With spirits fortified by his spontaneous visit to Longbourn, the initial leg of his journey was, indeed, close to fantastic. Unbeknownst to his beautiful and so very sensuous fiancée, London was not his immediate destination. Rather, upon reaching the busy north-south thoroughfare, the driver turned north. Just under five hours later, the coach pulled into the wide, circular drive fronting the two-story brick entrance of the White Stag Inn.
In contemplating where to spend their wedding night, Darcy had immediately crossed off staying at Netherfield or Darcy House in London. He had learned to tolerate Elizabeth’s family, and had even grown quite fond of Mr. Bennet and, to a lesser degree, the vivacious Kitty. Nevertheless, he needed to be alone with Elizabeth, far away from Bennets and Bingleys, and this meant traveling some distance after the wedding reception.
Going south to London—while closer and therefore shortening the time between the vows and finally, blissfully, making her his wife physically—would put them farther away from Pemberley. His greatest wish was to be with Elizabeth in the place he loved most in all the world. Therefore, they had to travel north.
Located past Bedford, the White Stag Inn was one of four coaching inns Darcy patronized on his many jaunts between Pemberley and Darcy House. Depending upon road conditions, weather, the fatigue of the horses, and other various concerns, which inn he chose for the two-day journey differed, but the White Stag was his favorite. The distance from Longbourn was farther than he preferred for a wedding-day journey, but it would decrease the final leg to Pemberley, which would still require nearly all of one day to reach.
The inn nestled in a shallow, verdant valley with a pristine river and modest-sized lake. The small village was nothing to brag about, but it was well kept and boasted enough shops to entertain, if they wished. All in all, the locale was perfect for a romantic honeymoon, and the owners of the inn, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, were delightful people whom he trusted to make their stay special.
He had corresponded with the Hamiltons shortly after his engagement, and he trusted them to provide all he had requested, and probably more. Visiting in person was not truly necessary, but he would rest easier after speaking with the Hamiltons. Call it evidence of his need to be in control, but Darcy was not taking any chances on their initial days, and nights, as Mr. and Mrs. Darcy being less than perfection.
Additionally, he had only boarded in the smaller rooms for single men and eaten hasty meals in the pub. Peripherally, he was aware that the White Stag’s accommodations included private dining and luxury suites, hence his choice to stay there with Elizabeth, but he had never viewed them or studied the inn with a wife in mind. One night was all he needed to be satisfied on all counts. The following morning, he departed the White Stag Inn for London.
Bypassing the side road to Longbourn was an unhappy reminder of the long, lonely week stretching ahead. Adding to his gloominess was his empty townhouse.
Lord and Lady Matlock had rescued a restless, bored Georgiana, and the trio was visiting friends in nearby Essex. Darcy was thankful his sister wasn’t sitting about the house with only Mrs. Annesley for company while waiting impatiently for the wedding. The Matlocks’ last-minute invitation was great for his sister, even if it meant a too-quiet house for him.
That left his cousin Richard as the only person he cared to socialize with. Unfortunately, aside from one dinner, the colonel was snowed under with work. “I asked for your wedding off, and apparently the generals had a confab to devise ways to make me pay,” he exasperatedly related to Darcy on their lone evening of bachelor debauchery—Richard’s phrase. Undoubtedly a massive exaggeration, but regardless, Colonel Fitzwilliam was unavailable.
There was nothing to do but read, or attempt to read, and write Elizabeth letters of increasing romanticism. “You are pathetic,” he frequently muttered, and kept on writing.
Elizabeth wrote to him as well, but only twice. The small number of letters did not bother him unduly, as she had friends and family to occupy her time. The sensations of unease he experienced were triggered by an indefinable, underlying tone to the sentences and paragraphs.
Did he imagine a lack of cheeriness? Was her use of endearments and romantic phrases minimal merely upon comparison with his flowery prose? Were the two, one-page letters an indication of trouble between them, or merely that she was busy? While he did not want her to pine for him, it was a blow to his ego to imagine her blithely carrying on with life to the point of having no time to write him.
It is only a week, for goodness sake, he told himself, but that fact not soothe his mind.
