A/N: It's looking like I'll be posting on Tuesdays and Saturdays, as nearly as I can manage. Also, please be forgiving when it comes to dialect issues-I made a few attempts in certain conversations, but generally, I only marked the speech of the less-educated by allowing them to use contractions. If I ever return to this story with more serious intentions, I promise to make a greater effort for accurate accents in dialogue.
I am not Jane Austen, but I would love to pick her brain about a few things.
Chapter Four
It was just before sunset that Lizzy, Mr. Darcy, and Smythe's men finally rode into a small village. Lizzy had sensed all day that they traveled near the sea, but here she could finally smell the faint tang of fish and brine in the cold breeze. She was stiff and exhausted, the few more breaks they had taken for meals through the day having done little to restore her, and she practically fell into Mr. Darcy's arms as he dismounted and turned to help her down. He supported her almost completely for a moment while she found her footing, and she glanced up at him as she hung there in his arms, blushing deeply as their eyes met for the first time in many hours.
"Straighten up, Miss Bennet," That Man hissed, coming up behind her and cuffing her on the shoulder. "You must be a young man for a few more minutes."
"Do not touch her," Mr. Darcy growled, his grip on her tightening.
"You would do well not to forget your position here, sir," That Man replied, his tone full of threat. "I do not like to be cruel, but I will do what I must to elicit compliance."
Lizzy forced herself to stand upright, pulling back and straightening her spine as she adjusted her hat and pulled at the travel-stained greatcoat she wore. "Lead on, sir," she said, drawing That Man's attention away from his staring match with Mr. Darcy. "I am capable."
"Good," he said, giving a gruffly approving nod. He held his hand out, motioning for them to precede him into the small tavern.
Inside they found an unremarkable taproom, not too full but not too empty. Lizzy wondered, if she were to cry out their situation, whether any of the rough working men at the stained wooden tables would aid them. Probably not. And if they did, then word would get out regarding her abduction, and she would be ruined. A lone, single woman in a company of unrelated men and wearing men's garments! Her face burned at the mere thought.
That Man spoke cheerfully to the proprietor, securing rooms for the night for himself and his party of friends on their way to visit yet another friend a little farther up the coast, according to him. Cleft Chin directed Lizzy and Mr. Darcy to join the other men at a table in a quiet corner, as far away from the other customers as possible. Hot meals were soon set before them, and Lizzy did not even pause to taste the food before bolting it down, as much to combat the cold in her limbs as the emptiness in her middle.
Not many minutes passed before Lizzy could barely hold her head up, finding herself leaning heavily against the wall.
"Go on up to bed, friends," That Man chuckled cheerfully. He glanced at Cleft Chin and Reg. "Help Mr. Foster get his brother to their room. Last one on the right. The lad is obviously done in."
The three men stood, and Mr. Darcy helped Lizzy to her feet. She wanted to hang on his arm, but she remembered That Man's order, and she moved forward on her own, only stumbling once on the uneven floorboards. They stopped at the privy, then moved the rest of the way down a dark corridor, listening to Cleft Chin muttering about why it was always him who got stuck with the prisoners.
"That is the role of the novice," Reg said with little sympathy. "Every one of the others has already played it, and now it is your turn to prove your competence."
Lizzy perked up a bit at the sound of their voices. The men had been so silent all day, at least within her hearing, that she had begun to wonder whether That Man had ordered their tongues removed upon entering his service.
"But if the master is really quitting, then it's not as if I'll ever do more anyway. Can't someone else take a night?"
"You have nothing to concern yourself with on that score, if you can prove yourself useful. Now be silent!" Reg demanded, clouting Cleft Chin hard on the back of the head. Lizzy was uncertain whether it was the content of his words or the act of speaking that most offended Reg. That Man was quitting soon? Quitting what? She wished she knew more of what was happening!
As soon as they entered the assigned room, Lizzy noticed that it had been chosen especially for them. There was only one small window, so high and thin that even she could never escape it. There was also no fire in the grate again, probably because they feared the flames could be used to make trouble. There were two beds, at least, and each had a thick blanket.
"Is there no more fitting accommodation?" Mr. Darcy asked as they entered. "A suite perhaps, that Miss Bennet might have some privacy?"
"As I believe Lord Geoffrey made clear to you last night," Reg replied, eyeing the cut on Mr. Darcy's lip meaningfully, "the only reason the young miss is sharing a room with you and not one of the rest of us is because he does not want to get your feathers ruffled before he gets paid. I suggest you stop complaining and enjoy her company before he changes his mind."
Then he closed the door, and she heard the sound of a chair sliding in front of it.
At the sound of voices, she and Mr. Darcy both leaned against the door.
"But I sat watch last night. I'm too tired to stay up all night again."
"You must pay your dues. Windham will join you when we all retire, and you can both change out at two o'clock, as usual."
"Lord Geoff is punishin' me, ain't he?" Cleft Chin grumbled.
Reg's voice lowered in the same way Lizzy's father's always did when he was running out of patience. "No, but I will be if you cannot stop behaving like a child! I will not have whining lay-abouts on my crew. My operation will be a little different from Geoff's, but I will not tolerate grumbling any more than he does."
"Different how, Reg?"
"There will be time enough to discuss that after Geoff has gone. The greatest difference will be that, with me running things, our barely sufficient incomes will transform into indisputable wealth. That I can guarantee. But for now, you had best worry about impressing me enough that I will be willing to finish your training at all. Now, do your duty, man! And remember what to do if the innkeeper or his wife come asking what you are about."
"I know, I know. I could not sleep, and so I came into the hall where the candle would not bother anyone."
"Very good."
