Chapter 7
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The fifth week after the party, Elizabeth managed to slip away and she rode into the nearest town with a post house, unaccompanied.
She inquired at the local post house about whether the post coach ran from there to other places than London and farther outward. It did not directly, one would have to go to London and go out again from there. Still, she asked how much such journeys cost.
The sum was staggering. Possibly she might have managed it if she'd gone a year without buying books. Her father managed despite the number of his children, to both provide for them, and allow a moderately generous quarterly allowance. "To teach them the value of money early," he told their mother, when she accused him of spoiling them.
That was also the week she stopped being able to eat breakfast. And decided that her condition was turning her into something of a habitual liar, for she quickly discovered that if she skipped breakfast, her mother would fuss at her. But if she showed up to breakfast early, not too unusual since she'd begun working in the stables as she'd been instructed that stalls should be cleared of the night's filth early in the day, then no one seemed to notice that she wasn't eating. So long as she had a plate with a few crumbs on and claimed to have already eaten, or if she weren't the first to arrive claimed to be waiting on a particular dish that wasn't out yet, everyone assumed that she had eaten or would eat soon.
--
The sixth week, she decided that her mother was right. Meeting with the Marques seemed impossible, so she decided to write to him. She added her letter to the stack of outgoing mail in her father's office, as she usually did with the few letters she wrote to friends and family. What she soon discovered, when her father called her to his office, was that he, or his clerk, had always added the proper addressing as needed. His clerk had brought the letter to his attention, unsure what address to add.
"Elizabeth!" exclaimed the Lord Justice of Appeals Matthew Dowen, to his apparently, and unbeknownst to him actually very much, errant daughter. "What is the meaning of this letter?" he demanded.
"Well, as you appear to have read it already, it's as it says, I wish to speak again to Lord Waverly." The wayward daughter replied with, she thought, remarkable calmness, given that she felt like she'd rather faint.
"It won't do!" her father replied, tossing the letter into the tiny fire that an unusually chill early September morning had allowed.
"But Papa," Elizabeth began to protest and then realized that there was no reasonable explanation she could think of. And if she admitted to her father the real reason, then he would surely rush to the Marques and demand that he marry her.
While she wasn't entirely opposed to marrying Lord Waverly, she hadn't actually managed to so much as speak to him before the summer party, and she didn't much like the idea of him being forced into it. She rather felt, after considering her mother's whispered description of his various affairs, that he'd likely believed that she'd tactically agreed to an affair with him. She had after all, agreed to lift her skirts for him, even if she hadn't meant it quite that way.
Her father, taking her continued silence as a lack of resistance and a little puzzled by the lack, tried to make some gentler explanation, "It might be different if he were an old family friend or something, but he's only a distant acquaintance at best. I'm sorry, it just won't do."
Elizabeth nodded mutely, and took her leave.
--
The seventh week, she decided she'd had no idea what a helpless incompetent she was. Though she came up with dozens of wild plans, many based on the fictional novels in her small collection of books, and her parent's larger collection, none of them seemed practical to actually implement.
Even if she wrote another letter, she lacked the information needed in order to actually send it in the post. When her friend Amaline had married, she'd sent the requisite addressing information in her first letter from her new home, but Elizabeth was so accustomed to having the information added for her that it hadn't occurred to her that she would need to request such information from Lord Waverly. She had no idea how to address a letter such that it would arrive safely to the Marques. It made her feel terribly helpless, an unusual feeling for her.
--
At eight weeks she was desperate, the Marques had indicated that she shouldn't wait any longer than two months to come to him, but she had no idea how to actually do it. And then, a couple days later, inspiration arrived, in the form of an exhausted messenger, who'd ridden all night to deliver something urgent from London to her father as quickly as possible. As Elizabeth and her father were the only ones already at breakfast, she was asked to show the messenger to a guest room while her father prepared to set out.
