Chapter Twenty-Two
The cold had worked its way through the carriage planks and floor until it seemed to have taken up residence in Elizabeth’s bones.
It occurred to her, with a faint and bitter amusement, that this was the first true service Sir Reginald had rendered her: he had cured her forever of any romantic notions connected with winter journeys.
Her thoughts ran back over the road behind them, mile after mile, inn after inn.
Patterns that had seemed merely vexatious at the time arranged themselves with maddening clarity.
Elizabeth had supposed Mrs. Hobart’s unwillingness to follow Sir Reginald’s instructions to be an unfortunate but understandable desire to enjoy the comforts she missed from her former life in Thurnia, and her palpitations and nerves like Mamma’s, a bid for attention.
Now, with the frost pinching her toes and Sir Reginald opposite her, composed and watchful, Elizabeth saw that it had been calculation.
Mrs. Hobart had been signalling, and she had been stalling.
Every use of “princess” had been her leaving inquiry and gossip, news that would tell Sir Reginald where they had been. Every delay had been to give him time to catch them up.
Elizabeth’s frozen fingers tightened within her muff. Mrs. Hobart, who professed herself so devoted to Elizabeth’s comfort, had been quite content to parade her along the whole North Road, so long as Sir Reginald never lost the scent.
Very well. She could do the same.
The air inside the carriage was close and stale; her head had begun to ache with the motion and the weight of her fears. That, at least, could be useful. She let her head rest back against the squabs and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she made sure that they would appear hazy.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, allowing her voice to fall softer. “I am afraid the last stage has not agreed with me. The jolting upon this road is worse than I am used to. Might we go a little slower for a while? I am persuaded I shall be better if the pace is checked.”
Sir Reginald’s brows drew together. “I am grieved that you should be distressed,” he said. “Yet we have a long way to go, and I am anxious to see you safe before nightfall. Perhaps a little fresh air would revive you.”
That was not the answer she had hoped for, but she must be agreeable or they would become suspicious. “If Mrs. Hobart does not object,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Hobart, roused by the sound of her own name, patted at her curls. “If the air is needful for you, my dear, you must have it. I feel nothing but vigour. Youth is so easily overset.”
Sir Reginald shifted as though to oblige her. Before he could do more, Elizabeth pressed a hand to her temple and drew a careful breath.
“I am sorry,” she said. “If we could stop for only a few minutes, I believe a little walk would set me to rights.”
She saw the hesitation again—the swift measuring of time and distance. She lifted one hand to her mouth.
In the end, prudence won where compassion had not. Sir Reginald rapped upon the roof.
The coach slowed and drew up as close to the verge as the ruts allowed. Mrs. Hobart squeaked at the cold when the door was opened, and Sir Reginald helped Elizabeth down.
Elizabeth moved a few yards along the lane, holding her pelisse close, breath showing faintly on the air. Her toes tingled painfully as sensation tried to return. She walked a little farther, then placed one hand on a tree and bent forward as though she was about to become ill.
“Miss Bennet?” Sir Reginald called. “Are you well?”
She waited, then pretended to wipe at her mouth before straightening. “I am.”
As she had hoped, his lips quirked in a quickly muted expression of disgust, and he did not approach her. “We are ready to proceed.”
“A few moments more,” she called back, making her voice thin. When she dared delay no longer, she returned and allowed him to help her up into the carriage again, as though she were unsteady.
After that, she rationed her “illness” carefully: a murmur when the coach lurched, a pause when the road grew worse, a request for care spoken with mild apology.
Each time, Sir Reginald called out to Gibson to drive with more caution.
It was not out of concern for her so much as the interior of the coach, but Elizabeth did not mind.
It was time bought, and time was everything.
Gibson was not the same man who had driven them to the Crown and Compass.
“Sir Reginald, these lanes are shocking,” Mrs. Hobart declared, startling Elizabeth from her thoughts. “We must not fly along them. My nerves cannot bear it, and I am persuaded Her Highness’s spine will be jarred to pieces.”
For once, Elizabeth was grateful for her querulous companion. Sir Reginald’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Nevertheless, he rapped upon the roof yet again, and the pace moderated.
At last, as the light thinned to a dingy grey and the hedges seemed to close in, Sir Reginald stirred and glanced out. “We are nearly there,” he said.
“There?” Elizabeth repeated.