Boots moved down the corridor, and the chair in front of the door creaked. Lizzy could picture the disconsolate way Cleft Chin had dropped into his seat. She had a strange urge to giggle, imagining him as he must have looked as a chubby little boy when told to sit still in church.
"We must get out of this," Mr. Darcy whispered into the darkness.
Lizzy was brought back hard into reality, and all amusement left her, replaced by deep weariness. "We do not even know what this is."
"It does not matter. We must escape. You realize where we are, do you not?"
"Somewhere on the southern coast, I had supposed. Probably east of Brighton."
"Yes, and unless I miss my guess, we will be veering north again tomorrow. The path has been wandering, possibly to throw any pursuers off our trail, but I believe we are going to Dover."
The trail had indeed been strange, now that Lizzy considered it. They had stopped outside several small towns through the day, much as they had at the one the previous night just before they had turned south, sending one man in who would return a few minutes later with a silent, satisfied nod.
"Dover?" Lizzy asked, the anxiety that had somewhat abated through the day returning in full force.
"Yes, and I overheard Reg instructing some of the men to go back out and purchase supplies, a stock that seems appropriate only for a sea journey. I believe they mean to take us to France."
"To France? How? And why?" Lizzy shook her head, thinking if she could just clear the cobwebs of fatigue, she would understand why his tone sounded so dire.
"Yes, do you understand? It will be much more difficult to escape, and much less likely that we will ever return home, if they take us into the heart of Napoleon's territory. We must get away before any vessel takes us from Dover tomorrow."
"Why leave the country, though? And is not France as dangerous for them as for us? Why take such a risk?"
"I do not understand their motives or their plan yet. I know nothing!" It was too dark to see more than his outline amongst the shadows, but she did not miss the violence of his fists swinging to slam against his thighs in frustration. "The idea of France is only a suspicion, an instinct, if I may say so. All I truly know is that the farther we are taken from Kent and those who might come to our aid, the less likely it shall be for all to resolve happily."
Lizzy wanted to argue, wanted to dispute her own matching worries aloud, but she knew it would do no good. Mr. Darcy was right, and they would have to work together in order to succeed in any attempted escape.
"Do you have an idea? Something we can do to get away? This window is too high and small to use tonight, and I get the feeling that Cleft Chin out there knows the dire consequences of shirking his duty as watchman. Even if we could get past him without raising an alarm, That Man may be wily enough to also post guards at the bottom of the stairs and in the yard."
"No, we cannot escape tonight." Mr. Darcy's voice was bleak. "And honestly, I have no method by which we might plan an escape on the morrow, given that we know not where or how we are to travel or for how long. If I were alone, I might attempt to fight my way free, but trying to free both of us in that manner would be an unconscionable risk."
"Perhaps Cleft Chin will be too tired to perform his duty well," Lizzy suggested, "and we will find a moment to run."
"We would be wisest to disappear at an hour when they will not discover we have left for some time," Mr. Darcy mused. "Otherwise, they may simply catch us again, and I have no doubt that the punishment for such an attempt would be severe. Tonight would be best, while they sleep, if we could get down the corridor without being noticed."
Lizzy moved toward the far bed and sat heavily, too tired and frightened to care about the proprieties being flouted once again by sharing a bedchamber with Mr. Darcy. She did not even blush as she scooted back on the mattress, braced her back in the wall corner, and wrapped the single blanket around herself. "Very well. Sometime after midnight, we should check to see whether our guards have fallen asleep. If they have not, we could consider attacking them."
"We cannot. It would be too likely to raise an alarm. If they are awake, we must find another way."
"So be it," Lizzy agreed, too tired to argue, although she thought he was being overly cautious. "Whichever of us awakens in the night must wake the other, and then we will check in the hall. For now, however, it would be wisest to get some sleep, sir. I am aching and exhausted, and I can only imagine that you are even more so, given your previous night spent half-sleeping in a chair. We will both be more alert and clear-headed if we rest."
Mr. Darcy was silent for a moment, and Lizzy was certain he was trying to think of a counter-argument, something that would prove it was necessary once again for him to remain awake and on guard. She exhaled a relieved breath when he said, "You are correct," and moved toward the opposite bed. "At this moment, I am too worn to be of much use to either of us."
She heard the sound of him sitting and then laying out on the mattress, the creaking of the bedframe an oddly intimate, discomfiting sound.
She lay down as well before she could be overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all. She tucked the blanket tightly around herself, as much as a defense against the night's peculiarity as against the distinct chill of the dark room, and turned on the mattress, attempting to find the least lumpy location. Finally, after a few minutes of restlessness, she felt herself moving toward sleep.
She missed Jane so dreadfully. Longing swept over her like a crashing wave. Her sister's warmth would be most welcome at this moment, but even more, she missed sharing sleepy laughter as they drifted off and bidding one another good night.
On impulse, she murmured, "Goodnight, Mr. Darcy."
"Goodnight, Miss Bennet," he replied gently. "Sleep well."
She smiled, a little comforted, and floated away.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had been in his fair share of taverns. He had seen the inside of what sometimes felt like every public house in every corner of the Empire, not to mention several on the Continent. He had also seen the bottom of far too many tankards in those numerous tap rooms, lost a few too many pounds at various card tables, and wagered what most of the King's subjects would call a shocking amount of blunt on various races and competitions. It was all a part of a soldier's life, the way to build friendships and make connections that could not only come in useful on the battlefield but in the far more cutthroat world of military promotion.
He had played the game well, and he knew that if he continued playing it for a few more years, he should be able to abandon his casual search for the perfect heiress to provide him the kind of life to which his upbringing as an Earl's second son had accustomed him. He had amassed a comfortable nest egg during over a decade of service, even including the moderate gambling required of him, and a few more years of dedication was likely to bear even riper fruit.
