Whenever Mrs. Coats was in the room, it was all Helen could do not to run to the window at the sound of every carriage passing through the village. Each time, she was torn between high expectations that it was Mr. Darcy returning with good news and the sinking feeling that his arrival also spelled the end of their arrangement. She tried to imagine how it would end between them, but the thought was too dismal for her usually buoyant imagination, and she abandoned the attempt.
Throughout the morning, she managed to keep her pacing in the parlour to a minimum and, making a strict tally, she went a mere ten times to the window. The number could easily have been thrice as great, but she exercised every nerve to concentrate on her sewing.
The afternoon brought a letter from Mr. Darcy, delivered by a skinny and certainly grubby youth. Helen paid him, dismissed him with a nod and turned over the twice-folded letter in her hands.
Her fingers trembling a little, she spread out the crackling sheet, upon which was written in a firm, bold hand:
My dearest Nell,
Keithley begs me write you this note, claiming that you will be distracted with worry, but I know you better and do not fear for your peace of mind. We have accomplished our goal with a minimum of unpleasantness, but several circumstances prevent us from returning to the George until very late this evening. Do not wait up.
R.D.
P.S. I have a proposal to put to you on the morrow concerning our partnership, which I hope you will find agreeable.
Helen had reread the note three times before Mrs. Coats found an excuse to enter the parlour. “How thoughtful, Mrs. Coats,” Helen said with a warm smile. “Tea!”
Mrs. Coats had a way, when she chose, of dispensing with meaningless chitchat. “From Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
“Why, yes,” Helen replied. “I am so relieved to hear from him. But, of course, I do not mean to imply that I anticipated any difficulties.”
“It is good to hear, all the same,” Mrs. Coats affirmed. “Do you expect him back to dine with you? I can cook as easily for two as for one.”
“You are very good, Mrs. Coats, but as it happens, Mr. Darcy does not expect to return today.” Helen had had a moment to embroider her story. “The chaise needs some repairs, and indeed, he writes to say that if I am able to find some means of conveyance into Queen’s Porsley, we may spend the evening together at the posting house there.”
Mrs. Coats thought that Mr. Darcy was a most thoughtful husband, but she found one objection. “There is no posting house in Queen’s Porsley, but there is the White Hart Inn which caters to stage custom.”
The intelligence that the stagecoach passed through Queen’s Porsley could not have pleased Helen more. “No posting house?” she echoed with credible confusion. She reopened the note and scanned it briefly. “Oh, I see! Yes, there it is—the White Hart Inn. He says to meet me there.”
Helen shook her head in wonderment. “I don’t know how I came to think it was a posting house.”
Mrs. Coats nodded and applied her mind to contriving a way for the young couple to spend the evening in each other’s company. “Now, there’s always Mr. Bigslow, who leaves Igglesthorpe every afternoon for Queen’s Porsley, but he doesn’t drive a spanking vehicle like the one you’re used to, and it might be a bit nippy this evening.”
Helen waved away these difficulties on the instant. “I have a very warm pelisse, you know, and am not at all susceptible to the cold. I should be grateful for the favour from Mr. Bigslow if he could take me to the White Hart Inn.”
Mrs. Coats said that she would track down Mr. Bigslow and arrange everything with him, not once remarking on the oddity of Mr. Darcy sending for his wife, rather than his finding a way back to her. Since Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s luggage was remaining at the George, it naturally would not occur to the hostess that such a fine couple would be leaving without paying their bill.
Thus was Helen’s plan set in motion. When Mrs. Coats went off in search of Mr. Bigslow, Helen did not pause for even a moment. The idea of flight from Mr. Darcy, once having entered her head, took such hold that when Mrs. Coats announced that Mr. Bigslow would be round within the half hour, Helen was unable to consider all of the problems and embarrassment she would cause Mr. Darcy by her sudden departure. She knew only that if she wished to leave, now was her chance, and she did not have much time.
