Chapter 39

Darcy might not have discovered her at all—for neither Mrs Reynolds nor Childers could tell him her whereabouts—except for Miss Bentley, who, when he had begged for information, had given him a look of supercilious distaste, unlike any he had ever seen on her usually open, friendly countenance.

“I owe her an apology,” he had hastily told her. “I have no intention of suing anyone. It is a misunderstanding.”

She had only studied him as if he were some sort of insect. Or perhaps a fungus. Finally, however, she shrugged. “She has already left on foot,” Miss Bentley said. “I offered her the use of my carriage and coachman, but she claimed she could walk to the village in the time it would take to put the horses to and rouse my man, and she would never impose upon me for anything further. The butcher’s cart man agreed to take her trunk for her and drop it at the posting inn, as she did not think it proper to ride with him alone. Or that is what she said, but really, I think, because his cart stinks of old mutton. He is gone, is he not?”

“The butcher?” he asked. But he knew as she only stared at him with cool, grey eyes that she did not speak of cart men.

It belatedly occurred to him that Miss Bentley, of everyone, would be the person most hurt by Richard’s abrupt departure.

“I do not know his whereabouts, currently.”

“I worried that he would bolt,” she said, looking sad. Then she straightened, and her face resumed its usual pleasant aspect. “You had better get a move on. You have a bolter too.”

Darcy caughtup to Elizabeth on the road to Lambton, and already a mile from Pemberley. Dismounting, he walked by her side for some minutes, unsure of what to say.

“I will not, of course, sue your kinsman,” he said at last. “Or his publisher.”

Stopping abruptly, she turned to look at him. “My what?”

“Pennywithers.” He shrugged. “Miss Bingley eavesdropped upon you and your sister, I think, and learnt of the connexion.”

She stared at him for several seconds. “Thank you.” She began walking again.

“I would not have, regardless. I was upset in the moment, and angry.”

For several moments she simply kept walking; he wondered whether she would answer him at all. “You may retain your anger,” she said at last. “Your cousin is gone. Pennywithers is the cause of pain to you and your family, however unintentionally meant. You must already suspect that it was because of me. I…I told him of Mr Fitzwilliam’s heroics.”

He supposed he had known that as soon as Miss Bingley mentioned the relationship. “Did you come to my home in order to pass along stories to him of my malevolent disposition?”

She took far too long to answer, and his heart sank to his boots.

But then she stopped walking. “I would not have you believe so ill of me as that. It was quite the opposite. He wished me to look for evidence of your goodness. I had stipulations—if I found anything to the contrary, nothing at all would be written. Pennywithers agreed, wholeheartedly. You were always safe from his pen.”

It sounded almost as if…as if Pennywithers had been hired to come, to spy upon him.

“I am to believe that, had you discovered a cave full of smuggled French brandy, the papers would learn nothing of it?” He heard the bitterness in his voice, but could not prevent it. He had fallen in love with a lie.

“You may believe what you wish,” she said, and again resumed her quick pace. “However, if you were to do any research at all into what Pennywithers does and does not write, I think you would find it is his habit to report upon the more optimistic, even praiseworthy, and sometimes prosaic amongst us. He is not na?ve or blind or stupid. There are enough who write about what is ugly or salacious, just as there are many who are willing to read it. Pennywithers has found an audience of those who prefer otherwise.”

“A saintly reporter. How…unique.”

“He is nothing of the sort. He is not above pointing out the foolishness of his fellow man. But if Lady Critchfield covers her daughter from head to toe in ridiculous heaps of white roses and sets the ton to laughing at the poor child, Pennywithers is there to point out that her golden hair, perfect skin, and sparkling eyes could not be weighed down by twice as many blooms.”

She then told him the story of Lord Howard sacking his valet in the belief that the man was Pennywithers, and the little sartorial revenge taken. To his surprise, he found himself smiling with her—everyone who knew the pompous noble would find the tale amusing.

“So, had I mistreated my servants and cheated my butcher, I might have found my waistcoats mocked?” he said, and was sorry he had, for her smiles died.

“I already told you. I came to observe, because there are those who have taken exception to the press’s treatment of you in general, and the only purpose I was given was to learn what good I could of you. I could not stay in your home, as your guest, and blatantly invade your privacy. I would never.”

He harrumphed. “Otherwise, Pennywithers might have a field day, might he not, with the cast of characters I am hosting at Pemberley? An earl beloved by a million strangers who will not speak to his own son? A young lady of great fortune and apparent virtue who wishes to paint me au naturel?” Turning to face her, he stopped in the path, forcing her to stop as well.

“Did Lord Matlock hire Pennywithers?”

“Perhaps you ought to ask the earl. Pennywithers does not discuss sources with anyone. Your uncle has no idea of me being related, however, and if he is involved, I have never heard of it.”

This was a woman who could keep many secrets—not only those of Mr Pennywithers, but her own. Matlock would never admit to doing it—although he might castigate Elizabeth for helping it be done, even if he had.

It made no sense! Darcy had no reason to trust her. Except...he did; he could not blame her for revealing to Mr Pennywithers the actions of his cousin. Richard had performed his heroics before, literally, thousands of onlookers. It had hardly been anonymous, and had Mr Pennywithers truly attended the event, he would likely have heard the very same things and drawn the same conclusions.

“Is your kinship to Pennywithers the reason you would not consider my marriage proposal?”

Not answering, she only turned away, resuming her walk.

The first raindrops began falling a few moments later. It began slowly at first, but quickly became apparent that this would be a full summer storm.

“We need to return to Pemberley,” he said, projecting his voice above the rising winds.

“Please, do,” Elizabeth replied, speaking at last. Her bonnet was already plastered to her head, its ribbons probably ruined.

“You cannot go now,” he said. “Travelling in such weather is foolish, no matter how convinced you are of its necessity. Besides, you must remain for the treasure hunt, our grand final contest. Did you not tell me once that you were determined to claim the prize? Is your independence suddenly so unimportant to you?” In one fluid motion, he picked her up and hefted her onto the back of his horse. She shrieked, grabbing for the pommel as he easily mounted behind her.

“Are you mad?” she cried.

“I have you,” he said, turning Perdition back towards Pemberley while keeping one arm about his unwilling passenger. “I will not let you fall.”

“My belongings are all in Lambton by now.”

“I will send a footman to fetch them.”

She made a sound, something between a groan and growl, while trying to better situate herself in the saddle as his horse, of its own volition, began a trot—Perdition never had been fond of getting wet.

The next minute, Elizabeth did something so wholly unexpected he nearly fell off the beast himself. Her body released all of its tension as, with a sigh, she practically melted into him, leaning back against his chest as if she had arranged for this ride in a summer squall, and planned to spend it in his arms. After a moment of pure shock, he securely tucked her against his body, sheltering her from the tempest as best he could.

It was a time out of time—she was not related to a semi-notorious scribbler and he was not a man whose consequence required a more suitable bride. She was only his Elizabeth, whose scent was delicious, the curve of her neck tantalisingly close to his mouth, her light form held close against him, satisfying some innate and demanding need.

And he wished with all his heart the return journey to Pemberley could last forever.