“Achoo!The floor?” Mrs. Hobart exclaimed between sneezes. “Achoo!How very . . . how very . . .”
“Common?” Darcy supplied helpfully as the woman sneezed again.
“I had no knowledge of your discomfort. I did not even know you were here when we went upstairs.”
“We might have been here earlier had we some assistance clearing the road.”
“I did not—"
Miss Bennet’s voice was tight with something that might have been guilt or irritation.
He hoped it was guilt.
The infernal companion coughed this time, but Miss Bennet was still speaking. “Had I known—”
“Achoo!You would have done precisely what you did, my dear,” Mrs. Hobart finished for her. “One cannot be expected to rest upon inferior beds.Achoo!The very idea!”
Miss Bennet closed her eyes briefly, as though summoning patience from some celestial reserve. “Mrs. Hobart means—”
“I am quite certain Mrs. Hobart means exactly what she says,” Darcy observed. “Such refreshing directness. So very . . .noble."
The word hung in the air like agauntlet thrown down.
Miss Bennet lifted her chin. “Sir, if you have something particular to say, I would prefer you say it plainly.”
Darcy was quite happy to comply, but before he could speak, the companion rose with a rustle of skirts. “We must return upstairs at once. This air is ruinous. Come, come.” She held out her hand.
Darcy watched Miss Bennet’s lips press into a frown as she pushed back her chair with quiet dignity. “If you will excuse us, sir,” she said, and allowed herself to be guided toward the passage.
As he lifted his cup, he found himself reluctantly acknowledging that her eyes had been remarkably fine when flashing with indignation, that her wit was uncommonly quick. He dismissed the thought.
The innkeeper scurried after them, bowing and bustling as though royalty had truly graced his house. Darcy lifted his cup to sip the last of the coffee and allowed himself a faint smile.
The field was his.
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 howhehad 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.”