Elizabeth’s eyes flew to her companion. “Stamford? Mrs. Hobart, you forget the carriage wheel lies broken in the stable yard. We cannot travel to Sir Reginald. He must travel to us, assuming the roads remain passable.”
“That is most vexatious,” Mrs. Hobart declared. “Most vexatious indeed. And in such cold, when my constitution is already sorely tried. The king will not be pleased with the delay, nor with our being thrown upon the charity of common innkeepers.”
Elizabeth sat, folding her hands in her lap with deliberate calm, a gesture she had learnt from Jane that kept her from saying something she might later regret. “Then the king ought not have had me travel in the winter, Mrs. Hobart. It has already contributed to your illness, and I fear this delay will be protracted.”
Mrs. Hobart’s lips pursed as though she had tasted something distinctly unpleasant, but her reply was forestalled by the innkeeper’s sudden appearance at the door. The man executed such an elaborate bow that Elizabeth genuinely feared he might topple forward into the room, his arms windmilling for balance.
“Your Highness, pray forgive the intrusion,” he gasped, having apparently held his breath throughout the entire genuflection, “but would you care for more coffee? Or perhaps some fresh bread? My good wife is most anxious to know your wishes and has been fretting something dreadful.”
Elizabeth rose politely, smoothing her travelling dress with hands that wished very much to clench into fists. “You are very obliging, sir, but no more is required. We are quite content with what has already been provided.”
“Indeed, indeed,” he said, bobbing like a cork upon a stormy sea. His head moved up and down with such rapidity that Elizabeth began to feel slightly dizzy watching him. “And yet, should you desire it, my wife is preparing meat pies. They will be ready soon, and she has taken particular care with the seasoning, knowing as how refined palates require the finest preparation.”
Elizabeth smiled as kindly as she could manage whilst fighting the urge to suggest he cease his bouncing before he made himself ill. “You are most attentive, sir, but truly, nothing further is necessary just now.” She paused, then added with genuine concern for the other guests, “You might ask the gentleman who arrived late last night whether he would like one. He seemed quite hungry this morning when I spoke with him in the common room.”
The mention of the tall, dark-haired man who was clever and handsome and quite clearly angry with her made her flush a little.
The innkeeper’s face brightened considerably. “Oh yes, Your High—that is, I shall inquire immediately, Miss Bennet! Mr. Darcy seems a most distinguished gentleman, though perhaps not quite so . . .” He gestured vaguely in Elizabeth’s direction, clearly struggling to find appropriate words.
Mr. Darcy.Now she at least had a name to go with the face. “He is a gentleman, and that is quite distinction enough,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Now, pray do not let us keep you from your duties.”
With somewhat less enthusiasm, the innkeeper bowed again and withdrew. Elizabeth took her place on the settee with a sense of relief, reaching for the volume ofMarmionher father had pressed upon her before her departure. She had barely opened the book when Mrs. Hobart cleared her throat meaningfully.
“My dear, you ought not encourage the servants to treat that Mr. Darcy as your equal. It gives entirely the wrong impression of your station.”
“Mr. Darcy is not a servant, Mrs. Hobart. He is, by all appearances, a gentleman of good family, and courtesy costs us nothing.” Elizabeth kept her voice level with some effort. “Besides, if we are to be stranded here together, it benefits us all to maintain civility.”
Mrs. Hobart sniffed disapprovingly but said no more, allowing Elizabeth to turn her attention to her book. She settled herself more comfortably near the fire and began to read, grateful for the prospect of losing herself in a wonderfully engaging and wildly improbable story.
She had read no more than a page when the door creaked open yet again. Elizabeth’s eyes closed briefly in resigned anticipation.
The innkeeper reappeared, this time bearing so much wood in his arms that he staggered slightly under the weight. “Begging your pardon, Your—Miss Bennet,” he panted, “but I thought the fire might be burning low, and we cannot have you catching a chill.”
Elizabeth glanced at the fireplace, where flames danced merrily up the chimney, casting dancing shadows across the room. The room was, if anything,toowarm. “I assure you, the blaze is quite adequate. You need not trouble yourself on our account when I am certain there are others who might benefit from your generosity.”
“Oh, but the fire might yet fall low,” he protested, advancing with his burden despite her words. “And with this dreadful weather, we cannot be too careful.”
He continued his discourse while methodically building up the fire until it roared like a blacksmith’s forge. Elizabeth found herself obliged to move away from the hearth as the heat became unbearable, her dress clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Mrs. Hobart reached into her reticule and withdrew a silver flask, took a sip, and returned it. She then waveda handkerchief before her face, though whether from the temperature or from indignation at the innkeeper’s lengthy monologue, Elizabeth could not determine.
“There now,” the man said with evident satisfaction, dusting off his hands. “That should keep you nice and warm. And might I say again, miss, how honoured we are to have such an illustrious personage beneath our humble roof? Are you certain you do not wish for a meat pie?”
“You are very kind,” Elizabeth managed, dabbing at her brow with her own handkerchief. “But pray do not let us keep you from attending to your other guests.”
The man bowed and withdrew, muttering about the incomprehensible preferences of the quality. Elizabeth fanned herself with her book and moved to open the window nearest her. Mrs. Hobart regarded her with obvious disapproval.
“My dear princess, you cannot go about refusing every courtesy shown to you. It is most peculiar behaviour for one of your station.”
“It is common decency, Mrs. Hobart, and I should hope that my station, such as it is, obliges me to practise it more, not less.” Elizabeth attempted once more to start her book.
A quarter of an hour passed in blessed quiet before the door opened again. This time it was the innkeeper’s wife, a plump, motherly woman whose face beamed with excitement and nervous pleasure.
“Oh, Miss—Your Highness—I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” she began, bobbing a curtsy that would have done credit to a royal presentation. “But I couldn’t help thinking you might be uncomfortably seated, what with that old sofa-bed being none too soft for delicate sensibilities.”
Elizabeth was not sitting on the sofa-bed.
The woman held in her arms an enormous cushion, embroidered with every flower known to botanists, executed in colours that would havebeen visible from a considerable distance. The thing was so abundantly filled that it resembled a small haystack. The embroidery, however, was exceptionally fine. Elizabeth thought it might belong to the woman’s own family.
“You are thoughtful,” Elizabeth said carefully, “but I assure you I am quite comfortable as I am.”