Chapter 31
Margaret was content that Mrs Calloway’s alterations had been successful.
‘I can only hope that the change is not so noticeable as to stand out from the others or to cause offence to Charlotte,’ she mused as they walked.
‘I dare say that if your dress is the centre of attention at the wedding then a great many other things must already have gone wrong,’ said Lucy.
‘Have you ever given thought to what your wedding might be like?’
‘As I have said, I am unsure of the intention—’
‘I meant only in the hypothetical sense,’ Margaret said with a laugh. ‘Many a young girl plans out how her wedding will look long before she meets her groom.’
‘I must admit, it is not something I have ever set my mind to.’
‘That is most unlike you. I should have thought you would know precisely how every aspect should be.’
‘I do not mean to say that there is not a proper way for such an event to be held. Merely that without the particulars, one cannot formulate it. The variables are simply too great.’
‘The variables?’
‘Yes. The primary being the groom,’ said Lucy. ‘Where should you get married, Margaret?’
‘I should say the parish church.’
‘But whose parish? What if your groom is from far afield? Might it be more likely that the ceremony be held closer to his home?’
‘I see your point.’
‘Even one’s own choices must affect the situation.
Surely my dress must complement or please my husband.
Without knowing when the proposal might be, one cannot predict the season, which influences so many elements.
Which guests should I invite? Supposing some have moved a great distance?
Supposing I have gained new acquaintances?
No, you see it is all quite futile. It is a subject not worthy of focus until the facts are before me. ’
Margaret chuckled into the afternoon countryside. Lucy remained silent and, despite her rational declaration, found herself wondering what manner of dress might catch Captain Dashwood’s eye and, indeed, what cut of coat might please hers.
Upon their return to Atherton, the sisters found their parents in a heightened state of curiosity and anticipation.
An official-seeming letter had arrived, addressed to Lucy, and they were anxious to know the contents.
For a moment she wondered if it might be from Captain Dashwood, and if that were the case, she would certainly wish to read it in private.
But the formal-looking envelope appeared more business than personal and she decided to open and read it in the sitting room.
She read through it in silence and, upon completion, passed it to her eager family with the hope that by the time they had finished, she would be able to explain the contents.
This was to be a challenge, for she was still in the midst of processing the words herself.
From the offices of Reinhardt and Co., Transportation Engineers
Dear Miss Elliot,
It has come to our attention that you have recently been involved in the reconstruction of a Pemberley Cross model coach.
Through our connection with its owner, Captain James Dashwood, we are most eager to review and discuss some of the alterations and additions you have made.
Advancing the engineering of coaches is at the very heart of our business and we are always interested in new innovations, which your designs certainly reflect.
We would like to invite you to our headquarters that you might meet with our design team, discuss your work and give assessment of some of our prototypes.
If you are amenable to this, we will arrange transportation, chaperone and accommodation on a date preferable to yourself.
Yours in appreciation,
E. Reinhardt
Genius, Lucy thought. The story was all so utterly plausible. In fact, even more insidious, every word was technically true.
She could not deny any part of it without exposing her connection to the Night Races.
She could possibly refuse without explanation and her family might pass it off as one of her eccentricities.
Yet it simply didn’t feel right to decline what was an undeniably well-crafted invitation, but also one that preserved her secrets.
There was, she suspected, a stroke of Dashwood’s input in this, for it not only met his ends, but also had all the hallmarks of the snares he seemed so adept at laying in people’s paths.
For a moment, she was aggravated at the thought, deciding she should refuse out of principle.
Why should she put herself in danger just because he wanted company?
Was there danger in answering the invitation? And if so, could she truly live with herself if she let Dashwood face that danger alone?
‘It is quite extraordinary,’ her father exclaimed after they had all finished reading the letter. ‘I shall admit my surprise, Lucy. As clever a mechanical mind as you possess, I should not have imagined it would invoke so keen an interest.’
‘I must offer a degree of caution in this,’ said her mother more sombrely.
‘While I have never been one to deny your interests, we must be prepared for such a connection to be the cause of talk in the district. It would be seen as most unladylike for you to follow through on such a course, however much it might bring you joy.’
