Page 14 of Till Death Us Do Part
Shereallydid not like it when the man stepped up and strode across the room to stand in front of her. He moved with alacrity and a certain kind of greasy smoothness that looked—she could not come up with the word—butviolentordangerouswere close. The pace was fast enough that one of the rough looking farmhands looked at him carefully, and slid his chair back a few inches, as if looking to protect a damsel in distress (or just to liven up the evening with the entertainment of a fight).
Her heart sank to her knees, when he said, “Miss Bennet? Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I presume. You will return with me to Longbourn. Your father is most displeased.”
Elizabeth looked around wildly, but the man calmly continued in a whisper that nobody else could hear.
“I know what you are thinking. Do not mistake this as my first job of this sort. Do not think to run. You will just end upmuddy, wet, bedraggled, andstillreturning to your father. Do not think of asking any of these men for help. I have letters for the magistrate, and he will not lift a finger to stop me. Do not think to deny your identity, unless you can convince me you are another young lady, foolishly travelling alone, who exactly matches my detailed description of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who by sheer coincidence, is wearing that lady’s best walking dress, complete with mismatched repairs under the elbows due to her sister Lydia’s foolishness.”
Stunned, Elizabeth could think of no response, while the man kept staring at her with a look that a cat used when toying with a mouse.
He continued with a quirk of his eyebrow. “I have been doing this a long time, young lady. It makes little difference to me if I am chasing a recalcitrant runaway, a thief, or a murderer—all of which have been my clients at one time or another. You may go quietly or trussed up like a Christmas goose. You choose.”
Elizabeth thought about making a fuss, but there was no chance at all that she could outrun the man, and if he had tracked her this far, he could no doubt track her again. It seemed her luck had run out before it even began, or at least her good luck. As to bad luck, she had a surfeit.
“Do you even know what you are doing, or why?”
“No, ma’am, nor do I care. Your father contracted my services, and the magistrate, Sir William Lucas verified that you are underage. You would be surprised how many times this happens, though nine times out of ten it is an elopement in progress—or more often, what the womanthinksis an elopement, while the man thinks it is a good way to have some fun for a week or two.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Can I at least have dinner?”
The man turned back towards the table and gestured to a chair.
“Of course! I am not a beast. Your disagreement with your father is not my business. My job is simply to deliver you in one piece, which duty I shall perform. Do me the honour of assuming any escape plan you dream up with your limited experience will do little more than delay the inevitable and cause me to make your journey considerably less comfortable.”
He held the chair like a gentleman, so Elizabeth sat down in defeat while the man signalled to the maid for dinner.
“If you are to be my jailor, might I at least have your name?”
“Daniel Baker, ma’am.”
The serving maid brought a bowl of beef stew and bread, which was neither terrible nor wonderful. In Elizabeth’s admittedly limited experience, it was just the sort of food one got while travelling.
Elizabeth had never given the food at inns any thought before, but during her brief taste of freedom she had enjoyed the leisure to think about such things. They needed food that was easy enough to prepare to not require a dedicated cook. They did not know how many guests they might have, or the order or timing for their arrival. That meant the food had to be simple, could keep for hours or reheat, and supplemented over time. Stews met all the criteria, so it showed up on the menu often.
She imagined if she ever got stuck travelling as Mrs Darcy (which seemed increasingly likely), she would get something better, and trying to imagine Mr Darcy eating in a common room with rough labourers made her giggle, which got a glance from Mr Baker, but nothing more.
The stew was good enough, so she tucked in and enjoyed it while trying to work out a way to escape, but it was easy to see that a man who tracked murderers would have no difficulty with a runaway lady. Her fate was sealed, at least for the moment.
She curiously asked, “Where did I go wrong, Mr Baker? You seemed to have no trouble tracking me. How did you do it—if you do not mind telling me. Is it a trade secret?”
Mr Baker did not consider himself good or bad. He was just a man who worked a trade supplying a service. It was no more nor less honourable than becoming a soldier to kill people for wearing the wrong colour coat, a mine owner who could work his miners to death, or a gentleman who held the fates of hundreds in his hands. It was just a trade.
It made little difference whether his clients wanted to return to the fold or not. Deciding guilt or innocence, right or wrong, were well above his station. He simply did what he was paid to do and reckoned that those with the authority to call someone in were taking care of the right and wrong.
His experience suggested returning a runaway or eloping woman was more likely to result in their life being saved than ruined, since most had no idea what the world was like. It also suggested it was more pleasant to haul back someone in a good mood (or as good as it was likely to be) than a hissing, spitting, hellcat, though he had seen his share of those as well.
“You might have pulled it off, if not for two events. The first is that your eldest sister,” then he paused to glance at his notes, Jane, tall blonde, woke up at five and tried to ‘talk some sense into you,’ whatever that means. She found your door locked, but something made her suspicious, so she got a copy of the key, and discovered your absence. That gave your father several hours head start that you were not expecting. She at least had sense enough to do it quietly.”
Elizabeth sighed, wondering what had been going through her formerly favourite sister’s head, aside from raging selfishness. Jane was the master of misdirection and rationalisation. She wanted to believe the world was as she thought it was, and she could twist her mind into the mostobscure knots to refuse admitting it was not as she believed. She would have convinced herself that she was doing it for Elizabeth’s safety within a quarter hour and would have led the hounds herself given the opportunity.
Elizabeth frowned, but realised it was just bad luck, as the night before or after, Jane might have slept through the night, and she may well have pulled it off.
Mr Baker watched her chewing on the gristle of betrayal, or whatever emotion she might be feeling towards her sister. He would not give good odds on the tall blonde getting by unscathed after her sister’s return. In his idle moments, he reflected that anything from a verbal setdown to an impromptu haircut could well be in her future.
To give the young lady a minute to reflect on the news, he took a couple more bites of stew and bread, then drank a bit more wine.
“That alone would not have done you in. Your father sent discreet men to all the routes into London, since that was your most likely destination. There are a few bottlenecks on the routes, and he reckoned that you would turn up instantly. Might have worked too, if you were stupid enough to go there, even if you used a roundabout route. It’s nearly impossible to get into London by coach without being easily traced.”
“I went through a phase a few years ago of reading novels and working out elaborate escape plans. London seemed more like a trap than a haven.”
