3. Laneways

CHAPTER 3

Laneways

E lizabeth scowled at the filthy creature beside her. What sort of man was this, all covered in dirt and grime like a stray dog, demanding to be addressed like a gentleman? There was a large black smudge across his brow under the brim of his hat, and he had not shaved today, although his sideburns bore the evidence of having been carefully shaped to best suit his face.

It would be, she admitted, a rather handsome face at that, if it belonged to a real gentleman and not this rotten thief.

And then there was the smell. Had he slept in the stables? Granted, she would have smelled worse had she not managed to bring the roiling in her stomach under control in time. Still, he smelled more of horse dung and spoiled vegetables than a man ought. But his fingernails, when she glanced at his hands, were neat and buffed, in stark contrast to the grime that encased him.

His clothing, too, was something of an enigma. It was as dirty as the man, as if he had rolled in the dirt in it, and was ripped in places, yet it was the clothing of a wealthy man, and it fit him as if tailored to his form. He seemed a common criminal, having absconded with her father's carriage, but he spoke with the tones and vocabulary of the upper classes. And he had quite taken affront when she called him by his given name. She resolved to do so as much as possible, simply to vex him, annoying creature that he was.

He could hardly be trusted! What a bother that she had no choice but to do so.

He was correct in one matter. She could not set off on foot to find her way home. She did not know where she was and would be an easy mark for somebody up to no good. The scoundrel—Will, she insisted to herself—had been true to his promise not to harm her thus far, and she could only hope that he would continue to keep his word.

Confound it all! What dreadful luck to be in this unhappy situation.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He looked as displeased with this situation as she was, if the scowl that marked his face was anything by which to judge. Insufferable man. If he had not abducted her, he would not have been forced into her company, after all.

Perhaps she ought to have attempted to ride inside the coach after all. Her stomach would have settled eventually. As if in answer to that thought, her insides gave a little lurch, and she sucked in the clear air to settle herself once more. No, riding inside would not do at all. Better to sit here next to this objectionable person than to cast up her accounts all over her father's upholstery.

She let her eyes drift to the side where Will's hands caressed the reins. His fingers were long and tapered, his grime-caked nails smoothly trimmed where she expected them to be torn and rough. Moreover, he seemed comfortable on the coachman's box, his posture easy. Despite his many failings, the man did seem a dab hand at driving the team. He controlled the horses with an economy of movement, keeping them moving at a steady pace, the carriage travelling as smoothly as this narrow country lane would allow.

As he had boasted earlier, he kept glancing at the position of the sun, taking new lanes and country roads in an attempt to head northward. He did not speak for a very long time, only grunting every so often when some new unpleasant thought seemed to cross his mind.

After what must have been an hour, Elizabeth noticed the horses slowing.

"They are tiring, Will." He did not correct her, but frowned at the use of his name. "They have come from London this morning and ought to have been home already."

He frowned at her from beneath heavy brows and let out a long sigh. "You are correct. I have been trying to avoid the villages, but needs must. We require food and drink as well."

Her eyes went wide. "You do not propose to steal it, surely!" Vinegar coated her words.

"What do you take me for?" he growled back. "A common thief?"

Elizabeth let out a rather unladylike snort. "Behold the carriage, which you drive but do not own, and likewise the horses, which dearly need a rest. A common thief, indeed, is what you are."

"Impertinent…" the man started but closed his mouth with a snap. "Very well. Think of me what you must. I shall be rid of you soon enough. If I can somehow procure a saddle, I can ride, which will carry me home faster than these two stalwart beasts can manage with this coach in tow."

"Then why did you not steal a horse? Surely there were ones set for postilions, all saddled and ready for you." She intended the words as an insult, but his response surprised her.

Did his shoulders slump a touch? For a brief moment, the wretched man looked vulnerable.