The messenger, a decent looking fellow apart from looking ready to drop from exhaustion, seemed not to realize that she wasn't a maid. He tried to flirt with her a little, and asked her help in removing his boots. His coat, hat, and bag he removed himself and tossed them at the dresser in the room, where the coat promptly slid off, and onto the floor. He made a feeble motion toward it.
"I'll get it," Elizabeth told him. The man stretched out on top of the bed, and Elizabeth set to brushing off his boots, as she would her own. Before she finished, he appeared to have fallen fast asleep. She quietly emptied his messenger bag of contents, lining them neatly along the dresser, and picked up the fallen coat, and the hat, and walked calmly to her room.
The idea was ridiculous, but she was out of good ones. It was the coat that had suggested it to her. For it was long, and full at the hips, and must be dreadfully hot in the peak of a day this time of year, as it was a good thick wool.
Elizabeth pulled on the trousers that she'd worn to muck out stalls, and the odd blousey shirt she'd made to wear with them, thinking a man's shirt too clingy, though in truth many dresses were far more clingy in that region. She'd already finished her term as stable assistant, and Bevan had returned to work a few days ago.
She bound up her hair, in a fashion she'd thought up during some of her wilder planning sessions. With the ends of several braids spilling out in layers, it appeared as though she had a rather thick, somewhat messy, bowl cut. She bound her breasts in a manner much described in scandalous novels, and much less convincingly she thought, with a long silk scarf.
From her closet, she took two of her fancier dresses, and wrapped them tightly into a small woolen blanket that she used over her feet in winter. And a third gown, a light summery thing that wasn't very bulky, went into the messenger bag, along with the necessary underthings and slippers, and several other small items, including the few pence she had remaining from her last quarterly allowance.
She scribbled a brief note to her parents, and left it weighted on the little table in her room. "Mama, Papa, there's a timely matter I need to attend to. I'm not sure how long it will take, more than a couple days, but less than a few weeks, I think. Love E"
Then she donned the coat, thankfully it seemed sturdy and heavy enough to finish disguising her breasts. She hoped it was, and put on the hat, picked up bag and bundle and headed for the stables.
She counted it a minor miracle that no one either saw or took notice of her, as anyone of the household would surely have asked her what she thought she was doing in the messenger's get up. She had thought of an answer though, that the message needed to go one more place farther along, and quickly. Though she knew anyone would immediately protest that one of the grooms should be sent instead.
Instead, she managed to saddle her horse, strap on her bundle, mount and be out the gate before a puzzled groom noticed that the messenger appeared to be riding out on Miss Elizabeth's horse. She was too distant already, and he wasn't thinking it was possible, and so did not notice that it was the Miss herself, riding off. Sometimes horses were lent, after all.
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The fifth week after the party, Elizabeth managed to slip away and she rode into the nearest town with a post house, unaccompanied.
She inquired at the local post house about whether the post coach ran from there to other places than London and farther outward. It did not directly, one would have to go to London and go out again from there. Still, she asked how much such journeys cost.
The sum was staggering. Possibly she might have managed it if she'd gone a year without buying books. Her father managed despite the number of his children, to both provide for them, and allow a moderately generous quarterly allowance. "To teach them the value of money early," he told their mother, when she accused him of spoiling them.
That was also the week she stopped being able to eat breakfast. And decided that her condition was turning her into something of a habitual liar, for she quickly discovered that if she skipped breakfast, her mother would fuss at her. But if she showed up to breakfast early, not too unusual since she'd begun working in the stables as she'd been instructed that stalls should be cleared of the night's filth early in the day, then no one seemed to notice that she wasn't eating. So long as she had a plate with a few crumbs on and claimed to have already eaten, or if she weren't the first to arrive claimed to be waiting on a particular dish that wasn't out yet, everyone assumed that she had eaten or would eat soon.