She went to her chamber to pack the ill-fated portmanteau as her “overnight bag.” She would take with her two of the new dresses from Mrs. Hemmings, for Mr. Darcy would not have the least use for them, and he could not return them without causing comment. Her corded trunk, crammed with her summer clothes and all the odds and ends from her former life, would have to stay behind. She felt not one pang of regret in leaving it.
She knew only that she did not want to see Mr. Darcy again, and she reminded herself of the last line of his note to her to strengthen her resolve. She convinced herself that his reference to a proposal about their partnership meant its dissolution. Perhaps he would offer her even more money than the outrageous sum he had originally stipulated when she so imprudently entered the adventure with him. The thought of taking any more money from him now made her feel physically unwell. There was simply no other proposal he could have meant. She had been his temporary bride, and her time was now up.
It was a well-known law of nature that a man, especially one of Mr. Darcy’s cool self-possession, did not fall in love in a mere four days, and if he fell in love at all, it would be with some ravishing and enchanting female, which she was not. A kiss was just a kiss for a man, after all, even such a magnificent one as Mr. Darcy had given her. She would do well to remember that. And if falling in love was an entirely different matter where women were concerned—which was utterly unfair—and if she had been foolish enough to have lost her heart so completely to Mr. Darcy, she was not such a wet goose as to believe that he reciprocated her feelings. Worse, if she gave him the opportunity to make advances to her again, she was not altogether certain she could resist!
She had always thought she would escape the peculiarly feminine affliction of falling in love with the most ineligible match. If it was lowering to reflect that she was just as silly as the next woman, at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that Mr. Darcy was a man worthy of the highest regard. She could think of no other gentleman of her acquaintance who would make so ideal a mate—especially once he had the means to clear his name and obtain a pardon. Thus she reasoned, in a muddled sort of way, that she was to be congratulated for untangling herself from him before the inevitable end. Mr. Darcy would no doubt be relieved to be rid of her so neatly.
Of course, she must leave him a note. That was only proper. A search of the bureau drawers produced pen and paper. As she poised the pen above the inkbottle, a fresh problem arose. She agonized a full ten minutes over the proper salutation, “Dear Mr. Darcy” sounding too formal and “Dear Richard” too familiar. She consulted her letter from him to imitate his style of address, but his greeting “My dearest Nell” made her heart turn over but gave her no clue as to how she should proceed.
In the end, she penned several lines, in her neatest hand, that fell somewhat short of the epistolary masterpiece she would have like to have produced. She wrote:
Dear Mr. Darcy
Thank you very much for your kind note. I am very happy and relieved that you accomplished your errand. I would have liked to share your success with you, but I find that I must be on my way.
I told Mrs. Coats that I was going to Queen’s Porsley to meet you and spend the evening with you. I thought you would like to know, so that you can tell her something plausible about my absence.
She read this composition several times before subscribing herself “H. D.,” and then, with a twinge of conscience, she added the following postscript:
P.S. I took the liberty of taking with me two of Mrs. Hemmings’s dresses, along with the dress and pelisse I am wearing.
Satisfied, she folded the letter and left it conspicuously
on the top of the dresser in his room, where she hoped he would see it immediately upon his return.
She was about to slip off her wedding ring and enclose it in the note, but then decided against it. His presentation to her of the slim band had been a pretty gesture, and she had no desire to fling his thoughtfulness in his face. And, practical as always, though the prospect broke her heart, she realized that she might need to pawn it if she failed to find lasting employment.
She glanced back at the note, a lonely white square on the dresser, and spared a moment’s thought for Mr. Darcy’s reaction to her flight. She had no difficulty imagining that he would accept it with his customary calm, and she believed his inventiveness equal to the task of devising a story for Mr. and Mrs. Coats’s consumption. She avoided wondering what he would do with her corded trunk and the boxes of clothing that Mrs. Hemmings had sent over. However, she could not suppress the knowledge that in leaving Mr. Darcy, she was acting in a rather shabby and cowardly manner.