"I had no time to make such choices," he said after a moment's thought. "When I made my way to the inn, I believed myself to be safe and hoped to send a message to someone who might help me. But then I saw my foe ride into the yard with a crony, and I knew I could not hide for long. They would have turned the place upside down if they thought I might be there. Your coach was ready and untended, and I did not think, but took the opportunity the heavens gave to me."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but words, for once, failed her. Was this scoundrel really fleeing for his life? It seemed too strange to be true, but something of the man's expression pierced her indignation and she let his explanation lie for the time being.

After a few more minutes, they passed by a farmhouse that looked well-tended and Will directed the horses up the short drive. A woman of middle years, strong and stern, bustled out to see what was happening, and Will made his case. They had taken a wrong turn, he explained, and he had had a mishap, and the poor horses were in desperate need of a rest. The woman did not seem taken by his unkempt appearance, but his excellent manners and the small pile of coins that appeared in his hand eventually won her over. Before long, a youth of about fifteen appeared to water the horses and lead them to a shaded grove, and Elizabeth and Will were invited into the house.

Will had given his name as Will Bennet, which annoyed Elizabeth exceedingly, until she recalled his desperation not to be found. She, then, was assumed to be Mrs Bennet, which bothered her almost as much. Still, she smiled and accepted the appellation, promising herself to castigate her unwanted companion when they were on the road once more.

Will promised to join the ladies shortly and followed the lad with the horses. When he did enter the house a while later, he had clearly availed himself of some fresh water as well. His hair was damp and his skin clean, and he had dusted off his clothing as much as possible, rendering his appearance much improved.

He spoke to Mrs Peters, for that was the woman's name, as if she were a duchess. He did not prattle on as some do, but his few words were elegant and respectful, and he praised the quality of the small repast they were offered. At the end of an hour, when he judged the horses ready to travel once more, Mrs Peters would have done anything for him and pressed a small package into Elizabeth's hands as they left. "Some biscuits and apples for your journey."

With her directions in their ears, they continued their journey, each more at ease with then other than they had been earlier.

"You really did pay for her food and the care for the horses." Elizabeth was not sure what she had expected, but it had not been this courteous display.

"You expected otherwise, Madam? I have not an endless supply of coin, but I would not rob an honest farmwife of the bread and cheese her family must work hard to procure. You wound me, Miss Bennet."

And he truly did sound offended.

"Accept my apologies, Will. You must understand that my first impressions were not positive."

"Madam, if you insist upon using my given name, then I must know yours. It would never do in a parlour, but our circumstances are unusual, and a breach of etiquette must be excused."

Heavens, but the man spoke like an Oxford don! Perhaps he really was the gentleman he claimed to be. He certainly had the manners of the upper set, as stiff as they were, and devoid of the grime that had covered him earlier, he really was rather handsome.

"Very well, then, Mr Darcy ," she stressed his name, "you may, until we reach our next inn, call me Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth." He drawled the name as if tasting it. "It suits you."

He lapsed into silence again, as they continued their way to who knew where.

"Why are you running?" She had to know this.

For a minute, Elizabeth heard nothing but the clop of the horses' hooves on the packed dirt lane.

"It is not a pleasant story. Suffice it to say, I am the wronged party."

Once more, the strong jaw snapped shut. His eyes turned cold and his every movement warned her against asking more. But Elizabeth was not one to run from trouble, her courage rising instead in the face of intimidation.

"How can I believe you if you will not tell me?" She laid a soft hand on his forearm, feeling it tense under her light touch. "You might find comfort in the telling, and I shall hardly divulge what I hear, for we have no common acquaintances."

His arm relaxed again under her hand, and he took a long breath.

"The story is not entirely mine to tell. I would not break the faith of another in divulging what she must wish to remain concealed." The words were considerate, but his demeanour stiff, as if he had retreated behind a shield of some sort.

Elizabeth would not be deterred. She was entirely reliant upon Will for the time being; she must know something of his circumstances. "But this man who is chasing you—surely that matter concerns yourself, and most intimately. Something must have raised his ire against you."

He blinked at her before turning his attention back to the lane. "Very well. I can tell you something of the matter, if only to assure you of my character. I am not in the habit of appropriating unguarded carriages and teams for my own use. I am more than able to afford my own." The ice in his voice thawed a bit more.

