Page 22 of A Practical Man
What wails would I have by this time endured had I been sitting next to Miss Bingley! My God. Nothing on earth could now induce me to be her husband.
“Sir?” Carsten said.
Had I grunted aloud?“Oh. I was only thinking we should finish our meal before Trusty Snail decides he has gone far enough. Shall we go?”
Oddly enough, had we had a coach-and-four we could not have made our destination any sooner. Our cart was both small and light. We could choose whatever line we wished, passing lightly over rough patches and squeezing through narrow spots between puddles. We did not sink in places where a heavier carriage would likely bog down. That said, I realised that Bromley was too far for even our hearty little mule to carry us. We would have to make do with the first likely place to hire a coach that we could reasonably reach.
With some difficulty, I chosenotto arrive cringing with humiliation in Farthingale, the hamlet we eventually encountered. This had required a spell of hard remonstration with myself, for it was surprisingly lowering to pass through even a small town as a peasant. But recollecting that Miss Elizabeth was also sitting next to me and that my bearing must reflect upon her dignity, I assumed the posture of a man as proudly unconcerned on that lowly bench as I would had I been riding Windsor in Green Park.
Not wanting to contend with a press of persons, I pulled to a stop next to an outbuilding near a surprisingly busy postinghouse. Perhaps, more truthfully, my pride could withstand only so much abuse, for we would have been snubbed—painfully so—had I arrived in a farm cart with the air of someone entitled to speedy service.
“Allow me, Mr Darcy,” Carsten said, stepping down and making his way towards the door.
“I have had no occasion to know anything about a gentleman’s gentleman,” Miss Elizabeth remarked as she watched him disappear inside. “But I own I am surprised at how…well, is there anything Mr Carsten cannot do, sir?”
“If there is, I have yet to learn of it. In fairness, I have never known any valet of his capacity. He is a gentleman’s son, you see, and has an excellent education in his favour, yet he has also suffered and knows how to work.”
“Oh? I am sorry to hear it.”
“His father and grandfather before him were unwise with their fortunes. Carsten once told me that he does not love leisure, since it did nothing for his family other than ruin them.”
“There is that, yes,” she said quietly. “I—well, I should say no more.”
“Only…you have begun and we are sitting in this miserable cart after a harrowing few days. I believe you should say whatever crosses your mind, Miss Elizabeth, for surely, there is no better place or time than this.”
“Well, I often wish my father had been wiser. A little industry would have served us well.”
“Your father strikes me as a man who would have prospered as an academic. Not every man is suited to land stewardship.”
“Your reputation suggests youaresuited to your place in life, sir. By all reports, your estate thrives. With regard to Longbourn,” she shrugged, “it would perhaps have grieved my father more had he been attached to a prosperous estate with no sons to take it over.”
“I myself do not love an entail. In the case of my holdings, my sister will inherit everything if I leave behind no other dependents, which is as it should be.”
“She is fortunate. And even if your estate had been willed to another or gone to your widow, she would not be poor in any case.” She turned to smile at me a little wistfully. “Oh dear. I did not mean to sound so pitiful, sir. Do you know? Mrs Hamilton has opened my eyes a little to what a life of genteel poverty could be. Should I have a cottage at the edge of Meryton and light a candle every night?”
“If that is your plan, you had better learn to cook half so well as Mrs Hamilton.”
“True. Was that not the best stew you have ever tasted?”
“Perhaps it was only because I was so cold and famished.”
“No, let us think otherwise, Mr Darcy. Let us know in our hearts that we have tasted the best meal we ever will in the whole of our lives.”
“Are you always so agreeable?”
“Hardly. I can be sharp, as you know perhaps too well.” A hard silence fell between us before she looked up tentatively at me.
“Was it indeed Mr Wickham to whom Colonel Fitzwilliam referred?”
“It was.”
“I shall ask you no more about him, then. Might I apologise?—”
“You should not. I have far more to regret in this instance than you, and besides, we would then find ourselves begging pardon to one another over such a man.” I took a large, cleansing breath. “But come. Where is your sunny view of the world? Let me hear your raptures about this scene.”
“Do you mean the blacksmith shop across the way, the rubbish in the gutters, the bellowing of cattle driven to market? I am enchanted, sir.”
A feeling had crept up on me throughout this conversation. Was it sadness? Yes, but more than that, it was a most tender vein of grief. This miserable journey had been my farewell to her, a gift, a blessing in its prolongation, its intimacy, and its shared trepidations. There was not one moment of it that had not left a lasting impression in my mind. We had indeed tasted the best food of our lives, and I—I had lived more fully in two days than many men live in one life.
