Chapter Seven
Elizabeth had endured many trials in her eighteen years.
She had survived Lydia and Kitty’s theatrical declarations of eternal boredom during long country evenings.
She had weathered Mary’s moral lectures with patience.
She had even managed to smile through her mother’s theories about how to make the most of her looks, which, while nothing to Jane’s, were not at all bad.
But Mrs. Hobart, Elizabeth was beginning to suspect, might be the death of her.
“The tea was barely warm this morning,” Mrs. Hobart announced from her position by the fire, where she had arranged herself with all the grandeur of a queen holding court. “Lukewarm tea is an affront. I have told the innkeeper’s wife that it simply will not do.”
Elizabeth set down her teacup with a clink. “Mrs. Hobart, the woman has been accommodating us with remarkable attention. Perhaps we might show equal forbearance when the kitchen is overwhelmed.”
“Forbearance?” Mrs. Hobart’s eyebrows climbed towards her lace cap.
“My dear Princess Elizabeth, you mistake the nature of your position. It is not forbearance but condescension that is required, and even that should be carefully measured. The lower orders are elevated by serving those above them. To deny them that opportunity is to deny them their proper place in the natural order.”
Elizabeth had heard variations of this speech no fewer than seventeen times since departing Longbourn, and her tolerance for it had worn thinner with each repetition.
She wished Sir Reginald were here to stop her companion from declaring her title.
Given the situation, it felt . . . unseemly.
“I am not certain the natural order requires quite so many pillows.”
“The pillows are essential. Your posture must be properly supported.” Mrs. Hobart gestured to the mountain of cushions that had accumulated on the settee, each one deemed crucial to Elizabeth’s comfort and, by extension, her dignity.
“And we must have more wood for the fire. This room grows cold far too quickly.”
“The room is perfectly warm.” Elizabeth resisted the urge to point out that it had been, in fact, uncomfortably warm before. “And we have already requisitioned more than our fair share of the inn’s supply.”
Mrs. Hobart sniffed, a sound that conveyed both superiority and suffering. “If the inn cannot adequately provide for its guests, perhaps it should not accept them.”
“You are not advocating that they ought to turn people out in a storm?” Elizabeth asked, incredulous.
Her companion did not answer the question. “You have already given away half the wood meant for your chambers. Most unwise. What if you catch a chill?”
“Then I shall sneeze with all the dignity I can summon,” Elizabeth replied, her endurance waning. “Mrs. Hobart, there are elderly travellers in this establishment who have far greater need of warmth than I. If we can ease their discomfort, we must.”
“You speak as though you were some common philanthropist rather than a princess.” Mrs. Hobart rose, smoothing her skirts with an air of determination that Elizabeth had come to dread.
“I shall speak to the innkeeper myself. We must reclaim what is rightfully yours. It is unseemly for a member of the royal family to sacrifice her comfort for strangers.”
“Mrs. Hobart, I absolutely forbid it.”
The companion paused, her expression shifting from irritation to one of patient condescension, as though Elizabeth was a child who had failed to grasp a simple lesson.
“My dear, you do not yet understand the responsibilities of your station. Allow me to guide you in this. The king, your grandfather, would expect no less.”
Elizabeth stood, drew herself to her full height, and met Mrs. Hobart’s gaze with as much authority as she could summon. “The king is not here. I am. And I will not have you demanding the return of items given in charity.”
For a moment, Mrs. Hobart looked as though she might argue. Then her expression softened into something worse: pity. “Very well. We shall discuss this later, when you are less agitated. For now, perhaps you might task me with some small errand? I believe a walk would do us both good.”
Elizabeth seized the opportunity like a drowning woman grasping a rope. “Yes. An excellent notion. Perhaps you might enquire whether any of the meat pies remain?”
Mrs. Hobart sighed but nodded. “Very well. Though I still say such things are not fit for a princess’s table.”
The moment the door closed behind her companion, Elizabeth released a breath. The room felt larger in Mrs. Hobart’s absence, the air less oppressive. She pressed her fingers to her temples, where a headache had begun to build.
This was intolerable. She had left Longbourn believing she was embarking on an adventure.