This tramp was a wealthy man? It seemed hard to credit it, for all that he had the manners of a gentleman. Elizabeth let out a sniff of surprise, to which her companion turned icy once more. It took a great deal of coaxing to encourage him to resume the tale.

"My predicament involves a man who believes I have cheated him out of a great deal of money, and who sought to harm somebody I care about in his pursuit of revenge. I thwarted his plans."

"But surely many men find themselves in similar circumstances, and yet not all roll around in the dirt and steal other men's coaches. And daughters," she added for good measure.

"Indeed, but not many men have come up against George Wickham, who has tried to rob me of thirty thousand pounds."

The expression on Miss Bennet's face almost made Darcy laugh.

"Thirty thousand?" she choked out, her eyes wide and her jaw slack. "That is a great deal of money indeed! But, if this is true, should it not be you chasing him, rather than the converse? Can he be so rash as to expect success?"

Darcy shook his head. "He is angry—no, more than angry—at having been thwarted, and angry men are seldom wise. His aim now is revenge, plain and simple. If he cannot have my money, he would see me dead."

"But did he say as much to you?" A frown appeared on Elizabeth's face, wrinkling the soft skin between her eyes.

"He did not need words. His actions sufficed."

A chill ran up Darcy's spine despite the hot sun as he recalled the previous night. He had completed his business in London by the middle of the afternoon, and made the fateful decision to start early on his journey back to his estate in Derbyshire by taking a room at an inn out of the city. Even the four-mile distance would set him clear enough of the city's busy morning streets that he would save well over an hour of time spent travelling. And thus it was that he enjoyed an early dinner with his aunt in London and commanded his coachman to carry him to The Angel in Islington, there to start their long drive at sunrise, refreshed and unharried by small routine bits of daily chaos.

But matters did not conform to plan. Instead of the quiet and restful night he had envisaged, his dreams became a nightmare.

What woke him from his slumbers at some dark hour, he would never know, but he thanked the heavens above that wake, he did. Perhaps a dog barked out in the courtyard. Perhaps it was the unexpected creak of a plank. He rose from the bed and made his way to the window to look outside, as he was wont to do.

There, instead of the quiet and abandoned stable yard he expected, he saw the shadow of a low gig with a single horse still in harness. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed two men skulking about the perimeter, looking upwards every few minutes. He could not discern their faces in the darkness of the night, but the moon picked out enough of their shapes for him to recognise one of them by his height and his particular manner of moving.

George Wickham!

This did not bode well. He had sent Wickham off only the day before with a flea in his ear and a warning never to cross his path again. "I have bought enough of your vowels, covered enough of your debts," Darcy had warned his former friend, "that I can see you sent to the poorhouse for the rest of your natural life." And Wickham had sneered like a cornered rat and had run off.

And now he was back, and it was not to make a toast to Darcy's good health at the taproom.

Darcy's carriage was in the carriage house, fine and black, gleaming and emblazoned with the family's distinguishable crest. It would take no brilliance to determine that Darcy himself was on the premises as well. What ought he to do? Risk disturbing the sleep of a great many people and confront his nemesis now? Wait until morning and summon the local magistrate?

Then the moonlight picked out something Darcy had no desire ever to see again. The figure that looked like Wickham pulled something long and metallic out of a coat pocket. Was that a pistol that he brandished? The unknown companion patted his side as well, presumably to indicate that he, too, was armed.

Darcy's heart began to race, and he wiped damp palms on the sides of his nightshirt. The window was cracked to allow in some cool air, and he pressed against it, hoping to hear something of the men's conversation, whispered though it was.

"Run him through…" he heard through the otherwise silent air, and, "no mercy." Suddenly, his mouth was as dry as his hands were wet. Were they really planning to kill him? It could not be, for they would be caught at once, and hanged before the day was out.

"...spirit him away from here," Wickham's voice sounded more clearly now. "He will come peaceably enough when we introduce him to this piece." The pistol glinted once more in the moonlight. "Then we can truss him up and use him to practise our swordplay."

