They rode in the coach, completely revamped and repaired from the Chesterfield bandit fiasco. The enormous carriage was plush enough normally, but Darcy had added several cushions just to be sure. Aside from gratefully accepting a small pillow to ease the mild strain to her lower back, Lizzy suffered no adverse effects.
At Derby they veered east on the same road traveled three weeks prior to Wollaton Hall. From there the route was new to Lizzy as they traveled through the southern edges of Nottingham to Grantham and then south to Peterborough, where they halted for the night. They paused frequently along the way, Darcy obsessively diligent to Lizzy's needs. She laughed at him, assuring that she did not require stretching her legs every twenty miles, but he ignored her and ordered stops anyway.
Darcy kept a running commentary as they rode, being moderately familiar with Nottinghamshire and Cambridgeshire from his University years, and did stop for a few sights along the way. They tarried for nearly two hours in Grantham, the town so teeming with historical significance and astounding architecture that they could not pass the opportunity by. They ate lunch there at the Angel and Royal Inn, a hotel over four hundred years old. The landscape, like most of the Midlands, was boundless rolling plains of green with innumerable rivers crossing the fields. Lizzy lost count of the bridges traversed and small villages passed.
They halted for the night at Peterborough. After dining they visited the Cathedral, a structure from the twelfth century that was truly beyond stupendous. The magnificent church of combined Norman and Gothic styles, although yet in a state of partial ruin from the 1643 English Civil War, was nonetheless an incredible sight, and the Darcys were tremendously moved. They attended a quiet service, Darcy especially never able to bypass a chance to worship and pray, and then viewed the burial place of Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII's lamented first wife.
The second day dawned bright, Lizzy now fully reveling in the anticipation of journey's end. Darcy had ruminated over the route to take. Not knowing the region of Norfolk, he had asked the Vernors as well as several others of his friends for advice on the roads and coastal views. In the end, as long as Lizzy was physically managing the extended carriage ride, he decided to swerve to the north from Swaffham through Fakenham onto Cromer, where Lizzy would catch her first glimpse of the sea.
The carriage windows were open as they rode; the air noticeably cooler the closer they drew to the water. Darcy smiled indulgently at his wife's childlike enthusiasm, quite acclimated with the way she sat on the edge of the seat with her face almost out the window. It was endearing, this excitement she displayed, and he could not imagine even their children being more juvenile. He altered between reading while massaging her back and answering her numerous questions.
“Is it true that you can smell the salty air long before you see the ocean?”
Darcy laid his book aside, again, looking up at his wife's inquiring visage. “Yes, it is true. How far away depends on the breezes of the moment and obstructing landscapes. Also some areas have a stronger scent dependent on fishing activities or the roughness of the surf. Yarmouth is a major herring port, so the odor is reportedly strong. That is one reason the Vernors recommended Caister.”
A while later, “Have you ever found a shell with the sound of the ocean waves inside?”
Darcy smiled. “Georgiana did. When she was four we traveled to Devon to visit my aunt and uncle. We spent a week at Sidmouth. My father thought the air and sea water might help my mother.” He paused in mournful remembrance, Lizzy grasping his hand and caressing. He smiled and continued, “Georgie loved the ocean. It was her first time on the sand, and I remember she threw an absolutely horrid tantrum each time Father carried her away. It was she who discovered a perfectly intact conch, a huge thing with swirls of pink and turquoise. I am certain she yet has it in her possession. Anyway, you can hear the waves very well. We shall stay on the alert, beloved, eyes keenly searching, and perhaps you shall be so fortunate.”
Another time, “Will we see seals and sea lions, do you think?” Darcy jumped slightly, thinking Lizzy asleep.
He glanced to her face where she lay on his lap, noting her eyes still closed. Chuckling and brushing strands of hair from her eyes, he answered, “I am positive we will. Hopefully we shall be so fortunate as to glimpse whales or dolphins upon the waves. There will be a vast array of wildlife unfamiliar, dearest. I confess that zoology and marine biology were not subjects I studied, so my working knowledge is minimal. I brought two books I found in the library as well as another on coastal plants. I thought we could learn together.”
Lizzy had turned and was looking up at her husband with a smile. “Never pass up an opportunity to educate, William? Even on holiday?”
“Life is about growing wiser, Elizabeth. A true student should never bypass a ready chance to learn.” He spoke with a tone of pomposity, Lizzy laughing aloud. Darcy ignored her, returning to his book with pursed lips.
Lizzy continued to giggle, fingering the gold etched title on the book binding. “De l'esprit des lois by Montesquieu,” she read in butchered French. “Educational, Mr. Darcy? Or a French romance disguised as didactic? Of course, you could tell me anything and I would know no difference.”
“You know very well who Montesquieu is, Mrs. Darcy. However, the concept of enlightenment engendered via a French romance should not be unwelcomed by you.” He maintained his pose of haughtiness, but with shining eyes staring raptly at the pages.
Lizzy reached up to play along the edges of Darcy's cravat and lowered her voice. “Read to me in French, Fitzwilliam. That will be highly welcomed by me.”
Darcy glanced at his wife, color rising to his cheeks. Clearing his throat, he began to audibly recite the text. Lizzy bit her lip, tugging on the dangling fabric of his neckcloth, truly affected by his resonant articulation. Darcy's reverberant voice thrilled Lizzy in any language, but there was a particular inflection he adopted when quoting literature that was especially lush and mesmerizing. She loved to tease him about his flair for drama, but the truth was that Darcy could have easily been successful as an actor, if he managed to overcome the whole being the center of attention facet! She had attended numerous plays in her life, especially most recently while in London, and knew that voice modulation and command coupled with theatrics was far more important than one's physical appearance onstage—not that her husband did not fulfill that feature adequately as well.
She listened, pulse racing, and wished fervently that they were not currently in a traveling carriage with open windows. Spellbound, she did not realize his cravat was undone until he faltered briefly when her fingers brushed over the hollow in his throat. He resumed, eyes riveted to the page with deliberate intensity, even when she rose and replaced her fingertips with her lips. Lizzy felt the vibrations created as he spoke, kissing tenderly over his neck and upper chest as buttons came undone.
Darcy's one hand held the book in a white-knuckled grip, the other about her waist, voice growing fainter with each word uttered until failing completely. “Continue, sir,” she whispered into his ear, Darcy attempting to comply with limited success.