Yes, he thought, looking around the taproom of Coxton's tavern, the Blue Hound, he knew these places far too well. It was simple enough to scan the wide, low-ceilinged room, rather darker than one would prefer in one's home but perfect for a place to have a drink and a quiet conversation, and pick out the forgotten-looking door that would lead to a small back room where a large table could be found, along with dice, a deck of cards, several of the latest racing guides, today's racing papers, and anything else a gambler might need. He had been quietly watching for long enough that he could pick out which other characters from the main public room would eventually slither into the back, and he knew that it was the mistress of the establishment who ought to be approached for permission.
It was a matter of only a few moments of charm and a few coins to find himself escorted to the back and installed at the gaming table. Hazard was the game of choice tonight, but the stakes were far higher than one would find in a typical drawing room after supper. These amounts rivaled the gentlemen's clubs in London late at night when the drink flowed freely.
The clientele matched the stakes, he supposed. The people surrounding him were upper-class, though somewhat dissipated. The gentlemen were well-dressed but bleary-eyed, a collection of fathers and sons from the local gentry who lived too far from London or could not quite afford to abide there during the Season, but surprisingly, there were two or three ladies in the company as well. Their dresses were relatively fashionable, but more than that, they were quite daring, even provocative. Fitzwilliam made the mistake of evaluating one of the ladies a little too openly and was rewarded with a warm, inviting smile.
He cringed internally, but he had to play his part, so he winked and grinned before returning his attention to the game. So that was the sort of company this was!
What on Earth had drawn the scrupulously virtuous Lady Catherine to involve herself with this collection of characters?
The most fascinating realization, however, was that although the ladies were not seated at the table, they watched the game raptly, and the money clutched in their delicate fists changed hands relating to the outcome of others' dice rolls. They bet amongst themselves and with the gentlemen sitting at the table, and some were even placing bets on the results of others' bets or the exact numbers that would appear on the next roll.
This level of involvement was new even to Fitzwilliam, and it was no wonder that Mr. Collins had condemned it when he had first learned of it. It was one thing to enjoy the adventure of the game, even the fun of watching others risk and win or lose, but it was another to bet at the level of these players and observers. There was some conversation but no laughter in the room, no gaiety or amusement, only intensity.
Perhaps the feverish light in their eyes was the most disturbing part of all.
Fitzwilliam bought in when the current roller finished amidst murmurs of sympathy for his losses, making sure that he winced at the amount in a manner that matched the roughness of the coat and trousers he had borrowed with very little explanation from Mr. Nelson, who was of similar size to him though a bit rounder in the middle. He needed to play a particular role tonight, to be welcomed without seeming threatening or particularly memorable.
When his turn came, he sent the dice down the board with just the right amount of desperation, and his relief when the outcome went his way was heavy. He ordered another drink from a barmaid stationed near the entrance, offering her an outrageous tip when she brought it.
He calculated correctly. The players took note of him without seeming suspicious. He was just like them, living at the bottom of the upper class and only barely maintaining his position, thanks to his obsession with the tables. It was enough to loosen the tongues of the other characters seated around him.
"From where do you hail, Mr. Barker?" asked the man across the table. Fitzwilliam had introduced himself upon first being seated. "And how long do you stay here in our fair town?"
The man was young, probably even younger than Darcy, and he wore a moderately well-tailored coat and wore his hair fashionably short. He had thrown his money around during the first round, barely seeming to note its loss or gain, and he kept eyeing the racing lists on the far table. He was probably the son of one of the local small land owners, rather like Miss Bennet's brother would have been, had she had one, and clearly more interested in the equine wagers that would probably be taken and counted later than he was in the gaming.
"I come from up north," Fitzwilliam answered carelessly, keeping his eyes locked on the dice along with everyone else's. "Derbyshire originally, but I am on my way through, trying to catch up with an old friend."
"A poor time to be traveling," said an older gentleman on Fitzwilliam's other side. "I do not envy you the cold ride."
"Aye, it has been unpleasant, but I am staying on for the night here, and it looks to be a decent enough establishment. And there is nothing to warm a man's bones like a little excitement." He gestured to the dice, and those listening nodded appreciatively.
No one else commented on his story, and the game continued for several minutes. Fitzwilliam chose not to press. He went cheerfully along, and played up his relief when he again happened to nick. He threw out on the second cast, losing all he had gained in the first, and he donned what he hoped was a concerned expression. He went up and down over the next several rolls, the dice doing most of the work of creating a nice bit of drama for the audience. As he finally threw out his third cast in a row, he slumped down in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands, looking desolate.
"We are willing to extend credit," said a quiet voice from the far end of the table, "at least to the most deserving players."
Fitzwilliam looked toward the far end into the eyes of a man he had not even noticed before, a grave sin considering his usually canny observational skills. He was of average height, dressed decently with his dark hair well-coiffed. His face was unremarkable, and his expression was friendly but not overly so. No wonder Fitzwilliam had missed him. He was so extremely forgettable!
"I thank you for the offer," he replied, his mind racing through the little information he and Mrs. Collins had managed to extract from Lady Catherine before she had stormed away in high dudgeon.
G. J. Smythe, the Earl of Aberforth, was the organizer and primary backer of this particular gambling table, along with a number of other tables in various locations throughout the south of England. His actual status as a Peer of the Realm was highly doubtful—there was no mention of an Earldom of Aberforth in Lady Catherine's library, although her most recent copy of the Register was over two decades old—but everyone who knew him in Coxton called him Lord Smythe.
