Chapter 6 Flight of the Bumblebee
Midnight seemed the right time to begin, and Elizabeth prepared for the next phase of her life without fuss or noise.
Based on her father’s almanac, the full moon had been on the thirtieth of November, the previous Saturday, so it was still just over a half-moon, but it would be completely useless in a few days.
Besides that, there really was nothing more to do and no reason to procrastinate.
She had researched all the schedules a week before when the idea first occurred.
Elizabeth removed a loose board under her bed and removed all her spare money, an amount of about twenty-five pounds she had been saving for five years.
She had a single valise with her most practical dresses, smallclothes, and all her jewellery.
She had to travel light so spent several hours packing to ensure she took only the most essential items.
A book in her father’s study, written during Roman times, said people walk at about three miles per hour, almost regardless of conditions.
Her own experience backed that up. Her walk to Netherfield to tend to Jane, which seemed like a hundred years earlier but was actually three weeks, covered three miles.
She made it, even with the mud of the fields in an hour and a quarter.
She felt like she could walk like that all night but planning for that would be ill advised.
She would need to rest, warm up, or hide in the woods if she met anybody else, so she allowed half of that speed.
The half-moon was bright and the weather clear, so she had to thank goodness for small favours.
The road to Hatfield was seven miles long, well-travelled, and in good condition, but still had the occasional rut or pothole.
Stepping into a puddle of water would not only be uncomfortable, but could risk her health, so Elizabeth had to watch where she went very carefully.
About an hour or so after she left Longbourn, when she was getting beyond the Meryton environs, the lady found herself being chased by a dog outside a farmstead.
She was not usually afraid of dogs, but that one sounded bad tempered, and nobody with any sense tangled with an angry canine.
She hiked up her skirt and ran like the wind for a few hundred yards, then fortunately found the animal lost interest when she left his domain.
Around two hours after she left, when she was well past any habitations save a few farmhouses, she heard a couple of men returning from some drunken revelry.
They made plenty of noise as they traversed the road, so she had time to hide in a field.
In the end, while she found drunken men much more frightening than vicious dogs, the pair were hardly able to walk, let alone accost her.
They did however cost her an anxious half-hour waiting for them to get on with it.
The only saving grace was that one stepped in a puddle of water and let out an amazing series of curses.
The language burned her ears, but it did point out the location of a hazard so she could avoid it entirely.
Tired but excited, Elizabeth made it to Hatfield two hours before the coach was to leave. She gave about even odds that someone would be there by noon and discover her purchase of a ticket, so she bought a ticket to London, and would exit after a few miles to change direction.
Ticket in hand, she attached herself to a matron who looked like she would box the ears of anyone silly enough to give her any grief.
Elizabeth wanted to learn to be that way herself and thought she should learn the skill sooner than later—though to be honest, she would need to gain a few stone to pull it off.
She carried a kitchen knife for some modicum of protection, but she had no idea how to use it. She suspected she was more likely to cut herself or anger her assailant than do any good, but it was at least something.
Elizabeth’s plan avoided London like the plague, reckoning that it was so obvious, it would be easy for someone on horseback to beat her there, even if she got a substantial head start.
There were only three coaching stations on the road south, and it would be child’s play to investigate each, as she suspected her father would do as soon as he discovered her absence.
On top of that, the only people she knew in London were her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, and she was not certain where their loyalties lay.
She might have gone to them if she had no money at all, but with enough to put her in a boarding house among a group of women for over a year sewn into the seams of her dress, (she checked), and the local presence of the mills, Elizabeth judged Manchester to be a better bet.
Besides that, Mr Darcy was a powerful man, and she could not countenance dragging another family into her mess.
The Gardiners had their own children to raise and their own business to protect.
With a start, the horses pulled on the traces, and Elizabeth followed her sisters’ advice. She put away her childish things.
Elizabeth watched the scenery float past the coach window with feelings of trepidation, excitement and not a little fear.
Her destination was Manchester, an unfashionable, but growing metropolis.