‘It is not necessarily a course, Mother. Should it be so different to the gossip that would follow were I to go off in study of art and music?’
‘I fear it should. Art and music are womanly pursuits. Mechanical engineering most certainly is not.’
‘Perhaps we should say I am sculpting then. That has a partial truth to it.’
‘Perhaps we should tell them nothing at all,’ Margaret cut in for the first time.
Her parents and sister turned to her, drawn by the sternness of her tone.
‘What business is it of anyone in the district? Tell them she is visiting friends. That she is engaged in studies. Charlotte Wyndham is to be married in two weeks. She will be all people are talking of. If someone pries so deeply that it cannot be denied, by all means tell the truth, but I doubt that shall ever come to pass. The person who thinks less of Lucy for following her talent is a person who neither knows her nor cares to.’ Her outburst completed, Margaret stood silent.
Any argument against Lucy’s going seemed to have been silenced forever, even that of Lucy herself. There seemed no way out of such a spirited defence.
Lucy was uncertain of what to expect, and being uncertain of what to expect was one of her least enjoyable states to be in. However, since she was committed, and a great many elements were quite out of her control, she instead focused on the aspects she could manage.
An easy element of consideration was what she might take on this excursion.
She decided on a casual spring dress, and a heavier winter dress that was overdue for retirement owing to wear and tear and a wine stain that refused to be shifted.
The only reason it had remained in her wardrobe so long was that it was eminently comfortable, both materially and emotionally, having carried her through many seasons.
She anticipated that, at some point, she would find herself examining the underside of a carriage, and a free-fitting, sacrificial dress was just the sort of thing she needed.
A cloak would keep her warm enough if they experienced a shift in the weather – not likely, but not impossible even in this late spring season.
Such a garment would also serve as additional bedding if the accommodation was cold.
The accommodation. The word, so official-seeming yet so ill-placed, reminded her that she really had no idea of what she was getting herself into.
Arrangements had been made for lodgings in Hackney, but she very much doubted this would be the case.
She was entering a different world. If the Night Races were a moonlight dance in a fairy circle then she was preparing to enter the fey kingdom outright.
The odd thought triggered a recollection of old stories that fairies disliked cold steel, prompting her to visit the kitchen and secure a small but sharp paring knife.
Lucy did not believe in fairies any more than she believed in headless horsemen, but she did believe that, in a desperate moment, a knife might be as effective against a person as a mythical creature.
She slipped it into a small leather pouch that had previously housed a comb and now fitted snugly within her boot.
She placed a few other items into a small bag: a hairbrush, a handkerchief, a notebook, a pencil and, as an afterthought, a small pack of bonbons she had purchased as a Christmas gift but not given away.
A fine guest you are to be, Miss Elliot, she thought, coming with sweets in your pocket and a knife in your boot.
When she felt there was no more that she could pack or prepare for, she passed her time writing letters.
One was to Charlotte Wyndham, to be given along with their gift on her wedding day.
And one was to her family. This second letter was the most difficult to word and she started over several times before she was satisfied.
Once finished, she placed it in an envelope, sealed it with a drop of wax and wrote her name upon it.
By her calculation, having one’s own name upon a letter provided security against all but the most prying eyes accidentally reading it.
She then passed through the house with casual caution until she came to a room that was in the middle of being dusted.
‘Molly,’ she said quietly.
The maid turned, surprised to be addressed by the young mistress of the house in this place and at this time of day.
‘Yes, Miss Elliot?’
How strange it was that the girl who had been so talkative only nights ago was now so timid a creature. But then, by all appearances, Lucy Elliot was a different being by moonlight too.
‘I would like you to hold on to this letter for me. I am to be away for several days, after which I shall reclaim it from you. If …’ She paused to consider her wording. ‘If I am not returned in five days’ time and I have sent no other word of my whereabouts, please give it to my sister to read.’
‘Yes, miss.’ She nodded, taking the letter and tucking it into her skirt pocket. ‘Are you … not likely to return?’ she asked, her curiosity and care overstepping her station.
‘I believe I shall return without incident. But, as we both know, accidents can happen.’
There was a moment of unspoken understanding between them.
‘Take care, Miss Elliot.’
‘Thank you,’ Lucy replied, leaving the girl to her work.