Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Please do not concern yourself about rising early,” her companion said. “I will explain everything to Sir Reginald, and I am certain he will not mind remaining here a little later.”
Elizabeth was certain of that. But she only nodded, and Mrs. Hobart called for their hostess.
Mrs. Gregory led the way up a set of narrow and uneven stairs.
The bedchamber at the top of them was plain: a small bed, a chest, a strip of faded carpet beside the hearth.
A candle stood ready. Mrs. Gregory fussed with the embers in the fireplace, coaxing them into flame.
“If you want anything else, you may pull that bell,” she said, indicating a cord near the door.
Her manner was respectful, but there was a weariness that suggested that the arrival of a princess was, to her, only another burden.
Elizabeth knew exactly how she felt.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “You are very good.”
Mrs. Gregory nodded and withdrew.
Elizabeth waited, listening as the steps faded. She heard Mrs. Hobart’s voice below, complaining about something. Sir Reginald’s deeper tone answered. She crossed to the window. The shutters were closed but not barred. She eased one open and lifted the sash. The cold was as sharp as a slap.
It was folly to think of going out into that as the daylight ended. Her trunk had not been brought in. Even with two sets of stockings, she would be bitterly cold within half an hour, and very lost not long after. Stories abounded of imprudent travellers, frozen within a few yards of safety.
She thought of those stories, and then she thought of her sister Lydia, who would certainly plunge out of a house without a second thought if anyone told her she must sit meekly in a chair until other people determined her fate.
Elizabeth found she was more like Lydia than she had supposed.
She drew her coat more tightly about her. Her reticule was still in her pocket. There were still a few of Papa’s coins inside, enough to find her a warm meal and a roof somewhere. This could not be the only house upon the entire road.
The blanket on the bed was not a thick one, but it would add a little additional warmth. She left a shilling on the bed in its place, then slung it over her shoulders like a scarf.
She opened the door and listened once more. Voices below, but none upon the stair. A faint clatter from the direction of the kitchen. No sound in the passage.
Very gently, she drew the chamber door closed behind her.
Instead of going towards the stair, she walked the other way, to the end of the little landing, where a narrow passage turned.
A draught met her there, sharp with damp stone.
It led to a back staircase, meaner than the first, half in darkness.
Somewhere beyond it, she could hear the faint rattle of pots.
Elizabeth paused.
The pots had stopped. In their place came the low murmur of men’s voices, nearer than she had thought—below her, but not far, as if they stood at the foot of the back staircase. She withdrew into the shadow of the turning and held her breath.
“I want no trouble in my house,” Mr. Gregory said. His careful manner had frayed into something sharper. “No constables, no magistrates, no weeping ladies come dawn. I 'ave me own business to tend to.”
Sir Reginald’s voice was calm. “We will need time, but there will be a good payment and no trouble if you keep your head.”
“And what of her?” Mr. Gregory asked, lowering his voice still further. “The young lady. You cannot mean to carry her about the roads like contraband until she is delivered to—”
“Not to Thurnia,” Sir Reginald cut in. “It will have to be London now.”
Mr. Gregory made a small sound, half disbelief, half dismay. “You just showed up here an' you expect us to take part in this?”
”You need only feed and house us. I have a little money remaining which will do for now."
"I would put you and yer sister up, but not the girl.”
Elizabeth stifled a gasp. Mrs. Hobart was Sir Reginald’s sister?
“Plans have changed, Gregory, but you will be compensated when we are. We shall write to London and Prince Adrian will have to handle the transaction.”
“And when you have the money?”
“Then we sail,” Sir Reginald said. “From Liverpool, on the first tolerable tide. We shall be out of reach before any creditor knows we were here.”
A silence. Then Mr. Gregory’s voice, reluctant: “And if they do not pay?”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“They will,” Sir Reginald said, with the air of a man stating that snow was cold.
“But if they do not?” Mr. Gregory pressed. “What then? What am I to do with a princess in my upper chamber?”
“Then we find a safe place to leave her near London,” Sir Reginald answered. “Once we are clear, we write to the prince where his cousin may be found, and we board our ship. We will hide ourselves in a hold, sign on as hands, whatever we must.”
Mr. Gregory exhaled. “You do not mean to hurt her.”
Sir Reginald’s reply was soft. “We are still Thurnians, Gregory. We would not harm the princess. We are simply desperate for the funds.”
Elizabeth was not going to wait to discover whether Sir Reginald told the truth. But if she went down the stairs, she would meet him and Mr. Gregory face-to-face. If she remained where she was, Mrs. Hobart or Mrs. Gregory would ask her why she was not sleeping.
In the end, Elizabeth chose the only course likely to succeed. She went back into the chamber, closed the door, and returned to the window.
The latch was stiff, but it yielded to her persistence. The sash creaked as she raised it, and she froze, every muscle braced for an exclamation from below. None came. The sounds in the house went on as before. The wind filled the opening, bringing with it a flurry of fine snow.
She stuck her head out to look.
The drop to the ground was less than she had feared, a little more than the height of a tall man such as Mr. Darcy.
The house sat slightly raised, but there was a drift of snow against the wall below the window.
If she sat upon the sill and let herself down with care, she would not injure anything more substantial than her dignity.
She swung one leg over the sill, then the other, heart pounding.
There was a ledge there from which someone had hung hooks for drying clothing.
She inched out onto it and shut the window behind her as far as she could, so that the cold wind coming into the house would not alert the occupants to her absence.
For a moment Elizabeth sat there, balanced between warm and cold, between light and dark, between being a prisoner in Sir Reginald’s keeping and being an exceedingly foolish woman in charge of her own fate.
Then she turned, gripped the ledge, stretched to her full height, hung for a moment—and let go.