Page 38 of The Difference of a Darcy
He nodded. “And a public coach is usually one shilling per mile, divided amongst the passengers.”
“It is nearly fifty miles to Longbourn,” she said, frowning. “Too far to walk.”
“We can travel by public coach,” he assured her. “If we can reach the posting inn at Hunsford or Westerham, we might secure passage north.”
“And what shall we say if anyone asks who we are?”
He hesitated, then said, “Would you be opposed to traveling as a married couple? It would invite less scrutiny.”
She felt her cheeks flushing and strove to keep her voice calm. “Perhaps we are William and Beth Smith. We can be new friends of Mrs. Collins who are traveling, and we have been asked to call on her family.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he gave a soft laugh. “Beth Smith,” he said. “That may take some getting used to.”
She flushed, but her chin lifted. “We have been through stranger things.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “we have.”
And then neither spoke for a while—both thinking of what they had left behind, and what they might be walking toward.
∞∞∞
The road was half-frozen beneath their boots, the snow hardened overnight into a crust that crunched underfoot. Darcy walked a step behind Elizabeth at first, watching the movement of her cloak as it brushed through brittle hedgerows.
Heshouldbe thinking about their plan. About coin and carriages and destinations. About the utterly fractured reality they had woken into.
But he was really doing instead was thinking of that morning.
Of warmth. Of her soft breath against his collarbone. Of the peaceful, nearly unimaginable moment when he had opened his eyes to find Elizabeth Bennet—hisElizabeth—curled beneath his arm like something precious and unguarded.
Her curls had tickled his chin.
For the briefest instant, he had not remembered anything amiss. It had felt natural. Right. His arm around her waist. The quiet of morning. The faint scent of lavender and firewood.
Then memory had come crashing back. And shame with it.
And yet—even now, even with the weight of uncertainty pressing in on all sides—he could not regret those hours spent in her presence. To have her near, without artifice or performance, was something he had never dared imagine. And yet it had happened. And she had laughed with him, even teased him, just before sleep had claimed them both.
He cleared his throat and lengthened his stride to match hers.
They reached the posting inn—a narrow, soot-smudged building on the edge of the village—and stepped inside. The warmth hit them like a wave, along with the scent of stale ale, fried onions, and damp wool.
Darcy moved to the counter while Elizabeth waited by the door. The thin, balding man behind the desk looked up at his approach. “Happy Christmas, governor.”
“Happy Christmas,” Darcy replied automatically, his surprise evident.I had forgotten yesterday was Christmas.
“One-way to Meryton, Hertfordshire, please,” he continued, retrieving a handful of coins from his coat. “Via public coach. Two seats.”
The man scratched at his stubbled chin. “Coach to Meryton departs in half an hour. It’s the only one today, seeing as it’s Christmas. There’s a stop in Town first, o’course. All northbound goes through London this time of year.”
Darcy blinked. “London?”
“Aye. Long Acre in Covent Garden.”
Darcy stepped back, glancing toward Elizabeth. She raised a brow.
He motioned toward the door. “Excuse us a moment.”
They stepped into the cold again, and Darcy exhaled a breath that steamed in the frosty air.
