Chapter 6 #2
The inn had the air of a fair turned inside out—too many people, all of them damp, all of them determined to sit where there were not enough seats.
Steam rose from heaps of greatcoats hung upon pegs that threatened to tear free of the wall.
The fire laboured under a backlog of half-frozen logs, smoking first and then catching with a resentful crackle.
Somewhere, a dog barked without conviction.
Elizabeth kept one hand at her aunt’s elbow as they navigated the crush.
Men called for ale as if volume might conjure it sooner, children fussed against their mothers’ shoulders, and the serving maids went to and fro with an energy that seemed a rebuke to the weather itself.
Mr. Gardiner forged a path with apologies and good humour, and at last they secured a narrow table near the hearth—no small triumph, considering the number of boots already planted to capture it.
Their supper, when it came, was a compromise between hunger and the kitchen’s conscience: a thin stew that did its best with fatigue and a loaf that had clearly known better days.
Elizabeth set the bowl before her aunt, encouraging by example rather than entreaty.
Mrs. Gardiner took a few spoonfuls and then let the spoon rest. The colour in her cheeks was too high for comfort.
Elizabeth folded her napkin and pretended great interest in the stew’s seasoning, so she need not look anxious.
“We have eaten worse,” Mr. Gardiner said cheerfully, though he added salt with the thoughtful air of a man making the most of it. “Do you remember the inn at Highgate last summer, my dear? That pie so hard the knife retreated of its own accord?”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled for him, and Elizabeth blessed the effort. “I remember your valour in attempting it,” she said. “The pie never recovered.”
The talk around them rose and fell in waves.
A gentleman a few tables off explained, for the benefit of all within earshot, that he had once seen a coach pass clean over a drift and land with such grace that any circus would have been proud to claim it.
His audience received this with the scepticism it deserved.
A group of drovers argued fixedly about whether a particular lane beyond the toll-bar could be called a lane at all when it lay two feet deep and showed not the faintest hint of a hedge on either side.
The serving maid who brought their ale had a strand of hair come loose from its pins; Elizabeth’s fingers itched to put it right, though she knew she had no business to do so.
Mr. Gardiner excused himself to speak with the landlord about beds. Elizabeth shifted her aunt’s chair a little farther from a draught that insisted upon slipping under the door. Mrs. Gardiner lifted her hand and let it fall again with a sigh that was not quite suppressed.
“You are very good, Lizzy,” she said softly. “Pray do not let me keep you from your supper.”
“You could not keep me from it if you tried,” Elizabeth returned, attempting playfulness. “The stew has me in thrall. I am sure it improves with every taste.”
“Then the fourth spoonful will be perfection itself,” said her aunt, and took it for her sake.
A commotion at the door drew every eye. A man came in who looked as if the weather had undertaken him as a personal enemy and failed to defeat him only by the narrowest margin.
Snow clung to his cloak in stiff plates; his hat had lost all shape; his boots left wet declarations of their sufferings upon the floor.
He had the look of a courier—lean, quick-moving even when exhausted, and in possession of his errand like a talisman.
The landlord hurried to meet him, saying something in a tone that was both respectful and amazed.
The courier answered with a nod toward the yard, where a lathered horse tossed its head and took comfort from a bucket.
Elizabeth’s attention sharpened when the man produced a packet and named her uncle. The landlord gestured toward their table at once. Mr. Gardiner crossed the room to them as the courier followed, stripping his gloves with fingers that shook from cold rather than nerves.
“For Mr. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street,” the man said, presenting the packet with a bow that wasted no motion. “Left for you to be delivered the moment you could be found. I have ridden from two inns behind, and the Almighty knows I do not advise the attempt again.”
Mr. Gardiner broke the seal. “You have earned your fee and more,” he said, already reading. “Hot ale for the man, if you please,” he added to the landlord, who had the sense to set it down before the words were out.
Elizabeth watched her uncle’s face as he read. The lines about his eyes deepened, his mouth set. He finished once and then read it again more slowly, as if the second reading might produce a different letter. Mrs. Gardiner’s hand found Elizabeth’s beneath the table.
“What is it?” she asked quietly. “News of Louisa?”