Smythe, whoever he really was, provided an agent at each table who offered loans to gamblers wishing to wager more than they carried at that moment. The loans were given after a contract had been signed in which Smythe guaranteed a period of at least one month in which one could pay back a loan, and in return, the receiver promised to pay back the money in a timely manner, along with fifteen percent in interest. Sometimes it was possible to negotiate a longer loan period, depending on one's history of payment.
Lady Catherine had been quite reluctant to divulge that her debt was over six months old. In fact, Ann had been the one to tell them of it after she had recovered from her dizzy spell. She had also explained that Lady Catherine had ignored not one but four increasingly-insistent requests for payment.
"Unfortunately," Fitzwilliam continued carefully, "I am already well-acquainted with the financier of this table, and I suspect it would not be prudent to owe him any more money. I am on my way to pay my debt to him before he leaves the country, and he sent me word that his departure was soon."
"You are acquainted with our backer?" the man asked, vaguely interested. The game had continued, and the rest of those around the table were paying little attention to their conversation.
"I have known Lord Smythe for some time. We are old friends, although it becomes harder to call a man a friend when one owes him too much money. I wish to even the scales between us before he travels, that I might call him friend again." Then he looked down at the few pound notes he still held in his hand, all that was left of his original win. "I fear, however, that I may have lost his repayment again before I can even reach him. I know he was set to leave soon, but I never learned which particular day."
"You will be hard-pressed to catch him," the man agreed, seeming to have accepted his words without question. Perhaps it was a common story in that tavern back-room. "I believe he was planning to sail this evening."
Fitzwilliam slumped down in his seat, not needing to pretend defeat. If they had already left the country, whether for Ireland or Scotland or the Continent it mattered not, then his chance of discovering Darcy and Miss Bennet was almost nonexistent. He had a sudden vision of Miss Bennet slumped against an alley wall somewhere in Dublin, her face made up and her eyes unfocused, with her dress ripped and torn, calling out to offer herself to a passing laborer. Hard on its heels was an image of Darcy lying face down on a boardwalk near Calais, blood dripping through the cracks and falling into the mud below.
"However," the agent added, "I happen to know that his plans suffered a slight… adjustment before he left town, and he may have been delayed."
Fitzwilliam sat forward eagerly. His first thought was to ask for directions, but as knowledgeable as he was claiming to be regarding Lord Smythe, it would be suspicious for him to have traveled all this way without knowing the man's final destination. It was time for the real gamble of the evening. "The ride would not be impossible. If I left now, I could still make it."
"Perhaps," the man said doubtfully. "If it were light and you had a good horse. But over fifty miles overnight? I doubt it highly."
Fifty miles! That meant they could not be departing from Scotland, and probably not going toward Ireland unless they were sailing east from Portsmouth, which seemed unlikely. No, it had to be Dover! He was taking them to France, or possibly to the north of England, although Fitzwilliam did not believe that to be so. His instincts told him that Napoleon's France would be their goal. He felt it in his bones.
He stood quickly, grabbing his hat from the back table. "But I must make the attempt. Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a debt to repay!"
He rushed from the room, glancing back only once, newly horrified and disgusted by the hungry way the players and observers watched the dice roll. They were more like shells than living, breathing beings. Gambling had never bothered him before, but this… well, it was enough to put a man off the tables for life.
Lord Smythe's agent raised a hand in farewell, and Fitzwilliam returned the gesture, hoping that his good cheer would erase the slight tinge of interest in the man's face. He was unremarkable, but there was a look in his eye that Fitzwilliam didn't like. He seemed… dangerous. Not that the man could do anything now to hinder the rescue attempt. He could send Smythe a message no faster than Fitzwilliam would already be traveling. He had to reach Dover before Darcy and Miss Bennet sailed to France.
As he settled with the innkeeper and called for his horse, he found his mind drifting to Mrs. Collins. He grinned ruefully. He had promised her so faithfully, upon their parting after their confrontation with Lady Catherine, that he would spend the afternoon sleeping then away to Coxton, where he would attempt to question the locals then rest all night before setting out first thing on the morrow to continue tracking the kidnappers.
Well, he had kept most of his promise. She had seemed so adorably worried for him, so concerned that he must care for himself as well as for everyone else. He had sworn to do his best in that regard and sealed the oath with a kiss on her hand that just might have lingered a little longer than was absolutely proper.
Well he had done his best, had he not? But a night of travel was unavoidable now. He had to reach Dover as soon as possible and immediately begin loitering at the docks, attempting to discover whether Darcy and Miss Bennet had already sailed or whether he still had time to stop them. He felt the barrel of the pistol he carried in a holster against his side press into his ribs as he mounted his horse in the tavern yard. At least he was prepared for the stopping-them part of the adventure.
He led his mount through the dark streets of the small town, both reluctant to give up the warm bed at the inn and relieved to be away from the stench of desperation in that back room. He drew his mind to the present, making sure he was as aware as possible of the road that lay ahead, for the sake of speed and his own safety.
And if, every now and then along the dark and lonely road, the image of a grave and gentle countenance ghosted up before him, warming him against the cold, well, who could really blame him?
"Miss Bennet."
Lizzy opened her eyes suddenly, tugged from a troubling dream with a mixture of annoyance and relief. She could see nothing, the darkness of the room so complete that she might have been buried in a box miles underground. There had been something like that in her dream, somewhere dark and cold, and she had been so terribly alone.
"Mr. Darcy?" Her voice was rusty. She cleared her throat quietly. "Is it time to make our attempt?"
"No. I have been able to hear voices in the corridor for some time. We must find a way tomorrow. I only awakened you because you were murmuring in your sleep. And you have been shivering for some minutes."
She was, indeed, shivering as she spoke, her blanket wrapped so tightly around her that she felt like a mummy in one of her father's books on Ancient Egypt. She was not nearly as disappointed by his news as she ought to have been. She was still so tired, and she was miserably cold. The last thing she wished to do at this moment was to escape into the dark night.