This realization did not alter her plans. When she was ready, she descended to the downstairs hallway, portmanteau in hand, bade Mrs. Coats a brief goodbye and guiltily said that she would look for her on the morrow. She emerged into the yard just as Mr. Bigslow was pulling up.
In reasonably good time, the cart drew up outside the White Hart Inn in Queen’s Porsley. Helen thanked Mr. Bigslow, collected her portmanteau, and after the cart pulled off, consulted the chalkboard to discover at once where her impulse had led her. A few minutes’ perusal of the arrivals and departures informed her that she had erred dramatically. It had been her intention to carry through with the plan she had originally intended before meeting Mr. Darcy, but she saw now that the stage that would connect her with the one stopping in Calvert Green had already passed through. With the money Mr. Darcy had advanced her, she had just enough to buy her ticket the next day but not enough to stay the night at the inn.
She drew a breath and examined the schedule again in order to come up with a stagecoach that would carry her quickly out of the vicinity of Mr. Darcy and anywhere near where she wished to go. She saw, with surprise, that within fifteen minutes she could leave on the Billingshurst stage, which would take her not far from the Happendale estate, where she could still take up her employment as governess.
Helen was aware that it might look somewhat odd to turn up on the doorstep of her employer a full week before her duties were to start, unannounced and at an odd hour of the night, but she could always say that she had mistaken the date and that her letter stating the time of her arrival at Billingshurst—one she had in fact not yet written—had strayed in the often mysterious network of the postal services.
Telling lies was not the ideal way to begin employment that was sure to be unpleasant, at best, but Helen could see no alternative. In fact, she saw no other course but to proceed to the Happendales’ and to place herself at the mercy of her employer.
She bought her ticket and presented herself in the yard just as the Billingshurst stage entered the gates. Helen tried to convince herself that she was no worse off now than she had been a few days earlier, waiting in the yard of the Brigstone Arms. Failing in this worthy attempt, she entered the coach and was resigned to the boredom of the journey to Billingshurst, which would be rendered all the more tedious by her heavy heart.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MR. DARCY RETURNED very late to Igglesthorpe, thinking agreeably of his bed and entirely satisfied with the day’s efforts. He had tracked down Vincenzo with little difficulty, the commediante’s own two feet and resourcefulness being no match for Mr. Darcy’s sure knowledge and swift travelling chaise. Mr. Darcy’s success with Vincenzo derived in large measure from a principle well known to military men that surprise is the essence of attack.
Perhaps it was Mr. Darcy’s offer of money that helped Vincenzo decide to hand over the shawl. Though the sum fell considerably short of what Vincenzo had counted on receiving, he was in no position to bargain. Perhaps it was Mr. Darcy’s silver-mounted pistol staring him in the face that spoke a persuasive language all its own. Or perhaps it was Mr. Darcy’s final recommendation. “Lascia il paese!”—the words, gently spoken, had more the ring of a threat than a simple command to leave the country. Whatever the reason, Vincenzo saw the wisdom of quitting without delay this cold and most incomprehensible island for his sunny Italy. If Vincenzo realized that Mr. Darcy had more than a passing interest in the documents that had fallen into his hands, his curiosity was not strong enough to prompt him to remain in England to discover Mr. Darcy’s motives.
Mr. Darcy let himself into the George with the key provided by Mr. Coats and proceeded quietly past Helen’s door to his own. He cast cloak and cravat onto a chair and lit the lamp. He withdrew a thin envelope from his coat pocket, and placed it casually on the dresser, noticing as he did so a white square of paper. The words Mr. Darcy were printed plainly on the outside of the folded sheet. He picked it up, flicked it open and scanned it quickly. What he thought of the contents no one could have detected, for even in solitude his face was impassive.
He picked up the lamp, crossed his room and the adjoining sitting room and knocked softly on the other chamber door. When there came no answer, he did not hesitate to open the door and step inside. He felt instinctively what his eyes confirmed—no one was within. His gaze moved around the room, and stopped at the corded trunk. This sight made his face lighten and even caused him to smile a little.
