“I shall call on your mother after luncheon,” he said with a shrug. “And I shall endure whatever she wishes to say.”
“You are not required to suffer her complaints, Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Elizabeth, I have just read confirmation that a man I have known since childhood is defrauding your uncle and circling your sister. Your mother’s opinion of my character is the least formidable obstacle I shall face today.”
Elizabeth nodded, her eyes searching his. At the door, she paused, her hand hovering over the latch. “Mr. Darcy. Thank you. For coming to Hertfordshire with me.”
“I am always here for you, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, rising from his desk with that same formal grace that had once irritated her, but now felt like a promise. “As we established. I shall walk you through the garden.”
In the garden, the roses had not bloomed. But June was closer than it had been the day before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE ROAD HOME
Elizabeth’s fingersdanced restlessly upon the window frame as she watched the ostlers at the White Hart Inn coax the weary horses from their traces. Jane, ever practical, was engaged in a thorough inspection of the mattresses, while Mary had claimed the neighboring chamber for herself—a luxury she would have denounced as sinful, had not the Consols rendered such scruples obsolete.
Outside, Mr. Darcy relinquished his horse to a groom and exchanged a few words with the driver of a London-bound carriage. He had chosen the saddle over the company of sisters and upholstery, preferring to ride alongside. Elizabeth’s gaze lingered as he retrieved Nettle from her nest of pillows and gathered the little terrier into his arms, his hand gentle on her scruffy head. The sight caught at Elizabeth’s throat, recalling the first time Nettle had greeted him—with a growl and a nip, as if she alone could sense the danger of pride.
“Lizzy, shall we ask the landlady to bring trays?” Jane asked. “I am developing a headache and the noise downstairs…”
“Mr. Darcy has already ordered the trays, although I wish he had asked what we would like to dine on.”
“I am sure he will procure the best they have.”
“Which, at the White Hart, translates to mutton with the texture of boot-leather, ale that aspires to water, and bread best approached with a chisel,” Elizabeth sighed, turning to Jane. “Do you think Papa has received the express in time to prevent Wickham from?—”
Jane took her hand, squeezing it. “Papa will not allow Kitty to come to harm. Without Mamma around, he would not receive calls. We shall be there on the morrow.”
“If only Mamma and Lydia had not waged such a campaign to accompany us.” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her brow. Three hours had been spent persuading her mother that Lady Sophia’s invitation to sort embroidery and play piquet was not, in fact, a sentence of imprisonment. And even then, Lydia had spent the entire time pouting that they would languish in London without a single officer to flirt with.
Jane’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “Imagine traveling all the way to London only to be told that one cannot purchase a ticket to Almack’s with a seventeen-pound lottery winning.”
And then there had been the haranguing of Mr. Darcy, who had firmly and solemnly informed Mrs. Bennet that the modiste shops and drapers of London had been warned against extending credit on the name of a “Bennet.”
He had not so much as blinked. Not when Mrs. Bennet pronounced him a proud, disagreeable monument, nor when Lydia bewailed London’s tragic shortage of redcoats and wit. He merely poured the tea, sliced the seedcake, and wished Mrs. Bennet robust health.
And now he was downstairs, in the public parlor, settling the bill for the post-horses that would carry them into Hertfordshire at dawn.
A knock at the door heralded the landlady, a stout woman dusted with flour. She set down a tray laden with surprisinglydecent fare—roast beef, aged cheese, and a pot of tea that smelled of actual leaves.
“With compliments from the gentleman, miss,” the woman said, bobbing a curtsy. “He says to tell you departure is at ten, after breakfast. Another express has been sent to Longbourn to ensure your father is prepared. And he’s taken the dog out for exercise—says she’ll be returned before you retire.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth slipped an extra coin onto the table, which the landlady accepted with a grateful curtsy. When the door closed, Elizabeth turned to Jane, her smile wry. “He has anticipated every possible need.”
“He’s doing it for you.” Jane smiled as she settled at the table, eyeing the steaming food. “Do you remember the linens he chose for us? The softest pillowcases.”
“Yes, and the carriages he arranged, complete with two outriders.” Elizabeth eyed the roast beef with anticipation. “And how rigid he was at the first trustee meeting.”
“Almost as if he had to be dragged over hot coals.”
“Lady Sophia is formidable,” Elizabeth reminded her sister. “Darcy admitted he did not wish for the role.”
At this, Jane raised her eyebrows. “Indeed? But he seemed to enjoy your company in the garden. I was upstairs, and I saw you two.”
A rosy blush tinted her face, and Elizabeth felt her own cheeks heating. “It was entirely Nettle’s doing. Her teeth were sharper than her manners, and she wounded his pride most grievously.”
Jane, with her usual grace, refrained from mentioning that Elizabeth’s tongue had drawn more blood than Nettle’s teeth. They set to their beef and potatoes, washing it down with ale. “I do wish for an ice. Do you remember the pistachio at Gunter’s?”