--
The sixth week, she decided that her mother was right. Meeting with the Marques seemed impossible, so she decided to write to him. She added her letter to the stack of outgoing mail in her father's office, as she usually did with the few letters she wrote to friends and family. What she soon discovered, when her father called her to his office, was that he, or his clerk, had always added the proper addressing as needed. His clerk had brought the letter to his attention, unsure what address to add.
"Elizabeth!" exclaimed the Lord Justice of Appeals Matthew Dowen, to his apparently, and unbeknownst to him actually very much, errant daughter. "What is the meaning of this letter?" he demanded.
"Well, as you appear to have read it already, it's as it says, I wish to speak again to Lord Waverly." The wayward daughter replied with, she thought, remarkable calmness, given that she felt like she'd rather faint.
"It won't do!" her father replied, tossing the letter into the tiny fire that an unusually chill early September morning had allowed.
"But Papa," Elizabeth began to protest and then realized that there was no reasonable explanation she could think of. And if she admitted to her father the real reason, then he would surely rush to the Marques and demand that he marry her.
While she wasn't entirely opposed to marrying Lord Waverly, she hadn't actually managed to so much as speak to him before the summer party, and she didn't much like the idea of him being forced into it. She rather felt, after considering her mother's whispered description of his various affairs, that he'd likely believed that she'd tactically agreed to an affair with him. She had after all, agreed to lift her skirts for him, even if she hadn't meant it quite that way.
Her father, taking her continued silence as a lack of resistance and a little puzzled by the lack, tried to make some gentler explanation, "It might be different if he were an old family friend or something, but he's only a distant acquaintance at best. I'm sorry, it just won't do."
Elizabeth nodded mutely, and took her leave.
--
The seventh week, she decided she'd had no idea what a helpless incompetent she was. Though she came up with dozens of wild plans, many based on the fictional novels in her small collection of books, and her parent's larger collection, none of them seemed practical to actually implement.
Even if she wrote another letter, she lacked the information needed in order to actually send it in the post. When her friend Amaline had married, she'd sent the requisite addressing information in her first letter from her new home, but Elizabeth was so accustomed to having the information added for her that it hadn't occurred to her that she would need to request such information from Lord Waverly. She had no idea how to address a letter such that it would arrive safely to the Marques. It made her feel terribly helpless, an unusual feeling for her.
--
At eight weeks she was desperate, the Marques had indicated that she shouldn't wait any longer than two months to come to him, but she had no idea how to actually do it. And then, a couple days later, inspiration arrived, in the form of an exhausted messenger, who'd ridden all night to deliver something urgent from London to her father as quickly as possible. As Elizabeth and her father were the only ones already at breakfast, she was asked to show the messenger to a guest room while her father prepared to set out.
The messenger, a decent looking fellow apart from looking ready to drop from exhaustion, seemed not to realize that she wasn't a maid. He tried to flirt with her a little, and asked her help in removing his boots. His coat, hat, and bag he removed himself and tossed them at the dresser in the room, where the coat promptly slid off, and onto the floor. He made a feeble motion toward it.
"I'll get it," Elizabeth told him. The man stretched out on top of the bed, and Elizabeth set to brushing off his boots, as she would her own. Before she finished, he appeared to have fallen fast asleep. She quietly emptied his messenger bag of contents, lining them neatly along the dresser, and picked up the fallen coat, and the hat, and walked calmly to her room.
The idea was ridiculous, but she was out of good ones. It was the coat that had suggested it to her. For it was long, and full at the hips, and must be dreadfully hot in the peak of a day this time of year, as it was a good thick wool.
Elizabeth pulled on the trousers that she'd worn to muck out stalls, and the odd blousey shirt she'd made to wear with them, thinking a man's shirt too clingy, though in truth many dresses were far more clingy in that region. She'd already finished her term as stable assistant, and Bevan had returned to work a few days ago.
She bound up her hair, in a fashion she'd thought up during some of her wilder planning sessions. With the ends of several braids spilling out in layers, it appeared as though she had a rather thick, somewhat messy, bowl cut. She bound her breasts in a manner much described in scandalous novels, and much less convincingly she thought, with a long silk scarf.