Mr. Gardiner folded the sheet with care and put it safely away before he answered, which told Elizabeth the nature of the news as plainly as the words would.
“It is from Mr. Allenby,” he said, lowering his voice so the news would not be common property in a moment.
“They beg our pardon for the delay and for troubling us with it, but a portion of the roof at the east corner has given way under the snow. It is not the great roof, thank God, but the bedchambers there take water when the wind turns, and half the servants are employed in keeping it out of the passage. The room meant for us is quite unfit. Mr. Allenby thinks the masons may contrive a temporary covering within a few days if the weather permits.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s shoulders eased a fraction, as if the worst possibility—illness, bereavement—had been set aside. “Poor Louisa,” she murmured. “She will be running from room to room with pails and apologies.”
“Exactly so,” said Mr. Gardiner, with a grim twist that passed for a smile. “And there is nothing for it but patience.” He glanced toward the window, where the panes showed a world of white. “Patience and a plan that does not involve sleeping in a corridor with a basin.”
Elizabeth pressed her aunt’s hand. “We can be patient,” she said. “We have made a profession of it today.”
The courier, having drained his ale in a few grateful swallows, stood as if to ask whether there were any answer.
Mr. Gardiner took his meaning at once. “You shall not go back into that without your pains being acknowledged,” he said, drawing out coin enough to make the man’s eyes widen.
“Tell Mr. Allenby that his letter found us, that we are safe at the Crown for the present, and that we are in no danger of venturing farther than wisdom allows. Add that we send our affection to Mrs. Allenby, and that we will come when it is possible—no sooner.”
The courier bowed again, the bow of a man who knew exactly what the money meant on such a night, and disappeared toward the kitchen in hopes of something hot to carry away in him.
When he had gone, Mr. Gardiner remained standing a moment, his hand upon the back of his chair. He looked not at his wife but at her hands, as if the colour in them could be altered by sheer will. “I do not like this,” he said, half to himself. “This crowd, this noise. You cannot rest here.”
Mrs. Gardiner managed another of those brave smiles that had been her habit since October. “I shall sleep anywhere if only it is quiet.”
“Then I must speak to the landlord again,” he said. “There may be a smaller parlour we can hire, away from the common room. Or a chamber near the back that will be less lively.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “You will stay with your aunt?”
“Of course,” she said. “We will not move from this spot, unless we are forced by an army.”
When he had gone, Elizabeth took up her spoon once more and made a ceremony of tasting what remained, as if the stew had been improved by the courier’s arrival. Her aunt’s mouth quirked at the performance.
“I am not so fragile that you must pretend on my account,” Mrs. Gardiner said gently.
“I am not pretending,” Elizabeth returned. “I am practising. When we are very comfortable and very warm in a quiet room, I intend to boast of this stew to all who will listen, and it is best to rehearse the lines while the impression is strong.”
Her aunt laughed—truly laughed—for the first time that day, and the sound did Elizabeth as much good as a decent supper would have done.
The laugh faded quickly; the strain left in its wake was plain enough to someone who loved her.
Elizabeth did not look at it too directly.
To stare at a hurt was sometimes to make it larger.
Two months had not undone the harm October’s heartbreak had done.
Strength did not reappear at command, nor did sleep, nor did ease of spirit.
The physician had said rest and time; London had offered neither in plenty.
This journey had been meant as an interval of fresh air and friendly faces, a way to move the mind from loss without calling it forgetfulness.
Elizabeth had supported the plan with all her heart.
Sitting now in a room that smelled of smoke and wet wool, with snow closing the roads like shutters, she could not help but feel the plan’s frailty.
A serving maid came to clear their bowls, her hands reddened from hot water and cold air.
“Beg pardon, miss,” she said to Elizabeth, “but if you’d like a cup of tea carried up when your room is ready, I’ll see to it.
The kettle is always on for the sick.” She glanced at Mrs. Gardiner with a quick, kind look that was not impertinent.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, moved by the kindness. “You are very good, but my aunt is more weary than ill. I think, however, that she would be most grateful of the tea.”
“It’s only what we can do,” the girl answered, and whisked away with the bowls as if goodness were a simple matter of habit.