 25 miles. It was about as far as the distance from Netherfield to Darcy House. A messenger pigeon could fly that far in a quarter-hour. A marching soldier could easily make it in a day carrying a heavy pack, whether he was an ancient Roman legionnaire or a modern French infantryman. A horse could easily make the distance in less than half a day. Legend even had it that the real Mrs. Darcy had walked that far over the course of four dark nights while trying to avoid her marriage. It should have been the easiest thing in the world for an obscenely rich Englishman with money to burn.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, moving soldiers by the hundreds of thousands from France to the Neiman river for their planned assault against the Czar of Russia apparently made traffic a nightmare. They had already been on the road four days, frequently forced to backtrack, move in circles, or sit by the side of the road for hours at a time. Their current predicament came to a head only ten miles from their destination, which might just as well have been a hundred. The old and unstable bridge over a completely forgettable stream had succumbed to one insult too many. It had not collapsed entirely, but it would not be passable that day, and going around could not possibly be attempted before dark, which on a new moon night would be practically suicidal, even without the excessive traffic.

With a sigh, Caroline said, "We need to find some lodgings before the rest of these lunkheads beat us to it."

"Agreed," Baker said, and then stepped out to discuss the situation with the coachman.

The first inn turned out to be as disappointing as could be. The best the innkeeper could offer them, at any price, was a small spot in the common room, far from the fire, with at least thirty other people. He had no food at all, having been cleaned out as thoroughly as if attacked by a swarm of locusts. It might be marginally better than sleeping in the coach, but even that was questionable. Similar findings occurred at the second and third inns they tried. All were full to the brim, even in their barns, and there were no villages in the route. There were a few farmhouses, but since Englishmen were supposedly subject to arrest for simply being in France, and their only protection was a permission document from the French Army, they were not inclined to try their luck.

By the time they pulled in to the fourth inn as dark approached, they seriously considered the difficulty of sleeping in the carriage if it really came down to it. The coachman and the footman were both of surly temper, and they made no real effort to hide it. The master and mistress were not much better.

The establishment had seen better days. In fact, its better days could fondly remember better days; but it was at least standing, and not completely overrun. The exhausted couple stepped out of the coach. The coachman gave them a surly opinion that the horses were just about done for the day, and they really should make some sort of accommodation, good or bad. Since the coachman and footman would not even get the dubious protection of sleeping inside the coach if they failed, they understood this inn truly had to be the one. They were starting to regret passing up the common room of the very first inn.

The proprietor, M. Charpentier, saw them enter, did a quick and none-too-subtle appraisal of the cost of their clothing and demeanor; and spoke to them in reasonably clear but accented English.

"Ah, Monsieur, madame – welcome. I am sorry to say that we are very nearly full, but I believe we can accommodate you, though not to your usual standards."

The couple looked around, and the gentleman replied in French, since his French was better than the M. Charpentier's English. "Yes, we are, as you can tell somewhat desperate. We will sleep in the common room if necessary."

M. Charpentier replied, "I can accommodate your horses in the field behind the stable and your servants in the stable, but they will get the last two spaces in the loft. For you, I have a single room that has a moderate sized bed and a washstand. That is the best I can do," and then without neither any apparent glee or shame, the man named a price ten times what a good room would ordinarily cost.

Baker would have been offended if he was not certain he would have done the same given reversed positions. He scrunched his face furiously, obviously not overly happy about the task. "Are you certain you have nothing else, or could you arrange something in the village?"

Before the innkeeper could respond, Noah was surprised when Caroline said, "One moment, M. Charpentier," before dragging him back a few steps, and continuing with hardly a pause, "You need to quite being missish. Take it!"

Shaken, Baker said, "I know we are pretending to be a married couple, but there is a large difference between sneaking into a bedroom for private conversation and sharing a bed."

Without pause, she looked carefully. "Not really. I have been trusting your skill, your honor, and your care with my life these past months. Trusting you with my virtue is no different."

