Chapter Three #2
Mrs. Hobart looked up as Elizabeth approached. She was a woman perhaps a little younger than Sir Reginald, with steel-grey hair pulled back in an uncompromising arrangement and sharp blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Her expression was perfectly polite and perfectly impersonal.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said with a small curtsy, her voice carrying the crisp accents of a genteel education. “We should be off.”
Elizabeth turned for one last look at Longbourn, the familiar windows glowing warmly in the grey morning light, Jane’s hand raised in farewell, Mary watching solemnly, Kitty smiling, Lydia waving so energetically she nearly dropped her shawl.
Her father stood in the doorway, his expression carefully composed, while her mother dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
She climbed into the carriage, assisted by Sir Reginald, and sat upon the well-cushioned seat. Mrs. Hobart followed.
Elizabeth lifted a hand in farewell.
The door closed with a decisive thud, the wheels began to turn, and Longbourn receded into the distance.
Villages appeared and vanished like candle flames.
Occasionally, Elizabeth glimpsed figures moving about their daily tasks: women hanging laundry despite the bitter air, men leading cattle to shelter, children playing in cottage gardens.
She wondered what they might think of the carriage passing their quiet homes.
Sir Reginald read and Mrs. Hobart spoke only when required, spending most of her time sleeping or observing the world outside the window with a detached air.
Elizabeth did not object to the silence.
It allowed her to gaze upon the passing countryside and imagine the grandparents she had never met.
What might they look like? Would they regard her as family or merely as a curiosity to be displayed at court?
“Mrs. Hobart,” she said at length, “might I ask what you know of the royal household? I confess I am quite ignorant of what will be expected of me.”
This topic made the woman’s reticence fall away. “I know a fair deal, for my family lived in Thurnia for most of my life.” She glanced at Sir Reginald. “I suppose it is how Sir Reginald knew I would be the right woman for this position.”
He nodded without looking up.
“Their Majesties maintain a court of modest size but considerable dignity,” Mrs. Hobart continued. “You will find the protocols less elaborate than those of larger kingdoms, but no less important for that. Your education will begin immediately upon your arrival.”
“Education in what, precisely?”
“Languages, history, deportment, the management of a royal household. You will need to understand the political situation both within Thurnia and with neighbouring kingdoms. There will be lessons in music and drawing, naturally, and instruction in the conduct expected of a royal princess.”
Elizabeth felt a flutter of apprehension. “It sounds quite comprehensive.”
“It is necessary,” Mrs. Hobart replied matter-of-factly. “You cannot represent the crown adequately without proper preparation. I trust you will apply yourself diligently to your studies?”
“I have always been fond of learning,” Elizabeth said, though she wondered privately whether she would find royal education as engaging as what she had learned from her masters and in Papa’s library.
The first night’s inn was small but clean, its common room warmed by a cheerful fire and filled with the comfortable sounds of ordinary travellers.
Elizabeth dined beside the fire, exchanging only polite remarks with her travelling companions before Sir Reginald whispered something to Mrs. Hobart and the woman firmly escorted her to her chamber.
Mrs. Hobart had insisted upon inspecting the accommodations personally, pronouncing them adequate but then warning Elizabeth against venturing downstairs unaccompanied.
“One never knows what manner of persons frequent such establishments,” she declared, as though the perfectly respectable inn were a den of iniquity. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. “Young ladies of your station cannot be too careful.”
That night Elizabeth wrote a brief note to Jane, describing the frost upon the fields and the pale winter moon visible from her window.
She kept it deliberately light, mentioning nothing of her growing apprehension about the life that awaited her.
On the second night, she added an anecdote about a particularly fine meat pie and a maid who told stories about her naval brother.
She kept the notes brief; too many words might tempt her to sentiment, and sentiment, she feared, might tempt her to tears.
By the end of their third day, the clouds hung low and heavy, grey as pewter, and the wind blew hard enough to make the carriage windows rattle in their frames.
Sir Reginald had taken his horse earlier in the morning and ridden ahead, saying that he had to meet someone to discuss details about the rest of their journey.
Elizabeth drew her pelisse closer and watched as the first flakes of snow began to fall, small and tentative at first, then thickening into a steady curtain of white.
Mrs. Hobart frowned at the weather. “This will slow our progress considerably. I do hope Sir Reginald has reached the inn and is not riding in this weather.”
Elizabeth glanced out again and sat upright. “There is something in the road ahead.”
The driver slowed the horses to a walk. Through the veil of snow, a scene emerged: an overturned cart and its contents, barrels, by the look of them, were half scattered, half collected on the side of the road; a horse stamping and snorting in distress; several men moving quickly among the wreckage.
She could smell spirits of some kind, which had been spilt from the broken casks.
One man was helping another from the ground, his attention focused entirely on getting him out of the road.
“Someone may be injured,” Elizabeth exclaimed, her hand moving instinctively to the window to open it and speak to the coachman. “We must stop and offer assistance.”
Mrs. Hobart’s reply was immediate and firm. “We cannot. Such scenes are often staged to entrap unwary travellers. It is too dangerous.”
Elizabeth stared at her, incredulous. “Mrs. Hobart, these people are clearly in distress.”
“You do not know who they are or what their intentions might be,” she returned evenly. “I am charged with your safety, and I will not compromise it for strangers.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed with indignation.