****
THE NEXT MORNING Mr. Darcy descended to the back parlour. He encountered Mrs. Coats in the downstairs hallway, and the sight of him threw the good woman into considerable confusion. Mr. Darcy said with his easy smile, “I expect that you did not look to see me this morning for breakfast.”
“No, indeed not!” she exclaimed. “But I can scramble you some eggs and put a rasher of bacon on the griddle in a minute, and I’ll send Missy round with the coffee immediately! And for Mrs. Darcy?”
“She did not accompany me,” he said pleasantly.
Mrs. Coats nodded sapiently and put her hands on her hips. “A head cold, is it now?”
Mr. Darcy smiled. “Why, yes, how did you suspect?”
“The way she left yesterday afternoon in Mr. Bigslow’s open cart! She assured me that her pelisse was warm, but I did not think to make sure that Mr. Bigslow would provide her with a rug! But you have no one to blame but yourself, sending her that note the way you did.”
“Ah!” he said. “Is that the way it was?”
She looked suspiciously up at him. “Did you not request that she meet you at the White Hart Inn?”
“I did nothing of the kind,” he said. “I merely wrote to assure her that all was well. I told her that circumstances delayed my return to the George but she was not to worry and to get her rest.”
“And here she was telling me you wished for her, when it was all a hum! I’ll vow she knew I would advise her against it if she didn’t make up that farradiddle about you. She’s a sly one, sir!”
“Yes, she is.”
Mrs. Coats added hastily, “But so devoted to you! Not every wife would risk her health just to be with her husband for an evening. So nervous for your well-being, too, and anxious all day!”
“Was she indeed?”
“Yes! I do not think she realized that I knew, but it was plain as day. Always going to the window at the slightest sound. And then when your note came, it was all I could do to have her sit and drink her tea, so anxious was she to be off!”
“It seems that my—” He halted momentarily and then continued smoothly, “It seems that my wife takes the most foolish notions into her head. Once she fixes on an idea, there is no stopping her.”
“You should know her well, sir, being childhood sweethearts and all!”
“That, of course, accounts for it,” Mr. Darcy said without a blink.
Mrs. Coats looked wise. “You be sure that Mrs. Darcy takes care of herself now.” She smiled significantly. “I’ve a notion that this is a specia
l time, and I hope you do not think I’m above myself for mentioning it!”
Mr. Darcy chose caution. “Ma’am?”
“I dare say I should not be speaking so freely with you, but what’s the harm? All the signs are there! Her fretfulness, her desire to be with you, her lack of appetite yesterday, her susceptibility to the cold, her dressing-gown—”
“Her dressing-gown?”
“Yes! I’ve suspected it from the first night you stayed here, when I helped her into her dressing-gown. It’s a mite too small for her now, and I think I know well enough the signs when a woman is increasing.”
Mr. Darcy was more than equal to the occasion. “I think it is a little too early yet to be sure,” he said, with only the faintest tremor in his voice.
“Oh, I see!” she said with a broad wink. “Well, I wish the both of you the best, and when you are blessed with children—which I hope will be soon—I know that Mrs. Darcy will make a wonderful mother! Fond of Mrs. Darcy, I am. You are a lucky man, sir!”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I consider myself very lucky indeed. As it happens, I desire to make all haste back to her, and I have come only to collect our things so that we may be on our way. I wonder if I might importune you for my breakfast?”
“Mercy!” she exclaimed, “and here I am prattling on about what’s none of my business! You shall have your breakfast in a trice!”
Mr. Darcy did full justice to the breakfast set before him. Within the hour he was ready to depart, after packing his things and settling handsomely with Mr. Coats. His visit did not come to an end, however, until he assured Mr. and Mrs. Coats that he would send them notice on the occasion of the Happy Event.
Julie Tetel Andresen Page 16