Baker looked back at the innkeeper and speculated that the man assumed the argument was about whether two people so high in the instep were willing to degrade themselves to such shabby quarters for such exorbitant prices. They were facing each other and scanning for eavesdroppers by well‑established habit, so he was confident nobody was close enough to overhear a whispered conference between 'husband' and 'wife' in nearly inaudible English.

He said, "I beg to differ, Caroline. They are vastly different. Carpenters call it cutting with the grain. Protecting you is as natural as breathing, because it goes along with my natural inclinations, both as a professional and as a man. Protecting your virtue on the other hand, is like cutting against the grain. It means I must oppose my natural inclinations. You are by far the most handsome woman of my acquaintance, and I am not entirely certain my hands will not roam during my sleep. I am not even certain beyond doubt I can entirely resist the temptation when awake."

He immediately felt like he should rip out his tongue and throw it in the fire, blushing furiously to have spoken so forthrightly, but the words could not be unsaid, nor were they in the least bit untrue. In the end, he was only a man.

Bringing back a besmirched Miss Bingley to the wrath of Mr. Darcy was a frightening idea. Doing the same with Mrs. Darcy was twice as frightening, and his fears had not even worked his way up to any blood relatives yet.

Caroline also blushed furiously, but much to his surprise, she looked at him very carefully. "I believe that may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I am not used to receiving such compliments honestly, but I believe I could probably accustom myself to the practice. I thank you."

With that, she gave him a heartstoppingly beautiful smile, turned to M. Charpentier. "We will take it," then turning back to him, she whispered, "I trust you – implicitly."


Dinner was awkward, particularly since the innkeeper insisted that they eat immediately, as the common room was to serve as bed for nearly a score of travelers, which included men, women, children and goats for all he knew, along with their possessions. It did not help that they were shoved into a table made for six that had at least ten eating, half of whom were rough laborers or soldiers, and a goodly portion who seemed entirely confused about why a spoon should be employed when bread and fingers were available. The innkeeper was doing a good stock in ale at double or treble the going rate, which made the other guests boisterous enough to encourage the couple to slurp their food down like starving dogs and ask for their room straight away.

Only long practice of appearing completely unaffected made them keep up appearances when M. Charpentier delivered them to the hovel they were to occupy for the night. Despite their thanks, their dismay was complete. The room would not be considered an adequate closet for the least significant servant's attic in Pemberley, or even Longbourn. It was six feet wide at best, and perhaps eight feet long. Most of the space was filled with a bed. A creaky washstand with a chipped pitcher and bowel filled the far corner, and a rusty looking chamber pot was sitting ready to shove under the bed. There was barely room for one person at a time to stand to wash or disrobe – if they even wanted to do such a thing.

Both members of the erstwhile couple had no idea what to do. While Noah Baker had been dressing and undressing himself for decades in his own clothes, Noah Darcy's waistcoat and boots were tight enough that he occasionally thought he should engage a team of mules instead of a valet. Even worse, Caroline Bingley had a maid assisting her since she came out, which, much to her chagrin had been quite some time ago. Worse yet, women's clothing was inherently harder to work with. The traveling dress she was currently wearing was buttoned up the back. Worse yet, even though she owned short stays that laced in the front, she was not wearing those that day, but instead had something that demanded assistance.

She had tried to engage the innkeeper's wife, or find a village girl, but she had steadfastly refused. Caroline had trouble understanding the woman's heavily accented French, but she was reasonably certain the translation would have included something roughly akin to 'lazy good for nothing husband'. With close to forty more people in attendance between the full rooms, stacking grooms and servants like cordwood in the stables, and a score of people staked in the common room, the woman had no patience for overly fastidious guests.

They fortunately had one change of clothing each in a valise. It was not the normal fashion, but Noah had insisted on being ready to run at a moment's notice, so a packed valise for each member of the couple was always ready at any time, day or night. Noah had carried both up the stairs and deposited them at the end of the room.

