12. The Duel

CHAPTER 12

The Duel

I f Jane had hoped the morning's discomfort with respect to Mr Bingley and the colonel would ameliorate as the journey progressed, she was most disappointed. Rather than matters between the two men easing, they became, rather, even more fraught with each passing mile. Her father was of little help; he seemed to delight in this little drama, as if it were being played out entirely for his amusement, and when it seemed that matters might resolve themselves, he said something to set the two adversaries off again. It was most troublesome.

As Jane feigned first sleep, and then a marked interest in the various crops in the fields that drifted past them outside, she strove to understand what might have occasioned this strange animosity. It seemed to her, inexplicable as it might be, that the two men were both vying for her attention. That she had somehow given each to think of the other as a rival. It was quite unaccountable.

She tried, for a time, to lighten the mood with conversation, but knew not what to say. Lizzy would have known. She had that gift of speaking the right words at the right time to liven the spirits and bring a smile to each face. But this was not Jane's gift. Oh, she knew how to carry a conversation in a parlour, as every young woman of her class was expected to do, but this was no parlour. These men, both really still strangers despite their enforced proximity, would have no interest in hearing of the village or the latest on-dits from her aunt's card parties.

Had it been Lizzy across from her, they would have laughed and talked about the children at the village school, or what Charlotte had discovered about the Longs' new puppy, or about their aunt's latest letter.

But Mr Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam were not such familiar acquaintances that such topics were suitable, or of any interest, for what could the colonel care about her young cousin's attempts to write his name? And to gossip about neighbours with Mr Bingley, himself new to the neighbourhood, would be highly inappropriate.

Were this a ball, where one is expected to meet and converse with strangers, the conversation would be different still. There, they might talk about the music, or the crowd in the room, the quality of the band, or one's favourite dance. But here, crushed together in a rolling, jolting carriage, there was no music, no band, and no room to move one's feet, let alone dance.

Perhaps she could speak of a book she had read. She opened her mouth to ask if the gentlemen enjoyed poetry or histories, but the colonel was resting his head against the squabs and his eyes were closed.

It would not do to disturb him.

After a while, when he stirred, she thought to try again, but now Mr Bingley was peering at a volume, although he did not seem to be turning any pages. The two men seemed determined not to say an unnecessary word to each other. And so, Jane closed her mouth once more to contemplate her company.

In the midst of these uncomfortable ruminations, the carriage hit a rut along the road, and it jostled, sending Jane sliding against her father's side. There was no damage, no injury, and the coach driver up on the box might not even have noticed, but all four passengers gasped at the sudden jolt.

"Are you well, Miss Bennet?" Mr Bingley asked in alarm. "That was rather rough. I do hope you are not injured."

His words broke the strained silence.

"I thank you, sir. I am quite well. My father kept me from any harm."

"I have my uses," that man intoned.

But Mr Bingley continued in his expressions of remorse. "This being my carriage, I would feel quite dreadful if anything happened to cause you discomfort. This was recommended to me by my sister's husband, and until now, it has always offered me the smoothest and most comfortable passage."

"One cannot blame one's carriage for the state of the road, sir," the colonel replied.

Bingley glared at him before returning to Jane. "No, no. Of course not. But, Miss Bennet, if you are in any distress, I shall ask the driver to stop at once?—"

"Please, I beg you, do not, Mr Bingley. We are seeking my sister—and your friend—and I believe time is of the essence."

The young man went an alarming pink, a colour that quite clashed with his sandy hair and light brown eyes. "Oh, dash it all, you are quite correct. How could I think… that is, I am most concerned for your sister, but also for you… that is…" He went redder still. "If you are quite well, we can continue to our next planned stop."

What was that strange glint in the colonel's eye? Why, Jane considered, he was trying not to laugh. Irksome man. She forced her accustomed smile onto her lips and agreed, before turning to stare out the window once more to contemplate the passing scenery.

It was not until they stopped to rest in the afternoon that Jane felt she was able to breathe. The colonel took himself off to find Major Hawarden in regard to some matters about their mission, and her father declared that he needed a room to rest until they were ready to continue, leaving Jane and Mr Bingley alone for the first time.

They decided to take a walk around the area of the inn, to stretch their cramped legs and breathe air that was not filled with the dust of the road. The sky was grey and heavy with cloud, but the streets of the small town were nonetheless busy, and Jane was pleased for the distraction.