Now that she was more alert, she realized that it was not a single blanket that covered her. She wanted to roll her eyes at Mr. Darcy's misguided chivalry as her fingers discovered the second blanket, but she found herself too grateful to manage it. Had it worked, she would have slept the night through comfortably while he froze, the foolish, thoughtful man.
"I am quite cold. Could they not allow us to have a small fire? Or a few more blankets?"
"I already asked a moment ago… what did you call him? Cleft Chin? I asked for some relief, but he said everyone else is cold, too, and no one is willing to give up their own blanket for us. And he just laughed when I suggested a fire. He told me that I was the only lucky man in…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, anyway, he was unhelpful."
Lizzy could fill in what he had left out. He was the only lucky man in the inn because he had a woman to keep him warm.
"I wish I knew how to help you, but I have already searched the room as best I can in the dark, and there is nothing here, not even a curtain or a cloth, to add to your warmth."
Lizzy's fogged mind was still focused back on her previous thought. He had a woman to keep him warm.
"Perhaps my jacket would help," he continued. "I have been somewhat selfish in hoping I could keep it on, but if that extra layer would assist you…"
"Mr. Darcy," Lizzy said, her words a little slurred with sleepiness, "we must both rest. We already agreed on that."
"Yes, but if we both cannot, then at least one of us should. I will be fine. I will move around and keep warm while you rest."
"We must both sleep," she repeated. Then, with a courage born far more of fatigue than strength of character or wisdom, she unrolled the blankets behind her and raised them up. "Come."
Lizzy could hear his silence. It was embarrassed, horrified, and outraged, she was certain.
"Do you remember, sir, agreeing that we would do what we must in order to survive this unfortunate circumstance? Well, we must sleep, and apparently this is the only way."
"But, Miss Bennet," he finally choked, "we… I cannot. You are an honorable young lady, and I am a gentleman, and…"
"And rest is our best chance of ever returning to a world where either of those things matter. Sleep is always easiest in the winter when my sisters and I share a bed. This is no different."
"This is immensely different! We cannot…"
"You are wasting time, sir. We must cease arguing about a situation with no other reasonable solution."
"Miss Bennet…"
"Please!" She felt her voice crack and was surprised at her own emotion. Her head was aching now along with all the rest of her, her patience was worn entirely through, and she had never wanted anything as badly as she wanted to sleep. "Please, just do as I say. No one will ever know."
"I will know," he breathed.
"Then you will know you did your best to take good care of a friend in need."
She forced herself to roll back toward the room, and she leaned up toward the source of his voice, reaching out until she caught the placket of his coat. She tugged insistently, and finally, after several moments, he let her pull him nearer. He lay down on the bed as slowly as cold honey, and when he had finally settled in beside her, he was as stiff and still as the wall on her other side.
But oh, he was warm, and Lizzy could not prevent herself from scooting closer and pressing her back all along his side as she lowered the blankets over him. Only a few minutes passed before her shivering had stopped, and she was so close to warmth and contentment that she turned over and flung her arm across his chest, pulling even nearer.
She sighed and, blessedly warm, fell back into sleep.
Fitzwilliam wrapped his muffler more tightly around his chin and ears as the chill wind bit at him, attempting to slip through the seams and neckline of his coat. He gritted his teeth and gazed up, trying to be grateful that the wind, although it snapped at him like a whip, had cleared the clouds enough for the moon to dimly light the road ahead. Charlemagne was moving more confidently now, and only speed could get them to Dover in time to help anyone.
Although at that moment, it was difficult to care about anything besides getting out of the blasted wind.
Lizzy awoke all at once, stunned into perfect stillness by the arm wrapped around her middle. She stared through the gray morning light at the offending limb for some moments before remembering the night's events, which induced in her cheeks a blush as red and violent as any military engagement. She had been so horribly brazen! She had asked a gentleman—nay, Mr. Darcy himself—to sleep beside her!
Certainly, the circumstances had been extreme, and she still could not argue with her own good sense in making the suggestion, but in the light of day, she had to wonder at her own audacity. How tiredness could addle one's mind!
Thankfully, no one besides themselves need ever know what had occurred. Not that facing him this morning would not be fraught enough. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again?
She stiffened as she felt his arm retighten around her and his forehead press softly into the back of her neck. "Not roses," he murmured, his words barely distinguishable. "Hyacinth."
He was dreaming about flowers? Lizzy could not prevent a crooked grin from moving onto her face. How very strange. And how strangely comforting.
She very, very slowly spun onto her back and turned her head so she could see him. He was deeply asleep, his breathing heavy and calm, and he wore that same expression from the previous morning, the one of boyish innocence. He lay on his side, and his top arm was wrapped around her tightly, tightly enough that slipping away without disturbing him would be impossible.
Not that she actually had any desire to leave, she realized. She could feel the chill of the air on her cheeks, and she was more than reluctant to slide from the warm cocoon of their closeness into the lightening room.
But she would do it—she had to do it, for her own sanity. Obviously, she was growing far too dependent on him, and it was going to become more and more difficult with each incident to convince him of her independence and courage. She tensed to begin the arduous process of sliding out of his grip.
"Lizzy," he murmured. "My Lizzy."
She could not have stilled more completely had she been turned to stone. His declaration of love two nights previous (had it only been that long ago?) had been passionate and earnest, but this… this was entirely different. No one had ever spoken her name with such devotion, such tenderness.
