Chapter Five
Elizabeth had scarcely set aside her gloves when Mrs. Hobart, already installed in the best chair by the fire, gave a discreet cough behind her handkerchief.
“Princess Elizabeth,” she began, with a gravity that suggested disapproval, “you must remember always to comport yourself as befits your station.”
Elizabeth restrained a sigh as she moved towards the window overlooking the gravel yard and mews, watching the snow continue its relentless descent.
The cracked wheel of their carriage lay propped against the stable wall like some defeated beast, a result of their intemperate race through the accident on the road.
“But Mrs. Hobart, Sir Reginald told us not to inform anyone that I am a princess. And if I do not name myself so, how can I possibly act as one?”
Mrs. Hobart’s handkerchief fluttered in faint agitation, catching the firelight.
“It is not the naming, but the bearing, child. The innkeeper has clearly divined the truth, and why should we suffer for it? Sir Reginald is not here to arrange matters to our advantage, and a little reverence harms no one.”
Apparently, Sir Reginald’s edicts were only obeyed when he was present.
Elizabeth glanced towards the door through which the innkeeper had so recently vanished, his back nearly bent double from bowing.
He had heard her title from Mrs. Hobart, of course he had.
She had probably thought he would be more discreet whilst still treating them as honoured guests.
Had the situation been different, had there been no scarcity in an inn little prepared for the onslaught of so many stranded travellers, she would not have begrudged Mrs. Hobart’s desire to enjoy her royal assignment a bit.
But there were other people here who required food and wood and blankets, and she was used to sharing with four other sisters. It was no hardship for her.
The thought of her sisters brought a pang of homesickness. How Lydia would laugh at this predicament, and how sensibly Jane would manage it. Mary would have some moral observation about the Samaritan and how he had stopped to help.
“You think the man discerned my title from my royal clothing or our broken coach?” she asked lightly.
Mrs. Hobart smiled, unbothered by Elizabeth’s scepticism. “No doubt the innkeeper guessed from your air. It is in every gesture you make, my dear. One cannot disguise a thoroughbred even if she wears a donkey’s bridle.”
Elizabeth could not help laughing at the image, the sound bright in the small parlour.
She knew she was in no way appropriately attired for the royal court.
But they had not sent her to a modiste, and so she would appear before her family as she was.
No doubt the Thurnian court had their own mode of clothing, and a great many modistes familiar with the styles.
And she could not deny it felt safer to travel in a modest equipage and in her own clothing.
“If only I were permitted to bray,” she replied, “I believe I should make a most convincing donkey.”
Mrs. Hobart dabbed delicately at her nose. “You speak in jest, but the king, your grandfather, expects his servants to guard every interaction. He will not thank us for bringing you to a place such as this. We will need to leave soon to join Sir Reginald in Stamford.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew to her companion. “Stamford? Mrs. Hobart, you forget the carriage wheel lies broken in the stable yard. We cannot travel to Sir Reginald. He must travel to us, assuming the roads remain passable.”
“That is most vexatious,” Mrs. Hobart declared. “Most vexatious indeed. And in such cold, when my constitution is already sorely tried. The king will not be pleased with the delay, nor with our being thrown upon the charity of common innkeepers.”
Elizabeth sat, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate calm, a gesture she had learnt from Jane that kept her from saying something she might later regret.
“Then the king ought not have had me travel in the winter, Mrs. Hobart. It has already contributed to your illness, and I fear this delay will be protracted.”
Mrs. Hobart’s lips pursed as though she had tasted something distinctly unpleasant, but her reply was forestalled by the innkeeper’s sudden appearance at the door.
The man executed such an elaborate bow that Elizabeth genuinely feared he might topple forward into the room, his arms windmilling for balance.
“Your Highness, pray forgive the intrusion,” he gasped, having apparently held his breath throughout the entire genuflection, “but would you care for more coffee? Or perhaps some fresh bread? My good wife is most anxious to know your wishes and has been fretting something dreadful.”
Elizabeth rose politely, smoothing her travelling dress with hands that wished very much to clench into fists. “You are very obliging, sir, but no more is required. We are quite content with what has already been provided.”