Out of the confines of the carriage and the looming presence of Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Bingley was excellent company. The happy disposition she had glimpsed in Meryton, even through his concern for Elizabeth, came to the fore, and he proved to be charming and pleased with everything in a way that spoke of a generous nature, so in accord with her own. He humoured Jane's wish to look in every shop window they passed and bantered with her cheerfully over the wares they saw displayed. At times he agreed with her comments, and at times put forth his own thoughts, all with excellent humour.

"You cannot really like that hat," he exclaimed upon seeing one flower-encrusted bonnet set out for display. "It has far too many ruffles and frilly bits. I believe I should not know the person under it, and should spend the entire evening sneezing if ever a lady were to wear it in my presence." He rubbed his nose as if already so afflicted.

"But it is a charming colour," Jane countered, uncertain whether to tease the young man or let him be.

Mr Bingley peered at the offending item again.

"It is, I suppose, if one likes yellow. A soft yellow rose is charming enough, of course, and a small spot of bright colour can enliven a room, so my sister tells me, but this hat is very… vibrant. Although," he turned to Jane as he spoke, "with your lovely hair and blue eyes, it would look quite well. Everything would look well on you."

Jane laughed at him. "You are a flatterer, sir. I was mistaken. It is rather dreadful."

And Mr Bingley laughed with her.

"What of this one, with the feathers?" He pointed out a headpiece on the far side of the window display.

Jane bit back a laugh. "It is… it is elaborate. Perhaps a bit too much so for me."

"My sister would like it," the young man countered, "and has always told me that my tastes are lacking, but I do believe that hat looks about to take flight!"

"And cluck its way out through the door!" Jane returned with a smile.

He let out a gentle chuckle, which sound pleased Jane more than she could have imagined, and she tittered along with him. This set Mr Bingley chuckling more, and then Jane, until both were laughing so hard that passers-by stopped to stare at them.

This, thought Jane as they made their apologies and turned back towards the inn, was much more the sort of companion she preferred to the sullen men in the carriage.

The respite of sunshine was short-lived, and soon after their afternoon rest, the rain started again. Now it became cold, despite the time of year, and heavy clouds blanketed the surrounding mountains. Elizabeth tried not to shiver, but wrapped the blanket tightly around her shoulders and fought to hold the umbrella steady to keep Will as dry as possible.

"It is of no use, Elizabeth," he sighed at last. "The rain is too heavy, and the very air is wet. Keep yourself dry under the cover. I am already as wet as a drowned rat."

It was true. His handsome face did not look quite so noble or haughty now, with a heavy shade of beard and rivulets of rain plastering his hair to his forehead. He had removed his hat earlier, explaining that the rain would surely destroy it, and that it was more useful against the sun and as a disguise of sorts. His skin was pale and his knuckles, as he held the reins, were white.

Dobbin, too, was most unhappy, moving steadily onward, but at a slow and halting plod rather than a crisp trot.

"We cannot go much farther. Will there be a village ahead, do you think?" Elizabeth peered into the distance, hoping to conjure up a nice, warm inn. Something tickled the back of her throat and she coughed.

Will turned to her in alarm. "You are not taking ill, I hope! This rain is most unwelcome. I cannot have you become sick."

Elizabeth tried to smile back. "I am made of stern stuff. And even if it is a trifling cold, I shall be fine. Still…"

"We need to find shelter. I am wet through and will be of no use to anybody if I am laid low as well. Let us see what we can find."

But no village appeared through the mist, no welcome mile marker pointed to an obliging inn.

The rain grew heavier, and turned to hail.

"There, down by the river? What is that?" A misty shape wavered through the dismal rain, foreboding and dark, but possibly promising some sort of shelter.

Will nodded once and found a track, down which he directed the increasingly recalcitrant Dobbin.

The shape began to take a more definite form as they approached. This was no farmer's cottage with a bright fire, or convenient hunting shack with a fireplace, but rather, the ruins of an old and crumbling church of some sort. There were three standing walls, the remains of a window casement on the fourth, and a partial roof over one end. It was beautiful.

"It will not give us much protection, but it will shelter us somewhat." Will's eyes scanned the structure and led the horse and cart through the missing wall to that blessedly dry area at the far end. There was enough of the roof left to provide a reasonable covering for the cart and some room for Dobbin to move about if he wished. It was more, frankly, than Elizabeth had hoped for.