Who was this man holding her in his arms? There were too many sides of him, too many aspects to examine before she could reach any sort of understanding. Was he the cold, haughty Lord of All He Surveyed whom she had met in Hertfordshire, the man who had denied Mr. Wickham his rightful inheritance out of jealousy? Was he the passionate-yet-cruel man who had proposed to her in Kent? Was he the brave, self-sacrificing hero who had allowed his own abduction and later grappled with said kidnappers to protect her at any cost? Or was he the gentle, loving man who whispered her name like a prayer in his sleep?
As quickly as she had stiffened in his arms, she melted, drawn to him in spite of herself and her wretched confusion. He was so warm, in more ways than one, and she craved that warmth in this cold, harsh place. She was not strong enough to pull away as she ought, nor to wake him. Instead, she turned back over, nestling her back against his chest, and closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy his succor as long as possible.
Unfortunately, it was not many more minutes before she felt him stirring, moving toward wakefulness. She held very still and drew in slow, deep breaths, feverishly hoping he would think her still asleep.
She knew the instant he awakened enough to realize his position because his arm tensed and his body straightened.
"What have I done?" he breathed. "What have I…?" Memory must have returned then because he relaxed a little. "The cold."
She felt him lean up slowly on his elbow and look down at her. After a silent moment or two, he laid his head back down behind hers and released a sigh that she felt more than heard. "Dear God," he whispered, pressing his face into her neck, "protect her. I do not ask for her love—that is a gift only she could give, and I am just now beginning to see my own unworthiness of it. I do not ask for my own safety. I ask only for thy protection for this precious lady. Keep her, watch over her, and guide me to know how to return her to her home and family."
He continued his prayer in silence, the only sign of its continuing the brushing of his lips against her skin. Finally he ended, releasing another sigh.
The warmth coursing through her now was far less heated and far more peaceful. He had prayed for her! She wanted to turn over and throw her arms around him, to offer an embrace of gratitude and reassurance, but she had to remain still, certain he would not wish to know she had overheard.
Since he will not pray for himself, dear Lord, she thought fiercely, I shall. Keep us both safe. Bring us both home. And comfort him in his… What should she say? Loss? Heartbreak? For some reason, the words were too painful to think. His fears, she finished lamely, with a weak hope that God would know what she had meant.
"Rise and shine!" called the cheerful voice of That Man, accompanied by the sound of chair legs scraping over bare floor.
Mr. Darcy's instant tension mirrored hers, and he braced himself to move off the bed, but even as it occurred to her that him being caught in her bed mattered not in the least, he relaxed and returned to his former position. Lizzy twisted her head a little to look at him, and his answering look was both chagrinned and amused.
"Well, well, well!" That Man laughed, striding in before moving aside for Scissors, the shortest of his henchmen (who also happened to have a rather haphazard haircut), who was carrying a breakfast tray. He was followed by Cleft Chin, whose eyes were bleary, carrying a pitcher of water and a washbasin. "Looks like someone had a cozy night! I am disgustingly jealous, my love, but needs must, as they say."
Mr. Darcy moved to a sitting position and slid back against the headboard before helping Lizzy to do the same. She did not even attempt to move away when he pulled her into his side, huddling her against him. It was too cold to part anyway, she reasoned, and the more like lovers they seemed, the better.
"Now to business. Today will be much easier on all of us, I hope. We will be traveling again, but you shall only be on horseback for an hour or so, my dove." At the mention of horses, Lizzy awakened fully to all the soreness in her muscles, but she refused to grimace. She would give him no excuse to offer her comfort or a change of traveling companions.
"Where are we going?" Mr. Darcy asked tonelessly.
"Not far," That Man replied with a worrisome little grin. "We shall call it a home-away-from-home. Now, eat and make yourselves presentable, gentlemen, and we shall leave presently."
He turned to leave, but Lizzy called out, "And a visit to the privy, Lord Geoffrey?" She had no wish to use the chamber pot again in Mr. Darcy's presence if she could help it.
"Certainly, certainly," he replied carelessly, not even turning around. "Just be quick about it."
Only after he left did she realize she had finally called him by his name. She was a little angry at herself, but it was too late to keep herself from assigning him a name in her mind. He was That Man no longer.
A quarter-of-an-hour later, she and Mr. Darcy were mounted and ready in the courtyard, waiting for the rest of the men to finish loading a new mount with supplies. Lizzy tried to look cold and unhappy (which was not difficult) instead of attentive, but she kept her eyes drifting back regularly to the items being strung on the horse. She saw mostly foodstuffs, which was certainly odd, but also lamps and oil, and the distinctive sheen of folded oilskin. It could only be that they intended a sea journey.
Lizzy wondered idly whether she would enjoy such a trip under normal circumstances. She had never left England, never really been on any boat larger than a small ferry crossing a river, and she thought that an ocean voyage, even just across the channel, would be quite an adventure. But she had no desire to go any farther from her home than she already was, not now, and Mr. Darcy was probably correct that finding their way home from France would be much harder than from Kent.
She let her eyes drift toward the road, hoping she looked impatient to be off, and set her mind to thinking out possible escape plans. She could call for a break, claiming a need to relieve herself, then disappear into the forest. Perhaps in the fuss to catch her, Mr. Darcy could break away as well. But how would they find one another again? She could try to find civilization again on her own, but she would have to avoid roads as well as being tracked through the trees, and what if she became lost? Besides, Mr. Darcy was correct—they were in this together. Not only were they more likely to survive an escape that way, but her conscience would never forgive her if she got away but he did not.
They had to escape as a team or not at all.
The company finally moved out, and it was a great relief to Lizzy when they passed out of the village and she was able to lean more fully against Mr. Darcy's back. The morning was still chilly, although the bitter wind had died, and having grown used to sharing his warmth, she was grateful to take advantage of it once again. She noticed abstractly that it was significantly easier to be close to him this morning than it had been the previous day. That made sense—proximity often leant itself to ease—but it was more than just his temperature that drew her to him now, and she knew it.