He gained scant clarification re-reading the other letters she had written to him. There were only three, for one thing—not a significant quantity to claim knowledge of her letter-writing style. Furthermore, two of them had been written during his first trip to London, when they had been engaged barely over a week. The difference between those two and the one received when he stayed in Town after the shopping expedition were considerable, as one would expect. By then, they were far more relaxed and familiar with each other. Elizabeth’s playfulness and love had shone through in the third letter, which, he noted, was three pages, front and back.
With insufficient evidence and unable to resolve the matter anyway—if there even was a “matter” to resolve—his only choice was to hurry through his business and get back to Hertfordshire.
The bulk of his week entailed extended hours in one of the luxury conference rooms inside the elegant building housing the law offices of Daniels & Sons. The original Mr. Daniels of the business’s name had established his practice three generations past with a hope of sons in the plural—a hope as he only had one child at the time, a boy not yet two years of age. Darcy’s grandfather, James Darcy I, had been one of young Mr. Daniels’s first clients, the two men having met as youths in boarding school. A second Daniels son did come along, and amazingly, both chose law as their profession. Over time, more clients and more Daniels were added to the firm until the present day, with over a dozen doors bearing a Daniels nameplate.
Mr. Andrew Daniels, the grandson of the founder and current leader at the firm, had two sons working alongside him—Joshua and Jeremiah—a third in law school, and two or three others yet at home (Darcy had lost count). This boded well for the future success of the firm, as well as a continuing, solid relationship with the Darcys of Pemberley.
What this historical tidbit meant was that the solicitors at Daniels & Sons were intimately involved with all of Mr. Darcy’s business and personal legal affairs. It was Mr. Andrew Daniels himself who oversaw the bulk of Darcy’s business, although Mr. Joshua Daniels, the eldest son, had assumed a portion of the duties and was present at most of the meetings. Darcy trusted them both explicitly. Nevertheless, he made it a rule never to sign anything without reading it thoroughly and having every question answered to his satisfaction. Obviously, this took time, thus contract reading being the main time consumer of his days in London.
In between, when desperate for physical exertions, he twice visited Angelo’s Fencing Academy. He also squeezed in more shopping. Now that he had bravely ventured into the realm of purchasing feminine items, and triumphed beyond his initial expectations, it was akin to a fever racing through his veins. The plethora of fabulous objects available to gift to his adorable Elizabeth begged to be bought.
By the end of the week, another shipment of boxes containing various trinkets with personal notes attached was on its way to Pemberley. By express courier, he sent the comprehensive pages of instructions for Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Taylor, this to be his last correspondence with the Pemberley staff before the wedding.
His shopping wasn’t exclusively for Elizabeth, however. Mr. Meyer had completed Darcy’s wedding suit, delivering it to Darcy House while Darcy was in Hertfordshire. The suit was secure in a garment bag and hanging in his dressing room, so his first order of business was trying it on.
While assisting, his valet, Samuel Oliver, calmly informed him of his plan to freshen
Mr. Darcy’s supply of cologne, as well as acquire new shaving equipment, toiletries, and various necessary accessories, such as stockings and handkerchiefs, while in Town. Rather shocked it hadn’t occurred to him sooner, Darcy figured it was wise to do a bit of resupplying for himself. A new banyan and slippers, nightshirts he frankly hoped not to wear, a brand-new, fashionable top hat for the wedding, two pairs of shoes and new Wellingtons, and random articles of clothing for no reason other than they appealed to him. Honestly, aside from the robe and slippers, he needed nothing. Tramping through stores was a way to kill time before returning to the empty townhouse.
By late on Thursday, after a final meeting with Mr. Kennedy, the tradesman at the Royal Exchange who had arranged all the redecorating needs for the private suite of the Master and Mistress of Pemberley, Darcy was beginning to think he could wrap up his business early on Saturday. If so, then he would make it back to Hertfordshire in time to join Elizabeth for the ball at Lucas Lodge. A hastily dispatched missive to Elizabeth ensured of his return on Sunday, at the very latest—maybe on Saturday.