"This will do well." She tried to sound cheerful, but the words came out more as a sob.

"Aw, Lizzy, do not cry. We will manage quite nicely. We have food and blankets, and the rain cannot last forever." Will's eyes belied his cheerful words, and despite her every effort, Elizabeth burst into tears.

"I am sorry," she choked out. "I am not a watering pot, nor am I so miserable. These are tears born of exhaustion and not despair, but…" She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to regain control over her leaking eyes.

A tentative touch to her shoulder alerted her to Will's proximity and when she did not flinch, the touch became firmer, more sure. She leaned into it, and before she knew, he had encircled her with both arms and pulled her close, holding her against his chest. Momentary alarm rippled through her at this unexpected intimacy, but it faded almost at once. This was Will. She could trust him.

Had she been of brighter spirits, she would have laughed at the notion. This, the man who had stolen her family's carriage and who had abducted her, who had brought her into his nightmare of certain danger, and who was now leading her through the most remote side lanes in northern Wales, was her rock in this storm. He was the one she felt she could trust completely. What delicious irony.

But he had, over the past several days, proven himself. Had he been of a less gentlemanly disposition, there had been a great many occasions for him to take advantage of her perilous state. They had been alone, out of sight of any other eyes, for long days, and had slept in the same room—no, the same bed—and not once had he given her the first cause for alarm.

Were he another man, one not so high in society and well connected, with such expectations that must be placed upon him, she could even consider herself fortunate to be in company with him, for he would make some woman a caring and considerate husband. A pang of regret now replaced her trepidation. He would, were he another man, make an excellent husband for her.

But now she must take what comfort could be found, and she welcomed his embrace and fell into it, letting her own arms wind about his back in reciprocity. They stood thus for several minutes until her eyes dried and she felt the dampness from his coat start to soak through her own rustic dress.

"You are wet…" she began.

"We are wet."

"Look there, Will. Against the wall. Is that an old hearth? It is stone and will not burn. Might we build a fire, do you think? Did we bring enough wood?"

Whether they had enough for the fire to burn through the night remained to be seen, but it was enough for now. With the flint they had purchased and some kindling, they soon had a little flame going. Another examination of the overhang proved that they were not the first to take shelter under the remains of the roof, for there was a pile of twigs and branches that some other soul had left at some point, now suitably dry to burn. Elizabeth made a note to find some similar wood before they departed for the next traveller in need of such.

The problem of their wet garb remained. Neither had any alternative, save their night clothes. But they could not stay as they were, else they would surely become ill. Will must have been thinking something similar.

"If you wish to change and dry your dress by the fire, I can go out…" His hands dropped to his sides, palms facing forward in some sort of appeal.

"No. Then you would become even more soaked, which would benefit neither of us." She took a fortifying breath. "We have been together in our night clothes before?—"

"Whilst hidden under blankets in our separate beds!"

"—and there is no reason why we should not do likewise now. We have blankets to cover ourselves. There is no shame in it. If you will avert your eyes whilst I change, I can do likewise for you. Our blankets should be tolerably dry under the canopy. It only makes sense."

A slow nod signalled his agreement. "Very well. We can move the cart thus," he pulled the front to shift it to a different angle, "to make a screen. Please, change. I must look after Dobbin, anyway." His face flushed pink, which was endearing in so self-regulated a man, and Elizabeth's smile came more naturally. As he retrieved what he needed from the cart, she slipped behind it and shucked out of her wet garments and into her night rail, before throwing the blanket over her shoulders as a protective cape.

As Will did likewise a few minutes later, Elizabeth went to work laying out her clothing close to the fire, using some of the branches from the corner as a drying rack. It was not perfect, but it would do.

Dobbin seemed content in his corner, munching on hay and drinking water from the metal pail they had brought along. His large equine presence did not help to improve the smell of the place, but it did provide a bit of extra warmth, for which Elizabeth was grateful.

They ate a quiet meal of cold pies and some cheese, and huddled against the wall, waiting for their clothing to finish drying.

Will was the first to broach the question Elizabeth could not form into words.

"Where are we to sleep?"

She glanced down. The earth beneath their feet was rough stone, damp and covered with small rocks and pebbles. It would not do.

"The cart," she ventured, "will not be very comfortable, but it has room for both of us and is dry. If we spread out some of the remaining hay, it might be serviceable."

