Darcy's floating.
They walk.
A pub.
Tiny. On the side of the road, completely isolated. As isolated as you can be in England—a house five hundred feet on the left, another on the right. Both empty, shutters closed.
The pub, only light in the night.
"Fancy a beer?" Darcy asks. He can't stop smiling. "Or an Irish coffee?"
"If ever there was a night for Irish coffee," Elizabeth replies, she seems euphoric, the exertion, the rain, the adventure. "How far are we from home?"
"Forty minutes?"
"Irish coffee it is."
They're not welcome. The looks, disapproving. The woman at the counter. The patrons, four men, at a table. Locals. You recognize them from their clothes. Hint one, their windbreakers are not cheap. Hint two, they wear boots. Hint three, they're inside, not out in the storm like dumb tourists.
Elizabeth, amused. They sit on the bench. The table, long, wood varnished. Darcy goes to the bar and order.
It takes forever. Going back to the bench at last, with two Irish coffees.
The woman's gaze. Following him.
"You know she hates us," Elizabeth whispers. "We order stupid stuff. Expensive, difficult to prepare. We dripped all over her floor. Left mud tracks everywhere. The worst kind of tourists."
Darcy raises his glass. "To us."
Elizabeth smirks and raises her glass back, the locals glare, everything is golden.