He should have known better than to make such a promise. As the Scots poet Robert Burns wisely wrote, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men…[often go awry].”
* * *
The first delay was a riot at the London docks late Friday night. As riots can go, it wasn’t too extreme. The ruffians torched the cargo of one ship, and in the ensuing violence, three men died with several wounded before the enforcers paid by a coalition of ship owners managed to get it under control. The ships Darcy partially owned were not directly involved, but near enough to the riot that a handful of dockworkers employed by the partnership became accidentally drawn into the fray. Thankfully, none of them were amongst the dead or wounded, but as Darcy happened to be the only owner currently in London, he felt it was his duty to check into the matter.
That task ate up the whole morning and into the noon hour, making him tardy for his final appointment with Mr. Daniels. Rushing up the stairs, Darcy barged through the door to the meeting room only to discover it empty. Momentarily baffled, Mr. Daniels soon appeared and informed Darcy that the gentleman they were scheduled to meet had also been waylaid. A series of rather comedic errors involving a horse throwing a shoe, a sick child, a dog bite, and something about the document transcriber’s hand getting smashed by a commode lid. Darcy had a difficult time finding the humor in being hindered yet again, although the commode lid imagery did make him smile.
The result being, there was no way to wrap up his day and reasonably travel to Hertfordshire in time to prepare for the Lucases autumn ball. An assembly which, frankly, if not for the joy of dancing with Elizabeth, he had little interest in attending—no offense to Sir William, whom he respected and rather liked. Balls simply weren’t on the top of his list of entertainments.
Settling in for another boring night of missing Elizabeth, he prayed for sweet dreams to tide him over until the morrow. With orders to have his horse ready and waiting by the front door at nine o’clock sharp, he retired for the night, confident that with his swift stallion, he would be holding Elizabeth in his arms by noon at the very latest. Alas, he was overconfident again as it turned out.
“It is your choice, of course, Mr. Darcy. However, with those ominous clouds, I do strongly encourage you to take the carriage, if you must leave at all.” Darcy stood at the window, glaring at the black-cloud-covered sky and pretended to ignore Mrs. Smyth’s advice.
Damn it all to hell.
The housekeeper was correct, and he knew it. She hadn’t needed to say it, in fact, as he had recognized instantly upon rising that venturing out on horseback was perilous. Parsifal was as surefooted as a horse could be, but slick roads and pouring rain, not to mention the inevitable lightning and wind, were unsafe even for him. Additionally, while Darcy was strong as an ox and not susceptible to illness, with his wedding four days away, he wasn’t so foolish as to risk a cold or injury.
“Have the coach prepared,” he commanded, a bit ashamed at the rude tone, but he wanted to be clear there would be no further arguing over the decision. He was leaving that morning and would be in Hertfordshire that night if he had to crawl through the mud to get there!
Two hours later, the coach had barely passed the outskirts of London. If it had been a clear day, as it most definitely was not, the outline of the city buildings would still have been visible on the horizon.
“Sir?” Mr. Anders’s yell from his driver’s perch was a mumble to Darcy inside the carriage. Ears ringing from the sizzling cracks of lightning and simultaneous booms of thunder shaking the coach, he had to guess at half of the coachman’s words. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out the message.
“We must stop and wait for this to pass or we will be crawling through the mud!”
Thankfully, neither the horses nor the wheels became mired in the thickening sludge as they slogged along for another thirty minutes until reaching the next coaching inn and pub. The rustic establishment was not the type of place Darcy typically chose as a resting point, but it was sturdily built, and the tables and floor were moderately clean, as were the serving wenches and barkeep. That was encouraging.
The foursome made up by Mr. Darcy; his valet; the coachman, Mr. Anders; and the under coachman, Mr. Gowan was not the only traveling party seeking refuge from the downpour, although there were not as many as one would think. Presumably, most people were sensible and had not been stupid enough to attempt traveling in the first place. Therefore, the rooms were crowded, but not to full capacity, so they found a table to themselves near a back window and not too far from one of the four fireplaces. Surprisingly, the food was decent and the ale passable. As the storm showed no immediate signs of diminishing its fury, they settled in for a long wait.