His eyes flew open. "Both of us?"

"Unless you prefer to sleep on the rocks over there. I cannot think you will get much rest, though. And the ground, even with this shelter, looks quite wet. If you must, you can take the cart and I can sleep tomorrow as we drive."

Something of his former hauteur came over him and he looked rather offended. "I cannot allow a lady to sleep—or not—on hard and wet stone whilst I rest on a mattress of sorts. It goes against my every principle."

"Then we must both sleep in the cart. I repeat my promise that I shall not compromise you, Will."

His back stiffened with alarm before his handsome face cracked into a smile. "You tease me, Miss Bennet! Very well. After all this time we have spent together, it can hardly cause any more damage."

Damage? Is that what she was to him? Damage?

She blinked back unexpected tears and turned away with the pretence of setting up the cart.

Of course he would consider this "damage." With his strict principles, he would feel himself honour-bound to offer her marriage. They had been alone together for several days, had slept in the same room, and now in the confines of the same narrow cart. Many a young lady had been ruined for far less. That she and he both knew that the extent of their impropriety was using each other's given name, but society would not judge their proximity kindly.

If he were to walk away, he would be able to go on with his life, this adventure commanding little more than a raised eyebrow in places, and in all likelihood, a clap on the back in others. In time, he would marry somebody eminently suitable and forget her, the "incident with that chit from Hertfordshire" nothing more than a half-remembered joke.

But she would always be tainted. Her lot would not be sly winks and nods of wordless approval, but the scorn of matrons, the derision of young men, and shunning by her contemporaries. Her name would be destroyed in society, and she would drag her family with her. Her dear Jane, her younger sisters Mary and Kitty, and even silly, flirtatious Lydia, would all be tarred by association with her, never to marry, except to those far beneath them in society, never to be accepted into the homes of their friends again.

Her mother would suffer a fit of nerves that might well carry her off, and her father… well, he would be satisfied to live out the rest of his days in the solitude of his library, never to be bothered by visitors again. But her mother and sisters… they must be thought of with compassion!

And Will, of course, would know this. If his story about his sister were true, he would be suffering the same concerns about her. Thank heavens he had interrupted Mr Wickham's vile scheme, but should the story get out, even Georgiana Darcy's reputation would be damaged.

With this in mind, Will would almost certainly offer her marriage. And she would almost certainly refuse him.

It was not that the thought of marriage to such a man was distasteful. Indeed, quite the opposite. Although they had known each other only a few short days, and despite the inauspicious manner of their meeting, Elizabeth had come to esteem the man. No, that was too cold. She more than esteemed him.

She liked him.

His rough country garb and unkempt growth of beard could not disguise the fact that he was a gentleman in every way that mattered. He was kind and considerate, had a fine and well-educated mind and a good understanding, possessed a variety of interests that she claimed as well, and above all, he treated her with respect.

When she had clambered up that tree like a hoyden and shot the rabbit, he had not turned in disgust and disparaged her unladylike behaviour, but rather, he had watched in awe and then lauded her skills. He had not snubbed her admittedly poor musical skills in favour of his sister's superior abilities, but instead had joined her in song. He listened to her, conversed with her as an intelligent person, and treated her like a lady, no matter the circumstances. This was a man she could well come to love.

And this was why she must refuse him.

He deserved better than to be leg-shackled to a country lass he had only just met, and by such dire accident. She would bring him down, for how could he move in his own circles if the chatter behind closed doors was always about his low-bred wife? Her father was a gentleman, it was true, but she could never match the manners and elegance of one born into such exalted circles and raised to be an exemplar of her sex.

This, she could come to manage. She could attempt to refine her manners and how she held a teacup. She could live with the wagging tongues and the disdainful huffs. But she could not force Will to marry somebody he did not love. She would always be an obligation rather than a passion, and he would, in time, come to resent her.

Instead, she decided, she would ask him to tell her family that she had died along the journey. Swept away by a raging torrent, perhaps, or tramped under the hooves of a thousand sheep. Her family would mourn her, of course, but they could then continue with the respect of their neighbours and her sisters could marry well. Maybe there would be a position for her at this hunting box they sought, an assistant in the kitchens, or maybe a schoolteacher in the village.

But she could never be Mrs Darcy.

The tears flowed freely again, although she could not quite understand why, and she busied herself with the cart until, at last, they ran dry.