Page 4 of Pemberley's Imposter
“No, you will not. I want you out of my sight. You too, Mrs Darcy. You have already wasted three of your allotted fifteen minutes listening to this cuckolder before me.”
Elizabeth flinched at the harsh words.
“Very well, have it your way, Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam snarled. He was losing the battle, if not the war. Fitzwilliam Darcy was as immoveable in his state of fury as he had been in his pursuit of a wife. “You will regret it, though. Remember, Cousin, I am still Georgiana’s guardian. Nothing will ever tempt me to sign her settlement papers to anyone not of my choosing. I am the son of an earl, and my signature matters more than yours. Prepare to leave, Elizabeth. I shall take you to Matlock. I am sure there must be a vacant cottage somewhere on the estate where you can stay.”
Elizabeth gasped and ran out of the library, up the stairs, and along the passage to her chamber. She paid scant attention to the maids and footmen that had gathered outside the library. Some wore knowing smirks on their faces while others looked genuinely stunned. One of the younger maids was openly sobbing, but Elizabeth could not afford to slow down to offer her comfort. She believed the peril of her current circumstances far outweighed the needs of the distraught maid.
She scudded into her dressing room and threw a collection of items into a bag whilst wrenching off her robe. She left the nightgown on as it was just a shift and would do as well as any other. She put on as many layers as possible with the necessary speed. She pulled at her wedding ring, but the offending objectwould not budge. The rest of her jewellery lay untouched on her dressing table. She grabbed the pouch of coins she had brought with her from Longbourn. The meagre contents was her own, hard-earned and fastidiously saved. The clothes she wore and the items she had packed were all articles she had owned when her name was still Elizabeth Bennet.
Fortunately, her old winter coat was tucked into the back of her dressing room. Discarded, well-worn, and of a dreary brown colour, it had served her well for years—and Jane before her. It would have to do because her new, red, fur-lined coat was in the anteroom by the main entrance. Not that she wanted to take anything her husband had bought her. Well, almost nothing. She did pack biscuits and a bottle of wine from the adjoining sitting room.
A chapter of her life had painfully and abruptly closed, and she wanted to take no tokens into the next.
With no time to lose, Elizabeth slunk stealthily out of the servants’ door, descended the darkened empty stairs, and hastened out of a side entrance. It led to the woodland on the western side of the estate, conveniently situated on the opposite side to the main entrance. It was a hazardous choice, but there was no way in hell she was going to follow the colonel anywhere.
A small part of her wanted to wait until the morrow, in case Fitzwilliam should change his mind, but it was a futile aspiration with no basis in reality. She would be better to leave such desires behind rather than carry them hidden beneath her breast.
The west-facing entrance led directly to the river Derwent, and she chose a path well-trodden by the servants. It was not far, and she could follow the river to Rowsley, where it was to be hoped she could catch the mail coach. She did not dare venture anywhere near Lambton or Kympton in case the colonelsearched for her. She was of no mind to oblige his request to join him at Matlock.
Elizabeth shuddered at the unpalatable thought and trudged on through the heavy snow whilst concocting a plausible story. If she presented herself to the coachman as Mrs Darcy, he might refuse to sell her a ticket, or worse, send for her husband.
She would not be lying; she was Mrs Darcy no longer, but neither was she Elizabeth Bennet. She ran trembling fingers through her hair and tied it into a simple knot at the back of her head. Her garments were old and mended, making it plausible they were hand-me-downs from the mistress of a large house. She would present herself as a lady’s maid, on her way to a new position in the south.
The river weaved its way through the valley, seemingly never-ending. Elizabeth was bone tired and half asleep on her feet when she finally arrived in Rowsley. Dawn had not yet broken, but she supposed it could not be long until the sun graced the horizon. The seven miles between Pemberley and Rowsley had felt much longer with the heavy snow slowing her progress and draining her strength.
There was no inn in the village, but there was a post office, which she needed to find. There were few people out and about; just a handful of servants bustled around, hard at work. Elizabeth approached a young girl to ask when the stagecoach was expected. The news was not good; the coach was not due to arrive until the next morning. Elizabeth’s slumped shoulders and crestfallen expression must have tugged on the maid’s heartstrings.
“Have you no place to go, miss?”
Elizabeth shook her head, not correcting the maid’s perception of her as unmarried. Her obstinate wedding ring was safely concealed by her gloves.
“I suppose I must go back and wait for another day.”
“Is it far?” the maid asked.
“Not too many miles downstream. I followed the river hither.” Elizabeth thought it might be wise to not divulge the real direction she had come from. “I have walked all night to catch the coach, which I was told left early this morning.”
The lies tasted foul in her mouth. Had she not, a mere seven hours ago, sworn to her honesty? Better not let her thoughts venture downthatparticular path. Tears welled in her eyes, whether she wanted them to or not.
“I shall ask Mrs Stanley if you can sleep with me tonight. It might cost you though. She usually takes two shillings and nine pennies for a week, but it’s better than walking for miles in the heavy snow or staying out in the cold.”
“Who is Mrs Stanley?”
“She’s an old widow who lives alone at the outskirts of the village. I’m her maid-of-all-work.”
“Thank you. I can pay or help with whatever I can.”
The girls walked together to the edge of the village, where Mrs Stanley lived in a quaint cottage. The lady did not mind the company. She heartily welcomed another person willing to listen to her stories, and she was even happier with the few pennies Elizabeth offered to pay for the room and board.
Chapter 2 The Whims of Fate
Longbourn, December 22nd, 1812
Elizabeth stood outside Longbourn, looking at the home she had loved for two decades. The house appeared to have shrunk since she left, even though it was less than two months ago. The home where she had spent her childhood had not provided her with the comfort she expected when she espied it through the barren trees. Instead, she had felt a pang in her chest robbing her of her breath.It is the bitter reality of it.To return home as the discarded wife.
Elizabeth should be glad Mr Darcy had not offered her up for auction with a halter round her neck. It was not unheard of for a husband to sell his wife when the marriage was particularly unsatisfactory. There were even rumours circulating about local poor law commissioners forcing husbands to sell their wives to save pennies rather than having to maintain them at the workhouses…
Longbourn looked deserted in the faint evening light. It lay quiet, surrounded by the frost-covered garden. No lights were lit in the front parlour, and no curious faces appeared in any of the windows. Perhaps not so strange considering she had arrived on foot and not in a rattling carriage.
