She turned from the window. “I shall be ready directly. May we take breakfast before we go?”
Mrs. Hobart frowned, nodded, and sailed away.
Half an hour later, Elizabeth stood upon the narrow strip of swept cobbles beneath the gallery and watched Mr. Darcy’s coachmen, as well as the coachman who had been hired by Sir Reginald, crouch beside the broken wheel of their carriage like mourners at a bier.
The wheel was unusable. The iron rim had shifted and the wood beneath it had cracked. The coachman rose when he saw Elizabeth, hat in hand, his breath ghosting in the cold air.
“Begging your pardon, miss.” He darted an anxious glance over her shoulder where Mrs. Hobart descended the steps. “I am told the nearest wheelwright is in Stamford, and with the roads as they are—”
“Stamford." Mrs. Hobart’s tone made it sound like three continents. “Well, we shall leave you to it then. There must be some other conveyance for us.”
Elizabeth turned to look at Mrs. Hobart. Where, precisely, did she intend to locate another carriage? It was not as though they were in London and could hire a hackney.
Their coachman stared at Mrs. Hobart as though she had not heard him. He nodded at the mostly cleared yard. “Everyone is eager to leave, what with the roads beginning to clear. There is but Mr. Darcy’s coach remaining, and that is his own.”
Elizabeth had already noticed it. It waited near the far gate, dark and splendid, its panels shining even beneath their coating of frozen mud. Only now that every other carriage had gone did a few stable boys lead the team out, and Anders and Johnson left to supervise. In a brisk few minutes as she watched, the team was put to, harnesses jingling, breath smoking in the freezing air. Anders checked the traces with practised hands. The horses stamped and tossed their heads, eager for the road. Mr. Darcy observed the work, nodding once when satisfied.
Beside her, Mrs. Hobart’s gaze fastened upon them as if it were a lifeboat.
“Then we shall take Mr Darcy’s coach,” she said briskly. She called to one of the stable boys. “Inform Mr. Darcy that Her Highness will require his carriage.”
Elizabeth caught at Mrs Hobart’s sleeve. “You cannot be serious, Mrs. Hobart. We cannot simply—”
Mrs. Hobart shook her off with a fluttering hand. “My dear girl, this is precisely the sort of occasion for which rank exists. These people must be made to understand that a princess does not tramp through the snow waiting upon the convenience of any random wheelwright. Mr. Darcy will be proud to serve the Thurnian court in so small a matter. It will do his reputation no end of good.”
Elizabeth felt her breakfast clawing its way up her throat. The urge to sink into the snow and remain there until spring was very strong.
Mrs. Hobart was already striding across the yard, skirts lifted neatly above the slush. A surge of panic propelled Elizabeth forward to stop her.
Mr. Darcy stood near his coach, gloved hands behind his back, speaking with Johnson. His dark coat sat very well upon his shoulders. Snow had dusted the brim of his hat. He turned at Mrs. Hobart’s approach, his expression polite and distant in a way that made Elizabeth’s teeth clench.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hobart began, her voice pitched to carry. Several of the men in the yard turned their heads instinctively. “We find ourselves in a distressing situation. The carriage in which Her Highness travels is unfit for the road. We must, regrettably, take yours.”
Elizabeth paused where she was, still several feet behind Mrs. Hobart. Her shock at such a bold application made her mouth fall open, but she quickly snapped it shut and closed her eyes in mortification, knowing full well what would come next.
There was silence as though the yard itself drew breath to see what he would say. After a moment, Elizabeth dared to open her eyes a little.
Mr. Darcy’s mouth curved, not into a smile, but into something darker and far less friendly. A sound escaped him that might have been called a laugh if it had held any amusement.
“You will not,” he said.
The words fell into the space between them like a stone into a pond. Ripples of surprise spread through the watching faces. Elizabeth heard someone near the stables mutter under his breath.
Mrs. Hobart’s spine stiffened. “Sir, you cannot mean to keep your carriage for your own convenience when the princess requires it.”
“She is not anEnglishprincess, madam,” Mr. Darcy replied. His tone had cooled a degree further if that were possible. “I owe her no allegiance.”
This could not be happening. Every eye in the yard was upon them. Upon her.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, “despite Mrs. Hobart’s unfortunate turn of phrase, no one will ask you to give up your coach or swear allegiance to anyone.”
Mrs. Hobart uttered a disbelieving snort from the back of her throat. Elizabeth strode up to stand next to her companion. “We are only seeking to travel in safety.”
“Her Highness is due in Thurnia,” Mrs Hobart went on. “Your refusal to assist her will not reflect well upon you when word reaches court.”
“Mrs. Hobart,” Elizabeth said, her voice low, “stop this immediately.”
“Your identity has been made known.” Mrs. Hobart whispered back. “There is no need for modesty.”