The Secrets of Darcy and Elizabeth

“Perhaps we should get rooms for the night at the next town.”

She brushed hair impatiently out of her eyes. “I thought we would attempt to reach to Calais today.”

“We have not made as good time as I had hoped – and the roads are now muddy. We are still quite a ways from Calais. It would be better if we rested and started fresh tomorrow.”

“But – “

“Miss Bennet, you require rest,” he said in his firmest voice.

“You are accustomed to people doing what you tell them. I can see.” Her smile took the barb out of her words.

“No…well…yes.” He smiled a little at her riposte. “However in this case I am correct. I believe you are ill.”

She immediately straightened up on the seat. “I am fine.”

“Are you in the habit of falling asleep on carriage seats?” His voice was acerbic.

“Well, no….”

Without asking permission, Darcy stripped off his glove and put his hand to her forehead. She opened her mouth to protest the impropriety, but then closed it again at the alarmed expression on his face. “You are burning up! We must get you to an inn at once and find a doctor!”

He slapped the reins and urged the horse into a brisker pace, causing Elizabeth alarm. “Additional haste is not required! I am certain is just a trifling cold. We should do nothing that will delay our departure.”

“We shall see what the doctor says.” His face was implacable.

Half an hour later Elizabeth was sitting on a battered chair in the crowded common room of a little inn while Darcy talked with the proprietor. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that she was not at all well; her body was exhausted and seemed to ache all over. Her head pulsed with pain and the thought of lying down was very appealing, although there was no space. Nonetheless she found Darcy’s devoted attention to be somewhat embarrassing. She wished to cause him no further trouble, but he insisted that she needed a doctor. If I could only sleep a couple of hours, I will be much improved, she told herself. Darcy was worrying himself needlessly, she was certain.

She glanced around the crowded common room; it was full of weary travelers, many of them English. The noise was overpowering as was the stench of unwashed bodies, making her wish she could return to the cold, wet seat in the curricle. It occurred to her that Darcy might not find a room to let; there had been a large number of carriages resting in front of the inn when theirs had pulled up. Undoubtedly the news of the war had caused many people to rush to Calais and since this inn was on the route it would be popular.

Finally Darcy sank wearily into the other chair at her table. Resting his elbows on the scarred surface, he shook his head. “There is no room at the inn.”

“Indeed, I suppose I should be happy we are not traveling by donkey,” she intoned solemnly.

For a moment Darcy thought she was delirious with fever and then he laughed. “Yes, although Joseph and Mary did not need to contend with rain-soaked roads or war.”

To his eye, her answering smile seemed forced. She wishes to hide how ill she truly feels.

“Are there other inns in the town?” She asked.

“No,” he said, regret coloring his voice. “It is a very small village, and there are no other towns nearby.”

“I suppose we will simply ride to the next village.” Placing her hands on the table, she pushed herself into a standing position, smiling bravely.

“Not necessarily. I had a thought. When I saw the name of this village, I recalled that a friend of mine lives nearby.” Listening, she sank back into her chair. “Thomas Whitmore. I know him from Cambridge. He became a clergyman, but then married a Frenchwoman whose family owns some property near here. I corresponded with him when I planned this trip and he invited me to stay with him. When the war erupted, I thought circumstances would prevent my visit, but he would be happy to offer us hospitality.”

“But, he is not expecting us!”

“Under the circumstances I think he would understand. I just hope that he is at home. He wrote in his letter that he would need to travel to Toulouse soon. But I think we need to attempt it; he is our best hope for accommodations tonight.” He said nothing about how badly Elizabeth appeared to need such assistance.

By the time Darcy pulled the carriage to a stop in front of Whitmore’s home, Elizabeth’s condition had deteriorated. Her face was deathly pale and she was in a stupor; with every mile, Darcy’s concern for her health grew.

Whitmore’s home was a grand chateau whose grand entrance fronted a sweeping circular drive. In the gathering dark, Darcy could see little of the grounds, but they appeared extensive. Darcy drew the carriage as close as he could to the main entrance so Elizabeth need not walk far, but when he pulled the exhausted horses to a halt, she appeared to be sleeping once more -- despite the lack of support provided by the high carriage seat. Darcy descended to knock on the door. He explained to the butler who he was; within moments, Thomas Whitmore was striding across the foyer to greet him.

“Darcy! You are here! What an unexpected pleasure.” The warmth of his tone conveyed how genuinely pleased he was to see his friend.

Darcy was extremely relieved to find Whitmore in residence. “I apologize for appearing on your doorstep unannounced. The news of the war disrupted my travel plans.”

“Of course. I am happy to see you no matter the circumstances.” He turned and spoke to the butler in excellent French. “Henri, please see that a room is prepared for Monsieur Darcy.” The butler bowed and left.