Somewhere in the process of sharing the horse yesterday, sharing the blankets last night, and sharing their concerns and conclusions, the once-hateful Mr. Darcy had become her partner. It was not just a lack of animosity or forced unity. It was trust. She trusted him to watch over her, and she trusted herself to watch over him.
And it surprised her that, in coming to trust him, he had become her friend.
Faster, Fitzwilliam thought, nudging Charlemagne's flank again despite knowing that the loyal stallion was already going as fast as he could. The action was as much to keep Fitzwilliam's own eyes open, his own blood pumping, as it was to encourage his mount. He had made good time, considering the miserable, moonless night that had finally ended, but there was still so far to go.
Fly, Charlemagne, for Heaven's sake! Fly!
She had planned to concentrate carefully on a plan to escape, but she found herself nodding in and out of sleep, her head sliding against Mr. Darcy's shoulder. She straightened a bit and shook herself, trying to stay awake.
"Sleep if you wish to," Mr. Darcy murmured.
Lizzy jerked fully awake, blushing as she blinked her eyes and tried to focus. She had been fighting a heavy sleepiness since the moment she had entered the carriage. Apparently she had lost the battle.
She looked up at Mr. Darcy and laughed ruefully. "I always grow tired in carriages. My family teases me for it relentlessly, particularly my father."
He gave her a fond smile. "Fitzwilliam is the same way, as it happens, no matter how rutted the road is beneath us."
Lizzy noticed Lord Geoffrey, who sat on the opposite bench of the carriage beside Scissors, watching their exchange over the top of his newspaper. She considered sticking her tongue out at him but chose to ignore him instead.
"You and your cousin are close, are you not?" she asked Mr. Darcy.
"We were once," he answered carelessly. "Time and distance have separated us significantly. The only time we see one another at all these days is our required yearly visit to Rosings, and we spend little time together except in company. He was the perfect playmate for a young boy, but he and I travel different paths now. He has grown… somewhat dissipated."
Lizzy required a moment to catch on. Anyone who had seen the men together would know his words were lies, but why? Ah—perhaps he wished to hide their closeness. Otherwise their abductors might fear a rescue attempt. Dissembling would be quite sensible.
"I am sorry to hear that," she said sympathetically, placing a hand on his forearm. "It has been somewhat the same for me with Charlotte. We were such good friends before she left, but now… Well, it was an extremely long visit."
Her statement was partially true. They were not as close since Charlotte's marriage, thanks to Lizzy's vocal (and continuing) disapproval, but their visit had renewed most of their intimacy. She wondered for a moment whether she would ever see dear Charlotte again, but upon feeling tears pricking her eyes, she thrust the thought aside.
"But then, you know that already," she said, feeling Lord Geoffrey's eyes on them again. She offered Mr. Darcy what she hoped looked like the private, tender smile of a lover, and she sidled up against him, his arm falling more fully around her than it had been as she dozed. "And I suppose that while in some ways, this visit has been dull, it has proven rewarding in other, more significant ways."
Mr. Darcy's eyes widened for just a moment before he returned her smile. "I am glad I am not the only one who thinks it was well worth it." He reached out for both her hands, lifting them to his mouth as he pulled her even more tightly against him. He dropped a lingering kiss on the back of each hand, his eyes holding hers, before lowering them back to her lap.
Lizzy looked away quickly, surprised at the fluttering in her middle and the sudden cloudiness of her thoughts. She flexed her hands, trying to dispel the tingling sensation.
She glanced toward Lord Geoffrey, expecting some sort of flirtatious look or comment regarding his jealousy. He was, indeed, still watching, but he only tossed her a wink and a smug smile before returning to his reading.
What on earth had that meant? He had almost looked conspiratorial, but in what way could he possibly imagine they had been conspiring?
She straightened and leaned back, still encircled by Mr. Darcy's arm but no longer wrapped against him. The idea that Lord Geoffrey might actually be encouraging her growing appreciation for Mr. Darcy was far too confusing. She tried to dismiss the thought at once.
A few minutes passed as Lizzy continued not-analyzing Lord Geoffrey's behavior or her feelings for Mr. Darcy, but then her ruminations were interrupted by Lord Geoffrey closing his paper and muttering something about leaving the rest with Reg, who was seated on the box beside the coachman. He turned to slide open the small coachman's window on the wall behind him.
The sliding piece was stuck, however, moving only half-an-inch or so back and forth. Lord Geoffrey fiddled with it, growing more and more frustrated. He cursed it and pressed with all his strength, angling his body for a more effective direction.
Lizzy had been watching the scene with mild amusement, but as he shifted in his seat, the dull light coming in through the side window glinted from something resting in the top of his left boot. The handle of something.
A knife. He had a knife in his boot. At least, she was fairly certain that was a small hilt she had seen.
It was not unusual, Lizzy knew. A gentleman was always prepared, and it was wise to carry a tool to defend oneself, especially when traveling. However, since gentlemen's clothing was so closely-fitted, boots were some of the few places where a weapon would be invisible. Mr. Darcy's weapons would have long ago been stripped from him, and a boot knife could prove very useful.
She thought fiercely for a few moments, pulling together the pieces of an idea and analyzing the possible outcomes. She could land them both in terrible trouble, even worse than they already faced, but they had agreed that they must escape today. They both knew that success might involve some heavy risks.
Lord Geoffrey grunted and continued pushing from several angles, too stubborn to simply give up and call out the side window instead.
"If you have your man there push up against the frame while you push to the side, it may come loose," Lizzy offered, trying to sound peevish. "Papa's carriage has a similar problem."