The room had one guttering candle of dubious quality that they expected to last an hour or two at the most. It was too early to go directly to bed, and neither party was entirely certain they would ever be able to do so. However, having been shooed out of the common room, and with rain beating down noisily on the roof that appeared to be only a foot over their head, their choices were limited.

The couple had been carrying a bottle of halfway decent wine in the carriage, and Noah had slipped it into the valise before entering the inn. The proprietor left them with two glasses of disputable cleanliness and a corkscrew, so Noah asked, "Wine, Mrs. Darcy?"

She smiled in relief. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Darcy, but first …"

She blushed, and for the first time, showed a bit of – something. It may have been embarrassment, or it may have been fear, but it was the first sign of being slightly out of control her partner had ever seen in the lady. She was generally as solid as a rock, and imperturbable as a statue.

He said gently. "I know this is awkward. Would you prefer I sleep in the corridor? I would be perfectly comfortable."

She looked at him in gratitude, but said, "No, we are in the middle of a long corridor. I think I would spend the entire night alternately worrying about your safety and my own. No, we must be here, it is just –"

She paused again, and finally said, "I will need you to help me out of my clothes," before blushing furiously.

Noah understood, having come to the same conclusion some time earlier. "It will be my pleasure …" then once again wanted to bite his tongue, before carrying on lamely. "… that is to say – I mean – well –"

"You need not stutter and stammer so much, sir. Your intent was clear," with a smile to hopefully disarm his nervousness, and gave a short pause, before continuing, "this clothing is too tight. I will not be able to sit on the bed comfortably, and to be honest, my night clothes are more modest. May we?"

Still blushing furiously, they both stood up, and with shaking hands, Noah managed to unbutton her dress without breaking any buttons. The lady was wearing long stays, which from a technical standpoint still represented three layers between his fingers and her skin, but it was still a type of garment he had never actually seen. They were uncomplicated, so it was not all that difficult to unlace them with more shaking fingers, and at last the deed was done a few minutes later.

Still blushing furiously, he asked if that would do the trick, and when she assented, he bolted for the door, and stood out in the corridor, breathing heavily and sweating far more than he would after locking a murderer in his coach.

It was perhaps ten minutes, before he heard the soft whisper, 'you can come back, Mr. Baker.'

It was the first time Miss Bingley had fallen out of character since they got on the ship in London, and he assumed she was as discomposed as he was. There was certainly nobody to hear it in that godforsaken corner of the worst lodgings in France, but aside from using their Christian names from time to time, they almost always maintained their disguise. He assumed she was probably affected by the ordeal even more than he was. Lady's virtue was far more precious than gentlemen's, and he was not even really a gentleman (yet).

Entering the room, he saw that she had managed to pull the pins out of her hair, and it was draped down over her shoulders in what he thought was an entirely too suggestive manner for his own composure. However, a short amount of reflection led him to decide he would not look a gift horse in the mouth. He was about to spend a few hours with an ethereally beautiful woman, and aside from having to smack himself on the side of the head if he started acting in an ungentlemanlike manner, he fully intended to enjoy the experience. He knew in his gut that they were almost certainly mere weeks from freeing Colonel Fitzwilliam, and ruefully reflected that this opportunity would not come again in his lifetime.

Caroline said, "Thank you, Mr. Baker. You are a true gentleman. Shall I retire to the corridor for you?"

Baker chuckled. "I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you are jesting."

She smiled, a little of her impertinence returning over her embarrassment. "It was worth a try. How may I assist you?"

"I need to work out a way to get these boots off."

Caroline asked, "How does your valet do it?"

Baker furiously blushed once again, and steadfastly refused to describe the posture his valet used to get a good grip on the boots to a lady, but instead, looked carefully at the bed. "I think I can wedge the boot in that corner of the bed, and if you hold it down, I can lever it off."

No sooner said than done, the boots came off a few minutes later. A few more minutes and they were followed by his waistcoat, and vest, leaving him in his lawn shirt. He decided that was far enough to push his luck for the moment.