Not fifteen hours after her meeting with Mrs. Hartwick Elizabeth found herself in a coach with Mr. Greaves, his wife, and their maid, heading up the Great North Road to Nottinghamshire and Quickentree Hall, the estate which Mr. Greaves served as steward. Elizabeth was on her way north to take up her new position, as companion to the Dowager Countess of Jeltotford.

Mr. and Mrs. Greaves were remarkably close mouthed about the Dowager Countess. Answers to her inquiries were deferred by them to their arrival at Quickentree Hall, whereupon the butler and housekeeper, Smithers and Mrs. Smithers, would answer any and all questions she might have. The extreme reticence exhibited by the steward and his wife should perhaps have alerted Elizabeth that something was a bit off but she was so new to the whole business of being a companion that she did not even think of doing what a more experienced companion might have done, to wit: taken out one of those banknotes sewn in the lining of her pelisse and at the next stop caught the next coach back to town posthaste.

Elizabeth tried to establish some sort of rapport with the Greaves, assaying what she thought were the innocent sort of questions that you asked strangers to break the ice - do you have children and the like - but her efforts were rebuffed. She had not thought to bring anything to pass the time; she had no book, no sewing, and she had never been able to sleep in a coach, so she was forced to spend the remaining two and a half days of the trip staring out the window. The monotony of sheep, sheep, cows, sheep, passing by in not so rapid succession soon mesmerized her and during the afternoon of the second day she found herself wondering what the three-day long trip to Pemberley with Mr. Darcy would have been like.

Not silent.

Although initially she had thought him cold, unsocial and taciturn (and rude and arrogant, but she pushed those thoughts aside, to be dealt with in another reverie), but his reserve had melted once he had been sufficiently in her company to think he knew her well. During her stay at Netherfield, her arguments with Mr. Darcy, about literature, history and politics, the topics changing quick as a flash, those arguments that had so distressed Mr. Bingley, had been exhilarating. She had even taken positions not her own, something Mr. Darcy had called her out on, just to prolong some of their debates. For the fun of it. She smiled to herself at that admission. At the time, she had convinced herself that she was fighting him, trying to wound him with her wit. Oh, how she had lied to herself.

With all the regret of hindsight she acknowledged that Mr. Darcy had never patronized her; something her father had been prone to do on occasion, comparing her to Dr. Johnson's prancing dog whenever she had propounded some peculiar point which she thought had the éclat of a proverb. Mr. Darcy had never done so; he had respected her mind.

And then had been their walks at Rosings. Those had not been movable feasts of debate. Rather they had been the occasion of interrogatories by Mr. Darcy, answers to which she had evaded, embroidered or embellished at her whim. Charlotte had thought Mr. Darcy was courting her, she being convinced that he was in love with Elizabeth, and that he was trying to get answers to those questions courting couples should (but don't always) ask each other. If only she had responded in kind, asking her own questions, about Jane and Mr. Bingley, about Mr. Wickham, about the fabled Pemberley, about why he stared at her so, maybe things would be different, maybe she would in a coach with Mr. Darcy, on their way to Pemberley.

They would not be silent. She would be on the forward-looking seat, Mr. Darcy would be across from her, they would be discussing the latest from Walter Scott – no, they'd be newlyweds, wouldn't they. They'd be sitting next to each other. They'd be jostling together, they'd be touching, leg to leg, hip to hip, they'd be – goodness, it was hot in here. To speak together, they'd have to face each other, twisting their upper bodies, and if the coach hit a bump, he'd put out his arm to catch her and he'd pull her into his arms to keep her safe, and he'd bend his head down to – goodness, it was close in here. They'd not talk - what would newlyweds talk about anyway? Surely not books; they'd be anticipating the wedding night ahead. They'd not talk, they'd just -

Mr. Greaves sneezed, a great blast, which startled Elizabeth. She was grateful to see that it had been directed into his handkerchief, seated as she was across from him. She was thankful as well, for he had wrenched her back from falling down that rabbit hole of what might have been. She had no regrets. None. Not one. She did not need Mr. Darcy. She was entire of herself; she was not any less because he had been washed from her life. She was safe in her own embrace. She shivered – goodness, it was chilly in here.

Elizabeth looked out the window. Where were those sheep, when you needed them, to occupy her lonely mind?