From her closet, she took two of her fancier dresses, and wrapped them tightly into a small woolen blanket that she used over her feet in winter. And a third gown, a light summery thing that wasn't very bulky, went into the messenger bag, along with the necessary underthings and slippers, and several other small items, including the few pence she had remaining from her last quarterly allowance.
She scribbled a brief note to her parents, and left it weighted on the little table in her room. "Mama, Papa, there's a timely matter I need to attend to. I'm not sure how long it will take, more than a couple days, but less than a few weeks, I think. Love E"
Then she donned the coat, thankfully it seemed sturdy and heavy enough to finish disguising her breasts. She hoped it was, and put on the hat, picked up bag and bundle and headed for the stables.
She counted it a minor miracle that no one either saw or took notice of her, as anyone of the household would surely have asked her what she thought she was doing in the messenger's get up. She had thought of an answer though, that the message needed to go one more place farther along, and quickly. Though she knew anyone would immediately protest that one of the grooms should be sent instead.
Instead, she managed to saddle her horse, strap on her bundle, mount and be out the gate before a puzzled groom noticed that the messenger appeared to be riding out on Miss Elizabeth's horse. She was too distant already, and he wasn't thinking it was possible, and so did not notice that it was the Miss herself, riding off. Sometimes horses were lent, after all.
The fifth week after the party, Elizabeth managed to slip away and she rode into the nearest town with a post house, unaccompanied.She inquired at the local post house about whether the post coach ran from there to other places than London and farther outward. It did not directly, one would have to go to London and go out again from there. Still, she asked how much such journeys cost. The sum was staggering. Possibly she might have managed it if she'd gone a year without buying books. Her father managed despite the number of his children, to both provide for them, and allow a moderately generous quarterly allowance. "To teach them the value of money early," he told their mother, when she accused him of spoiling them. That was also the week she stopped being able to eat breakfast. And decided that her condition was turning her into something of a habitual liar, for she quickly discovered that if she skipped breakfast, her mother would fuss at her. But if she showed up to breakfast early, not too unusual since she'd begun working in the stables as she'd been instructed that stalls should be cleared of the night's filth early in the day, then no one seemed to notice that she wasn't eating. So long as she had a plate with a few crumbs on and claimed to have already eaten, or if she weren't the first to arrive claimed to be waiting on a particular dish that wasn't out yet, everyone assumed that she had eaten or would eat soon. -- The sixth week, she decided that her mother was right. Meeting with the Marques seemed impossible, so she decided to write to him. She added her letter to the stack of outgoing mail in her father's office, as she usually did with the few letters she wrote to friends and family. What she soon discovered, when her father called her to his office, was that he, or his clerk, had always added the proper addressing as needed. His clerk had brought the letter to his attention, unsure what address to add. "Elizabeth!" exclaimed the Lord Justice of Appeals Matthew Dowen, to his apparently, and unbeknownst to him actually very much, errant daughter. "What is the meaning of this letter?" he demanded. "Well, as you appear to have read it already, it's as it says, I wish to speak again to Lord Waverly." The wayward daughter replied with, she thought, remarkable calmness, given that she felt like she'd rather faint. "It won't do!" her father replied, tossing the letter into the tiny fire that an unusually chill early September morning had allowed. "But Papa," Elizabeth began to protest and then realized that there was no reasonable explanation she could think of. And if she admitted to her father the real reason, then he would surely rush to the Marques and demand that he marry her. While she wasn't entirely opposed to marrying Lord Waverly, she hadn't actually managed to so much as speak to him before the summer party, and she didn't much like the idea of him being forced into it. She rather felt, after considering her mother's whispered description of his various affairs, that he'd likely believed that she'd tactically agreed to an affair with him. She had after all, agreed to lift her skirts for him, even if she hadn't meant it quite that way. Her father, taking her continued silence as a lack of resistance and a little puzzled