“Indeed, indeed,” he said, bobbing like a cork upon a stormy sea.
His head moved up and down with such rapidity that Elizabeth began to feel slightly dizzy watching him.
“And yet, should you desire it, my wife is preparing meat pies. They will be ready soon, and she has taken particular care with the seasoning, knowing as how refined palates require the finest preparation.”
Elizabeth smiled as kindly as she could manage whilst fighting the urge to suggest he cease his bouncing before he made himself ill.
“You are most attentive, sir, but truly, nothing further is necessary just now.” She paused, then added with genuine concern for the other guests, “You might ask the gentleman who arrived late last night whether he would like one. He seemed quite hungry this morning when I spoke with him in the common room.”
The mention of the tall, dark-haired man who was clever and handsome and quite clearly angry with her made her flush a little.
The innkeeper’s face brightened considerably. “Oh yes, Your High—that is, I shall inquire immediately, Miss Bennet! Mr. Darcy seems a most distinguished gentleman, though perhaps not quite so . . .” He gestured vaguely in Elizabeth’s direction, clearly struggling to find appropriate words.
Mr. Darcy. Now she at least had a name to go with the face. “He is a gentleman, and that is quite distinction enough,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Now, pray do not let us keep you from your duties.”
With somewhat less enthusiasm, the innkeeper bowed again and withdrew.
Elizabeth took her place on the settee with a sense of relief, reaching for the volume of Marmion her father had pressed upon her before her departure.
She had barely opened the book when Mrs. Hobart cleared her throat meaningfully.
“My dear, you ought not encourage the servants to treat that Mr. Darcy as your equal. It gives entirely the wrong impression of your station.”
“Mr. Darcy is not a servant, Mrs. Hobart. He is, by all appearances, a gentleman of good family, and courtesy costs us nothing.” Elizabeth kept her voice level with some effort. “Besides, if we are to be stranded here together, it benefits us all to maintain civility.”
Mrs. Hobart sniffed disapprovingly but said no more, allowing Elizabeth to turn her attention to her book. She settled herself more comfortably near the fire and began to read, grateful for the prospect of losing herself in a wonderfully engaging and wildly improbable story.
She had read no more than a page when the door creaked open yet again. Elizabeth’s eyes closed briefly in resigned anticipation.
The innkeeper reappeared, this time bearing so much wood in his arms that he staggered slightly under the weight. “Begging your pardon, Your—Miss Bennet,” he panted, “but I thought the fire might be burning low, and we cannot have you catching a chill.”
Elizabeth glanced at the fireplace, where flames danced merrily up the chimney, casting dancing shadows across the room.
The room was, if anything, too warm. “I assure you, the blaze is quite adequate. You need not trouble yourself on our account when I am certain there are others who might benefit from your generosity.”
“Oh, but the fire might yet fall low,” he protested, advancing with his burden despite her words. “And with this dreadful weather, we cannot be too careful.”
He continued his discourse while methodically building up the fire until it roared like a blacksmith’s forge.
Elizabeth found herself obliged to move away from the hearth as the heat became unbearable, her dress clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
Mrs. Hobart reached into her reticule and withdrew a silver flask, took a sip, and returned it.
She then waved a handkerchief before her face, though whether from the temperature or from indignation at the innkeeper’s lengthy monologue, Elizabeth could not determine.
“There now,” the man said with evident satisfaction, dusting off his hands. “That should keep you nice and warm. And might I say again, miss, how honoured we are to have such an illustrious personage beneath our humble roof? Are you certain you do not wish for a meat pie?”
“You are very kind,” Elizabeth managed, dabbing at her brow with her own handkerchief. “But pray do not let us keep you from attending to your other guests.”
The man bowed and withdrew, muttering about the incomprehensible preferences of the quality. Elizabeth fanned herself with her book and moved to open the window nearest her. Mrs. Hobart regarded her with obvious disapproval.
“My dear princess, you cannot go about refusing every courtesy shown to you. It is most peculiar behaviour for one of your station.”
“It is common decency, Mrs. Hobart, and I should hope that my station, such as it is, obliges me to practise it more, not less.” Elizabeth attempted once more to start her book.