Lord Geoffrey gave her a frustrated look but then gestured to a bored-looking Scissors, who had spent the bulk of the ride staring out the side window. It was only a matter of moments before Scissors was up on his knees on the bench, facing fully away from Lizzy as he braced the window casement, while Lord Geoffrey was gripping the sliding piece with both hands, his face mostly toward the back wall.
Lizzy tensed, waiting for just the right moment.
"All right. On three. One… two… three!"
Three things happened at once. Scissors pushed the window frame up as hard as he could. Lord Geoffrey pressed against the slider with all his strength, closing his eyes as he pushed. And Lizzy leaned across the gap between the benches, grasped the hilt of the knife with two quick fingers, and slid it out. She sat back just before Lord Geoffrey's eyes opened again, the short dagger hidden between her legs, her eyes staring languidly toward the now-open coachman's window.
"Thank you, Miss Bennet," Lord Geoffrey said, looking satisfied. "Remind me to consult you in the future regarding similar difficulties."
She offered him a superior nod and looked away. As Scissors settled back against the bench, his eyes drifting to the side window again, and Lord Geoffrey spoke with the driver through the small window, Lizzy palmed the knife again, holding its blade against the inside of her wrist.
"You know," she said, turning into Mr. Darcy's side again, "I think the color of this coat rather suits you. Why do you only wear dark colors?" As she spoke, she ran her hand up inside his lapel in a brazenly familiar manner, until her fingers found the top of his inner pocket.
He remained very still, and his answer was just slightly longer in coming than it should have been. "Dark colors are more distinguished. They are reliable."
She shook her head and smoothed the lapel between both her hands, allowing the dagger to slip down into his pocket. "You are very handsome in black, I freely admit, but this tan is more approachable, somehow. Perhaps a light-colored coat would make for a nice change once in a while."
She began to move her hands away, but he reached up and grabbed one. With a slow, purposeful movement, he raised her open hand and rested it against his waistcoat, over his heart. She looked up at him, startled, and felt her own heart jump at the expression on his face.
"I will speak to my tailor about it as soon as possible," his mouth said.
His eyes said more, so much more that she felt scraped raw by his message. He was impressed by her action, yes, but it was bigger than just that. Lizzy had never before felt the way his look made her feel right then. She was… she felt… oh, how to put it into words?
He brushed his thumb slowly across the back of her hand, across her splayed fingers.
She felt adored. She felt passionately and profoundly adored.
She tucked herself against his side with a quiet sigh. She drew her hand back into her lap, but she brought his with it.
She fell asleep less than a quarter-of-an-hour later, her sleepy attention tugged equally between the sensation of her fingers mixed up with his (how she suddenly hated that men always wore gloves!) and the feeling of her arm pressed against the short, hard blade of the knife inside his coat.
Colonel Fitzwilliam both appreciated and despised Dover. It represented everything heart-wrenching about leaving home each time his company went on campaign, but it also reminded him of the pure relief and pleasure of returning to his home soil after months away.
At least, he thought as he forced his tired eyes to focus on the streets around him and the mouth of the harbor in the distance, this was a place he knew. He pressed his exhausted mount through the early morning crowd of fishermen selling this morning's catch and shopkeepers, traders, and servants seeking the best price.
He knew it was a miracle he had made such good time. He was lucky that the moon had come out, and he was even luckier that although his horse had not gotten much rest that day either, Charlemagne had found enough strength to keep going. He could feel the poor beast's weariness now, but it was all right—he had played his part well. Fitzwilliam stopped quickly at a stable yard near the docks and paid for boarding, adding an extra few coins for sweet feed as a reward.
Upon leaving the yard, he moved straight toward the dock, but he stopped short when he realized that even from nearby, his eyes were so tired he could barely see. Would it not be ironic to have made it all this way, perhaps even in time, and then to fail because Darcy and Miss Bennet had passed unnoticed right under his nose?
Not to mention that he had no idea upon what sort of vessel Lord Smythe would attempt to sail. There were no regular passenger ships to Calais, nor had there been since the Revolution. There were navy ships, obviously not Smythe's most likely choice. There were still a few mail ships, some of which were large enough to carry a couple of gentlepeople in the holds along with crates and goods, but there were often soldiers onboard as guards. Many of the ships in the harbor, even the fishing vessels, were probably already outfitted with smuggler's holes. The French goods that had sustained the English elite during the last few decades, despite any embargos and blockades, could not be supplied by the few French merchants who had set up shop in London.
But what could he do? Coffee might give him a bit of wakefulness, but even if he caught sight of them, in his current state he would be of little use in a rescue. His muscles felt like jelly.
He moved to the side of the pavement and leaned against the wall of an obliging shop, closing his eyes involuntarily. His mind wandered to the last time he had been in Dover. He had journeyed to aid an old friend, a former officer, in installing him and his family in a prosperous carpentry shop that had belonged to his father-in-law. The man had been a good soldier, but a wound to his left eye had removed him from active duty, and he had chosen to retire and start over again elsewhere.
Yes, that had been a pleasant trip, as Captain Cardon had always been a cheerful companion, but bittersweet to see him so reduced…
Fitzwilliam started as his head nodded forward, and he jerked himself upright, pushing off the wall. He could not do this! He had to help Darcy, but he also needed a few hours of sleep!
What could he do?
One final spike of energy rushed through him as the obvious answer finally appeared through the fog in his mind. Cardon would help him! Cardon was trustworthy, reliable, and as strong as a bear, and on top of it all, he was acquainted with Darcy! He would willingly keep watch for an hour or two while Fitzwilliam rested, would he not?
He rushed around the corner, breaking into a full run as he moved up the main street. He could not waste a moment.
Now, he had only to pray that Cardon was in town, and that they were not too late.