by the lack, tried to make some gentler explanation, "It might be different if he were an old family friend or something, but he's only a distant acquaintance at best. I'm sorry, it just won't do." Elizabeth nodded mutely, and took her leave. -- The seventh week, she decided she'd had no idea what a helpless incompetent she was. Though she came up with dozens of wild plans, many based on the fictional novels in her small collection of books, and her parent's larger collection, none of them seemed practical to actually implement. Even if she wrote another letter, she lacked the information needed in order to actually send it in the post. When her friend Amaline had married, she'd sent the requisite addressing information in her first letter from her new home, but Elizabeth was so accustomed to having the information added for her that it hadn't occurred to her that she would need to request such information from Lord Waverly. She had no idea how to address a letter such that it would arrive safely to the Marques. It made her feel terribly helpless, an unusual feeling for her. -- At eight weeks she was desperate, the Marques had indicated that she shouldn't wait any longer than two months to come to him, but she had no idea how to actually do it. And then, a couple days later, inspiration arrived, in the form of an exhausted messenger, who'd ridden all night to deliver something urgent from London to her father as quickly as possible. As Elizabeth and her father were the only ones already at breakfast, she was asked to show the messenger to a guest room while her father prepared to set out. The messenger, a decent looking fellow apart from looking ready to drop from exhaustion, seemed not to realize that she wasn't a maid. He tried to flirt with her a little, and asked her help in removing his boots. His coat, hat, and bag he removed himself and tossed them at the dresser in the room, where the coat promptly slid off, and onto the floor. He made a feeble motion toward it. "I'll get it," Elizabeth told him. The man stretched out on top of the bed, and Elizabeth set to brushing off his boots, as she would her own. Before she finished, he appeared to have fallen fast asleep. She quietly emptied his messenger bag of contents, lining them neatly along the dresser, and picked up the fallen coat, and the hat, and walked calmly to her room. The idea was ridiculous, but she was out of good ones. It was the coat that had suggested it to her. For it was long, and full at the hips, and must be dreadfully hot in the peak of a day this time of year, as it was a good thick wool. Elizabeth pulled on the trousers that she'd worn to muck out stalls, and the odd blousey shirt she'd made to wear with them, thinking a man's shirt too clingy, though in truth many dresses were far more clingy in that region. She'd already finished her term as stable assistant, and Bevan had returned to work a few days ago. She bound up her hair, in a fashion she'd thought up during some of her wilder planning sessions. With the ends of several braids spilling out in layers, it appeared as though she had a rather thick, somewhat messy, bowl cut. She bound her breasts in a manner much described in scandalous novels, and much less convincingly she thought, with a long silk scarf. From her closet, she took two of her fancier dresses, and wrapped them tightly into a small woolen blanket that she used over her feet in winter. And a third gown, a light summery thing that wasn't very bulky, went into the messenger bag, along with the necessary underthings and slippers, and several other small items, including the few pence she had remaining from her last quarterly allowance. She scribbled a brief note to her parents, and left it weighted on the little table in her room. "Mama, Papa, there's a timely matter I need to attend to. I'm not sure how long it will take, more than a couple days, but less than a few weeks, I think. Love E" Then she donned the coat, thankfully it seemed sturdy and heavy enough to finish disguising her breasts. She hoped it was, and put on the hat, picked up bag and bundle and headed for the stables. She counted it a minor miracle that no one either saw or took notice of her, as anyone of the household would surely have asked her what she thought she was doing in the messenger's get up. She had thought of an answer though, that the message needed to go one more place farther along, and quickly. Though she knew anyone would immediately protest that one of the grooms should be sent instead. Instead, she managed to saddle her horse, strap on her bundle, mount and be out the gate before a puzzled groom noticed that the messenger appeared to be riding out on Miss Elizabeth's horse. She was too distant already, and he wasn't thinking it was possible, and so did not notice that it was the Miss herself, riding off. Sometimes horses were lent, after all.