She considered leaping from the carriage herself, but the likely outcome involved at best her skirt tangled over her head and her dignity muddied, and at worst, real injury.
“If you will not stop, then at least slow the carriage so that we might ascertain whether anyone is seriously hurt.”
“Driver,” Mrs. Hobart called sharply, “proceed at best speed.”
The carriage lurched forward more rapidly than Elizabeth considered safe.
“Slow down!” Elizabeth cried as she braced herself.
Her gaze remained fixed upon the scene as they rapidly approached and passed it.
The cart was upright, but one wheel was partially buried in the snow and splintered beyond repair.
Barrels had rolled in every direction and were being collected into piles of damaged and undamaged.
A dark-skinned coachman was steadying the frightened horse.
And there, standing in the churned snow and mud, was another man.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark coat and boots splashed with mud, his hat gone, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes.
Even from the carriage, Elizabeth could perceive the authority in his stance as he placed the other man down carefully and stood to wave her coachman to the side of the road.
He moved with the natural confidence of a man accustomed to command, gesturing while keeping a careful eye on the injured man behind him.
He shouted something as the wheels drew near, his gaze moving to the carriage window.
Snow swirled between them, the air sharp as glass, and for a moment Elizabeth felt as though the world had narrowed to that single point of contact.
His expression was surprised and then angry, as she would be at seeing a fine carriage speed past, risking harm to everyone helping to clear the road.
Elizabeth’s outrage flared anew. She pressed her palm to the cold glass, as if she might hold herself there and somehow communicate her regret, but the carriage rolled on.
“Deplorable,” she said aloud, settling back against the seat with considerable force.
Mrs. Hobart raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“Our conduct just now was deplorable. We simply drove past as though they were of no consequence whatever!”
“Princess Elizabeth,” Mrs. Hobart said with the tone of one addressing a child, “you must accustom yourself to the reality that your safety takes precedence over the welfare of strangers. It is not a pleasant truth, perhaps, but it is a necessary one.”
“Necessary for whom?” Elizabeth demanded. “No one here knows who I am.” She thought the same would be true in Thurnia.
Mrs. Hobart shook her head. “You do not understand the risks. There are those who would take advantage of your generous nature for their own purposes.”
Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest. The silence that followed was decidedly frosty, and not merely due to the weather.
Not more than a half hour later, the coach lurched to one side. Elizabeth opened the window, and from the box, the coachman called out. “Begging your pardon, Princess, but there’s somethin’ wrong wit’ the coach.”
“How much farther to the inn?”
“In these conditions? Two hours at least, and I’ll not risk pressing on in weather like this. Best we turn back to the nearest inn before she gives out entirely. There’s one I know of a half hour back.”
Close to where the accident had blocked the road. Elizabeth sat back with smug satisfaction.
Mrs. Hobart stiffened, eyes flashing, and leaned out of the window. “Nonsense! We must go forward. Her Highness must not be delayed by such trifles—”
Elizabeth shook her head. “That will do, Mrs. Hobart.” She waited as her companion settled back with a scowl. “Turn back at once.”
The coach came to a stop, then executed a careful turn before they began to pick up a slow pace back in the direction from which they had come.
The inn’s lanterns were a warm beacon in the gathering darkness when they finally arrived.
The paint around the front entrance was peeling and the shutters bowed a little under their iron hinges, but smoke curled cheerfully from the chimney.
Inside, the air smelled of roasting meat and mulled cider, and the fire in the common room crackled invitingly.
Elizabeth longed to warm her hands beside it and enquire after the accident upon the road.
Surely someone at the inn would have heard news of it.
But Mrs. Hobart was already urging her towards the stairs.
“Supper will be sent up directly,” she announced briskly. “I think it best if we remain private this evening.”
“Might I not dine below stairs? I should enjoy the warmth of the common room.”
“Absolutely not. A young lady in your position cannot be too careful about the company she keeps.”
Elizabeth privately suspected the company downstairs consisted chiefly of men discussing horseflesh and women arguing over the best way to baste a joint of mutton, both of which she would vastly prefer to being locked away upstairs.
But she had defied Mrs. Hobart enough for one evening, and she did not wish the remaining three or four days of travel to be as tense as the past hour had been.
In her chamber, Elizabeth stood at the window, watching the snow continue to fall more thickly.
A steady stream of travellers moved in and out of the inn’s warm circle of light, stamping their feet and shaking snow from their coats before disappearing into the welcoming glow within.
She envied them their freedom to seek shelter and companionship wherever they found it.
The warmth from the hearth in her room could not dispel the cold knot of frustration within her breast. She thought of the overturned cart, of the possibility that someone had been hurt while she sat in her comfortable carriage and did nothing.
Or worse, that they might have injured someone as they flew through the scene.
She thought of Mrs. Hobart’s assumption that her safety was worth more than anyone else’s welfare and knew it was absolutely untrue.
If this was what it meant to be a princess—to ignore those in need for the sake of some imagined danger, to be isolated from ordinary human contact, to value consequence above compassion—then she doubted very much that she would like it at all.
Elizabeth drew her shawl closer and wondered if the man with the dark eyes had managed to clear the road safely, and whether the injured person had received the help they needed.
She pondered, too, whether she would spend the rest of her life concerned about such things while being carefully preserved from an opportunity to do anything about them.