He smiled with practised warmth. “A small house where I can ensure your comfort for the night. This road is not well furnished with inns. I should be loath to allow you to enter a place like the Crown and Compass a second time.”
Elizabeth kept her counsel.
A narrow drive led up a slight rise and then down again, to a low house half hidden behind the leafless trees.
No sign swung above the door, no lantern hung out to tempt travellers.
It did not look like any inn Elizabeth had ever seen.
It looked like a house that would very much prefer not to be noticed.
The coach drew up before the door. A man emerged, tugging his cap off as he came. He was middle-aged, with a weather-beaten face and a careful manner.
“Good day to you, Sir Reginald,” he said. “We did not expect to see you.”
“It could not be avoided,” Sir Reginald answered. "Do you still have my rooms?”
“We do. The parlour and the chambers above it.”
Sir Reginald’s gaze flicked, quick and assessing, over the coach. “Can you take this to the back?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man stepped back as Sir Reginald let down the coach step.
“Gibson will help you with the horses and then he will ride back,” Sir Reginald said in a deep voice as Elizabeth stepped down and moved toward the front door.
Ride back? Where? To the Crown and Compass? And how were they to continue tomorrow if they only had three horses?
Inside, the parlour was small and low-ceilinged, shutters already closed, a fire burning grudgingly in the grate. Two chairs and a narrow sofa were set about it; a candle stood on the table.
“Pray warm yourselves,” Sir Reginald said. “I will speak with Mr. Gregory about the provisions. Mrs. Hobart, you will see that Princess Elizabeth has what she requires.”
She was Princess Elizabeth again. She wondered what that meant.
The men spoke in the passage as they were moving away, but Elizabeth could not hear what they said.
Mrs. Hobart sank into the nearest chair and stretched her hands towards the fire. “To think that we might have been left to the mercies of the road without even a common inn in which to stay. How fortunate that Sir Reginald should have found such a retreat for us.”
Elizabeth crossed to the hearth and held out her hands to the flames. Feeling began to creep back into her fingers in painful little stabs.
Mrs. Gregory arrived presently, bearing a tray. She was thin, with an anxious, closed look about the mouth. Her curtsy was proper enough, but her eyes seemed more to measure than to admire.
“Good evening, ladies,” she said. “Mr. Gregory said as how you might be wanting something hot.”
“You are speaking to a princess,” Mrs. Hobart said reprovingly. “Her Royal Highness, the granddaughter of the king of Thurnia. You should remember to whom you address yourself.”
Mrs. Gregory’s hands tightened briefly upon the tray. Her expression did not otherwise change. “Begging your pardon, madam. I will remember. There is broth and bread.”
Elizabeth stepped forward at once. “Thank you. We are much obliged. I do not stand upon ceremony where hot broth is concerned.”
For an instant Mrs. Gregory’s gaze rose to Elizabeth’s face, then dropped again. “If you want anything more, you have only to ring.”
When they had eaten, and Mrs. Hobart had declared herself revived, she drew her shawl high about her shoulders. “Is not Sir Reginald good to us?” she asked, without appearing to require a reply.
Elizabeth nodded but did not speak.
Somewhere above their heads a door shut with a dull thud. Men’s voices, faint but urgent, drifted down—Sir Reginald and Mr. Gregory, no doubt, laying plans ladies were not meant to hear.
“Do sit down, Princess Elizabeth,” Mrs. Hobart said peevishly. “You make my nerves quite unsettled with your pacing.”
“My apologies,” Elizabeth replied, and forced herself to obey.
When the door had opened earlier, she had seen that the shutters on this floor were not only closed but latched from within, and that a heavy curtain waited to be drawn across the passage when the outer door was opened.
Was the curtain for warmth, or concealment?
Somehow, she believed it to be the latter.
Fear of being seen seldom sat comfortably upon honest business.
“Mrs. Hobart,” she said at last, as lightly as she could, “I find myself excessively fatigued. Might I go to my chamber for the night? If anything should be required of me, you may send Mrs. Gregory to call me. I shall be ready to depart early.”
Mrs. Hobart evaluated her. “You do still appear pale. Yes, you should go. Rest, and I shall have your dinner brought up later.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, “but I fear I have little appetite after our journey today. I only wish to sleep.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hobart said. “You are still unwell?”
Elizabeth nodded. “But do not worry, I shall be ready to depart in the morning whenever Sir Reginald calls for us.”