Darcy chafed at the setback and, in his annoyance, drank the first two mugs of ale faster than he should have. It seemed to be a common mistake, judging by the quickly mellowing throng. After a while, the many stranded travelers and those locals who had nothing better to do during the deluge than share a pint or two with friends grew increasingly animated. Laughter was rampant, and probably due to the effects of alcohol as much as the compulsion to drown out the relentless pounding of the storm, one man pulled out a battered guitar and another man a fiddle. In short order, a spontaneously formed minstrel group was performing to rousing cheers and singing.
There was no chance of the eclectic troupe of musicians being hired to dazzle at Vauxhall Gardens, but they served a purpose. After the third ale, or maybe it was the fourth, Darcy wasn’t nearly as distressed over being stuck far from his destination. Nevertheless, as soon as the lightning stopped and the rain slowed to a steady drizzle, he was ready to attempt the journey.
Mr. Anders, ever the consummate professional, had nursed one mug of ale, as had Mr. Gowan, so the drivers were in complete control of their faculties. Mr. Oliver had also kept his composure, Darcy suspecting he only pretended to drink his ale, so between the three servants, Mr. Darcy’s dignity was maintained as they exited the pub—or rather, at least he didn’t fall face-first into the mud and he required only moderate assistance climbing into the carriage.
On the road again, the coach inched determinedly onward, thanks to Mr. Anders’s excellent skill and the rested animals. Twice, they ground to a halt, one wheel sinking into the muck, requiring the efforts of all four men to free it from the trap. Two other times, the impediment was debris from downed trees obstructing the road, again necessitating concerted effort and brawn to remove the blockages. Between the slow pace and frequent stops, the carriage pulled into the Netherfield driveway well past dark—not that it was discernibly darker than it had been all day.
Exhausted, filthy, starving, and fuzzy headed from the ale, Darcy didn’t give serious thought to visiting Elizabeth. In truth, it took his last ounces of strength to climb the stairs, bathe, choke down enough cold food to take the edge off his hunger pangs, and fall into the bed. He slept so deeply that if he did dream
of his beloved, he had no memory of it.
* * *
Ah! To rise in the morning after a blissfully restorative sleep and have your waking thought be, I shall be embracing and kissing my sweet Elizabeth in just a few hours.
Darcy shot out of bed and dashed to the window. Yanking the drapes aside, the blast of brilliant sunlight blinded him, but he still released a whoop of joy. Ringing for the maid and ordering coffee, he was at his desk dipping his quill into the inkwell before the tray of piping hot beverage arrived.
My Dearest, Precious Elizabeth,
Please accept my humble apologies for greeting you, my beloved, in this impersonal manner. Rest assured that as soon as humanly possible, I shall greet you with my arms tightly about your warm body and my lips resting upon your sweet lips, as they were created to do. My most fervent prayer is to allay any fears you may have regarding my well-being. I am safe at Netherfield, having arrived long after dark. Bingley was nearly required to physically restrain me from rushing back out the door and into your arms. Reason prevailed, but only when Bingley pointed out that, as you might have been long abed, rushing into your arms would raise a few eyebrows! Frankly, his words fleetingly had the opposite effect, as the vision of you abed was more than slightly appealing. Nonetheless, as you have now surmised, I remained at Netherfield.
I impatiently await your presence to assuage my aching heart. I wished to ride to Longbourn at first light, but, again, Bingley’s rationale prevailed. As it is, this missive is undoubtedly disturbing your breakfast, but I can wait no longer! The carriage is for you, dearest, and Jane as well, naturally. If your desire to see me is even half as profound as my need to see you, then you are already racing to the door! Hurry, my love.
Yours forever, Fitzwilliam Darcy
She would laugh aloud at his exaggerations, he knew, not that a good portion of his note wasn’t precise. He had yet to speak with Bingley that morning—a glance at the clock showed the minute hand almost to half six—but could rightly guess the younger man would balk at descending upon Longbourn or sending the carriage at this impolite hour. Darcy suspected Elizabeth would not protest if he showed up on her doorstep no matter the time. Her father and mother, on the other hand, would be slightly put out.