“Good evening, ladies,” she said. “Mr. Gregory said as how you might be wanting something hot.”
“You are speaking to a princess,” Mrs. Hobart said reprovingly. “Her Royal Highness, the granddaughter of the king of Thurnia. You should remember to whom you address yourself.”
Mrs. Gregory’s hands tightened briefly upon the tray. Her expression did not otherwise change. “Begging your pardon, madam. I will remember. There is broth and bread.”
Elizabeth stepped forward at once. “Thank you. We are much obliged. I do not stand upon ceremony where hot broth is concerned.”
For an instant Mrs. Gregory’s gaze rose to Elizabeth’s face, then dropped again. “If you want anything more, you have only to ring.”
When they had eaten, and Mrs. Hobart had declared herself revived, she drew her shawl high about her shoulders. “Is not Sir Reginald good to us?” she asked, without appearing to require a reply.
Elizabeth nodded but did not speak.
Somewhere above their heads a door shut with a dull thud. Men’s voices, faint but urgent, drifted down—Sir Reginald and Mr. Gregory, no doubt, laying plans ladies were not meant to hear.
“Do sit down, Princess Elizabeth,” Mrs. Hobart said peevishly. “You make my nerves quite unsettled with your pacing.”
“My apologies,” Elizabeth replied, and forced herself to obey.
When the door had opened earlier, she had seen that the shutters on this floor were not only closed but latched from within, and that a heavy curtain waited to be drawn across the passage when the outer door was opened. Was the curtain for warmth, or concealment? Somehow, she believed it to be the latter.
Fear of being seen seldom sat comfortably upon honest business.
“Mrs. Hobart,” she said at last, as lightly as she could, “I find myself excessively fatigued. Might I go to my chamber for the night? If anything should be required of me, you may send Mrs. Gregory to call me. I shall be ready to depart early.”
Mrs. Hobart evaluated her. “You do still appear pale. Yes, you should go. Rest, and I shall have your dinner brought up later.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, “but I fear I have little appetite after our journey today. I only wish to sleep.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hobart said. “You are still unwell?”
Elizabeth nodded. “But do not worry, I shall be ready to depart in the morning whenever Sir Reginald calls for us.”
“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.