Instead, she found herself trapped between Mrs. Hobart’s relentless insistence on rank and her own growing conviction that she was entirely unsuited for royal life if it meant behaving as her companion seemed to expect.
The common room, she decided, would be her refuge.
A bit of peace amongst ordinary travellers, where she might attempt to read in blessed anonymity and remember what it felt like to be simply Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn rather than Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth, who apparently required twelve pillows and a forest’s worth of firewood to survive a single winter evening.
She collected her book and shawl, checked that the passage was empty, and made her escape.
The common room was mercifully quiet. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards.
A few travellers occupied the scattered tables: a merchant reading his ledger, a middle-aged couple sharing a late breakfast, an elderly man dozing in the corner chair.
None of them looked up as she entered. It was blissfully, perfectly ordinary.
Elizabeth chose a seat near the window, where pale winter sun provided adequate reading light. She opened her book and allowed herself to sink into the familiar comfort of words on a page. For ten glorious minutes, the world receded to a manageable distance.
The merchant closed his ledger and left the room, which woke the man dozing. He stretched then and walked out as well.
After another quarter of an hour, the elderly woman who had been sharing breakfast with her husband stood to leave. She paused beside Elizabeth’s chair, her weathered face creasing into a warm smile.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but I wanted to thank you proper-like. For the blankets, you see. My Arthur and I, we were that cold, and then those extra blankets arrived, and the wood for our fire.” Her eyes grew damp. “You have a kind heart, miss. God bless you for it.”
Elizabeth felt heat rush to her cheeks. “You are very welcome, of course, but truly, it was nothing.”
“Nothing to you, perhaps, but everything to us.” The woman patted Elizabeth’s hand. “You are a blessing, my dear.”
She shuffled away, leaving Elizabeth frozen in her chair, mortification washing over her in waves.
She had not wanted thanks. She had not wanted anyone to know.
The entire purpose of giving anonymously was to avoid precisely this sort of attention, this uncomfortable elevation that made her feel like a fraud.
She had specifically instructed the innkeeper to say nothing, but she ought not to have trusted that he could remain quiet even if he wished to do so.
And alas, servants talked. Not to mention that Mrs. Hobart had probably announced it to most of the establishment while demanding credit on Elizabeth’s behalf.
Elizabeth released a sigh that felt as though it came from her very bones, heavy with frustration and a guilt she could not name.
She had tried to help, had tried to moderate Mrs. Hobart’s excesses, had tried to be quietly useful.
Instead, she had achieved the worst of both worlds: the appearance of charity performed for applause, when all she had wanted was to ensure people were warm.
“How heavy a crown must weigh when even gratitude becomes a burden.” The voice came from her left, smooth and dark and infuriatingly familiar.
Elizabeth turned her head to find Mr. Darcy lounging in an odd corner of the room behind her, where he had been lurking like a fashionable spectre.
He wore the expression of haughty disdain to which she had become accustomed, though something in his eyes suggested he found the entire situation amusing.
“I beg your pardon?” Elizabeth said, confused.
Mr. Darcy stood to approach her chair, where he towered above her, folding his arms over his chest while his tall frame cast a shadow across her book. “I merely observed that you seem distressed by that woman’s thanks. How trying it must be, to have one’s charitable activities acknowledged.”
Elizabeth felt her frustration simmer. She did not even know this man. Why was he attacking her? “I do not follow, sir.”
“Oh, I think you do.” He smiled, though the expression held no warmth. “You wear your humility as carefully as others wear a coronet.”
Elizabeth closed her book with deliberate care and thought it would have been wiser to remain with Mrs. Hobart. “You seem to enjoy speaking in riddles, Mr. . .” She knew his name, of course, but they had not been properly introduced.
“Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet.”
“Oh, I am aware.” His smile was sardonic.
“Very well, I shall be plain, Miss Bennet. I say that you have created quite the spectacle here. The mysterious Thurnian princess, dispensing charity with a smile while your companion demands every comfort available for your use. It is masterfully done, I must admit. You appear benevolent while enjoying every luxury, and anyone who dares notice the contradiction is made to feel churlish for mentioning it.”
Elizabeth blinked, a little startled by this direct attack. “And by anyone, you refer to yourself?”
The man merely lifted his brows.