There was no time to think, only to act. In a moment, Darcy threw on his clothing and stuffed his money and whatever of his belongings he could into his pockets, then slung his canteen, a present from his cousin, over a shoulder. The rest of his personal effects would be sacrificed to Wickham's greed. With a deep breath, he glanced down from his first storey window, desperate for a means of escape. The building's exterior was rough stone, with a drainpipe leading down to a low overhang that wrapped around the side of the inn. If he could use the drainpipe to get that far, he could crawl along the overhang until he achieved the High Street just a few yards away.

As soon as the dimming of the men's voices suggested they had gone to seek the inn's back door to gain entry, Darcy crammed his hat onto his head and eased himself out of the window, thankful for his customary choice of a dark coat. He reached for the drainpipe and prayed it would support his weight, then shifted until his feet found some purchase on the stones that made up the inn's exterior. His panicked imperative to flee was tempered by the necessity for caution, and when he alighted on the overhang a few minutes later, it was with rapid breath and sore hands, but no injury to himself.

He stopped, perfectly still, and lay flat on the low roof. Here, facing the courtyard, it was silent. Gathering his wits, he crawled along the overhang as it skirted the building, until he was on the side facing the main street through the town. There was more noise here. Towards the east, the first intimations of daylight began to ease the darkness on the horizon, and faint sounds of the town beginning to stir reached his ears. A voice from a room somewhere, a dog barking, the clop of a horse's hooves, and the squeak and rumble of a cart, making its early way through the town.

Darcy raised his head to see what was coming. It looked to be a muck-cart, driven by a man in rags, and pulled by a nag whose pedigree would not turn heads at Tattersalls. Still, it was hope.

The overhang reached far enough over the street that when the cart made its slow way down the road, Darcy would be able to roll from his perch into its putrid embrace. And this he did, watching it grow closer, closer, ever closer, until, with a deep breath and a quick prayer, he flung himself off the overhang.

"Oi!" The driver turned in shock as Darcy landed with a thud and a splat. The smell was alarming, but he could wash later if he remained alive.

"Hush, please, my good man. There's coin in it for you if you take me somewhere safe, and at good speed."

"What are ya?" the driver scowled. "Some toff so far in ‘is cups ‘e's falling off roofs?"

"Something like that, indeed. All good haste, if you please."

The driver sniffed once more, as if Darcy smelled worse than the contents of his cart, and pressed the nag on, mumbling about ‘damned rotten half-wit nobs' the whole time. At any other time, Darcy would have looked down his patrician nose in arrogant horror at this display of crude manners, but a saviour was a saviour, even when dressed in rags and transporting… whatever this mess was. If the man delivered him to safety, Darcy would supply him with the promised coin and not utter a word in defiance of the man's insults.

Luck was with him. The driver was heading towards a market, where Darcy was able to convince a farmer to carry him further out in the back of a hay wagon. Thus, despite the filth and damage to his fine clothing, he made it to the coaching inn where he hid behind the bales until the opportunity of the Bennet coach was given to him.

The gist of this tale he recounted to Elizabeth with an economy of words. It was bad enough to think of, and worse to tell. And now, just as he was on the brink of being able to fly home on the back of some borrowed horse, he was saddled—he grimaced at the word—with this pampered young woman who would be nothing but a hinderance.

She did not know his thoughts, however, and looked at him with a compassion he did not expect.

"You are certain he wished to kill you?" She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Quite certain. I heard those words most clearly."

"How dreadful. I suppose… I suppose, then, that I cannot blame you for wishing to make your escape. But why did you not send for help from the inn?"

"I hoped to clean myself before entering the building, and was still rather worried that I might be found. And, indeed, it was Wickham's arrival at that very moment that spurred me to my rather rash actions."

She contemplated him for a moment, and under her scrutiny he was strangely relieved that he had taken the time to wash off the worst of the filth at Mrs Peters' stables.

"What will you do now?"

"That, Madam, is the question I have been asking myself all day."