She thought she might be able to get work as a governess, companion, or even nursemaid if necessary.
If she got desperate enough, she could even take work in the mills, which were dangerous and dirty, but not overly fastidious.
She was certain she was voluntarily trading a life of luxury for one of hardship, but it would be her life lived under her terms.
Elizabeth had never experienced true poverty, but she had seen it and wanted no part of it.
However, she had also seen couples who seemed devoted to each other and happy.
She never observed any correlation between their happiness and their condition in life.
She theorised that two people who had enough to eat and feed their children, a roof over their heads, and the right character, could be content or better.
More money or status brought more leisure, but not more happiness.
She could easily name five tenant families who seemed far more content than either the Bennets or the Lucases.
Her tradesman aunt and uncle were at least twice as happy, and three times as sensible as the Bennets, though that was damning by faint praise.
Three long and tiring days later, she was amused at the vagaries of mail schedules that had her stop in Lambton, about two thirds of the way to Manchester.
She was under no illusion she was on the best route to that city, because she had gone to some effort to not go through London or any other obvious choke point.
She had studied the mail schedules and worked out routes several years earlier for her own amusement, and this was a route she considered just because her Aunt Gardiner hailed from there.
She had also worked out routes to Cornwall, Scotland, and even France, though the latter had obvious drawbacks, like war.
She stepped off the coach, wondering if she would recognise any of the landmarks her aunt spoke of.
It was a quaint little village. She was stuck in the half-price seats outside the coach for the past ten miles and frozen to the bone, but she still took the time to look around and appreciate the place.
She marvelled that her escape passed right through the eye of the storm.
She reckoned she could view her supposed future home if she were willing to walk a few miles.
She even briefly considered going up for a look if she could find a cheap enough tourist conveyance but then scoffed at the idea.
Her next coach was to leave in six hours, so she would have time to finish her chores and eat.
Elizabeth walked along the main boulevard in Lambton and saw some of the same shops her aunt mentioned from time to time.
Madeline Gardiner had not returned to the village in some years.
Elizabeth had been invited on a northern tour with her relatives the next summer, with Derbyshire as a possible destination.
That was obviously not about to happen, and she honestly had no idea whether her relatives would even recognise her again, if she ever decided to contact them.
She could not contact anybody until after her twenty-first birthday so that was a problem for later.
After twenty minutes, she found just what she was looking for.
Bartlet’s was a warm and inviting bookshop with a far better collection than she could find in Meryton, both in quantity and quality.
Mr Bartlet was a very polite, grandfatherly sort of man with a cheery countenance and real enthusiasm for his trade.
“Welcome, miss. Come in. Come in. If you have no objection, I must insist you sit a spell by the fire. You look half-frozen.”
“Thank you. I believe I shall.”
True to his word, Mr Bartlet secured a chair, sat her by the fire, and even poured a cup of tea.
Elizabeth smiled. “You are too kind, Mr Bartlet. I feel guilty, as I cannot afford any of your wares and I shall leave in a few hours.”
The old man chuckled. “If you did have money, would you be buying or browsing?”
“Buying, of course,” she laughed.
“Madam, if it is not untoward to say it, any day where a pretty book lover comes into the shop is a success, regardless of any purchases. Sit and enjoy your tea. You can tell me about the last book you read.”
After a wonderful hour discussing books, she asked, “Mr Bartlet, I need to write a letter. Could you sell me the paper and lend me a pen and ink?”
“Of course, young lady. It will be my pleasure.”
“And,” she asked pensively, “if I might ask a much larger favour than I have earned, could you hold it for three days, then mail it?”
The man had long ago worked out what was happening.
Even without speaking to the young lady, her dress and hairstyle may as well have been a sign screaming, ‘runaway,’ but it was not his business to interfere.
The woman seemed sensible enough, and not overly distressed, so he presumed she had a reason for what she did.
It had been quite some years since he had any inclination to poke his nose in other peoples’ business.
“Of course, madam. It would be my privilege.”
Elizabeth smiled, and the elder gentleman went to fetch the supplies.