Chapter 12
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At the inn, Elizabeth looked out the coach window as they arrived, and shrank back a little. "Oh no," she said faintly.
"What's wrong," asked the Marques.
"This is the same inn I stayed at last night," she replied. "They will recognize me."
"Did you do anything wrong while you were here?" Mark inquired in an amused tone.
"Well, no," she said.
"Then what matter if they do," he replied and drew her from the coach. "I doubt they will recognize the messenger in the lady anyway," he added, recalling her grubby first appearance.
"Wait!" She clutched at his sleeve.
He turned, quizzical eyebrow raised.
"How should I address you in public?" she asked nervously. He appeared puzzled and didn't immediately reply. "I mean," she went on, "that in public Mama refers to Papa as 'Sir Dowen' to other people, and calls him Matthew directly, and to us says your Papa." The explanation spilled out. "Should I refer to you as Lord Waverly, or as my Lord? Or..?"
"The pattern your parents use sounds fine if you are comfortable with it, my Lord would probably also be correct," was Mark's reply.
"But, I wasn't asking what is comfortable for me, but what you prefer?" she queried.
"My dear," he replied with a wry smile, "I confess I've never considered how my wife ought to address me in public. Your parents' example seems like a perfectly respectable one to pattern ourselves after."
"What about before?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly.
"Last time I was married," he responded, the smile falling away, "I was merely the Waverly heir, and it didn't really matter how my wife addressed me, so long as she wasn't hurling insults in public," he faltered. "Which unfortunately happened a few times."
"Oh," she replied, subdued, and reached out to take his hand.
"Shall we enter then?" Mark asked, with a touch of amusement rising again in his tone.
"Yes," she replied.
They entered the inn, and were seated. Food was brought. Elizabeth fiddled with the stew that had been offered for their luncheon.
"Not hungry?" asked Mark.
"I'm kind of hungry, but also afraid to be sick again," she confessed.
He frowned. "I think you should eat some at least. Perhaps we could ask for a basket to take along after." He surveyed her briefly. "You seem a little thin and pale."
"Breakfast has not been kind to me of late," she replied.
The innkeeper overhearing, as the inn was too small for a private dining room, approached. "If you're having trouble keeping down food, I can give you some broth, or pressed cider?" the stout man suggested. "It's a favorite with my wife when she's increasing."
Elizabeth accepted the offer and soon sipped at a mug of cider.
The innkeeper offered them a small jug of the cider, an apple, and roll stuffed with a bit of cheese in a napkin as traveling rations, "As you took for breakfast," he said looking at Elizabeth directly.
She flushed. "Mark, I fear I am caught," she said to Mark. And to the innkeeper said, "If there are any left, I'd rather have a few of the dry fruit and nut biscuits, like the one that was added to my breakfast."
The innkeeper told them he'd be glad to check. "If you had told me," fussed the innkeeper to Elizabeth, "I could have given you a better bed!"
Surprised by this response, she quickly replied, " 'Tis fine, I slept so soundly, I'd never have known the difference!"
The Marques laughed. "I have noted, in my own travels, that the straw ticks offered my servants are often fresher and sweeter than the feather mattresses deemed suitable for me anyway."
The innkeeper defended the mattresses at his own inn, but admitted that in general, straw ticks were indeed more often freshly stuffed. Soon they were on their way again.
Elizabeth did not sleep in the coach any more, nor was sick again.
--
They arrived at Lord Waverly's London house as evening was settling in. Ultra-modern gas lights warmly lit the little curved drive that arched from the street, past house and stable, and back out to the street. Mark explained that he had been fortunate enough to visit the extraordinarily splendid display of lights at the Soho works back in '02 during the treaty, as he helped his tired young bride from the coach.
They entered the house, to be greeted by a very surprised butler. He was introduced to Elizabeth as Devons. "Is Devons his given or surname?" Elizabeth whispered to Mark.
"William Devons," the butler answered, overhearing.
"Thank you," Elizabeth replied, flushing a little.
Mark regarded her wryly.
"A light supper has been awaiting your arrival," suggested Devons. "If you'll just give me a moment to add a place setting."
Mark nodded in approval. Then he guided Elizabeth to the very modern water closet set within a retiring room beneath the grand staircase that dominated the end of the two story entrance.
Afterward he showed her into a small dining room on the other side of the stairs, indicating the door to his study as they passed it. "The breakfast room," he said as they entered, "though we tend to take all our meals in here. During the day when the shutters are open, it overlooks a small flower garden," he said indicating the far wall which also had a door set in the center. Another doorway was set into the left wall. He guided her to a place setting at that end of the table, and then seated himself at the other end of the table.
Devons emerged from the door behind her bearing food. He offered them wine from a side table. Elizabeth gazed unhappily down the table toward Mark.
Mark frowned. "What's wrong love?"
"I'm sure," she replied hesitantly, "that this seating arrangement is very proper... but do you think that perhaps, if it's just us, we might sit across the table from each other in the shorter direction?"
He gave her a little grin, and said, "Of course, let us move at once." He stood, and had Devons shift their plates and things to places at the center of the table.
Seated once more across from each other, but much closer, the meal resumed. Mark laid his arm across the table and coaxed her into giving him her hand. "Better?" he inquired.
She nodded, and squeezed his fingers lightly.
During the meal the Marques laid out the tentative plans for their marriage that he'd been pondering as they traveled. "Tomorrow we'll find a dressmaker," he proposed, "and I'll go and find out about getting a license, or posting bans." He asked, "Which church does your family attend while in London?"
Elizabeth told him, for if he weren't granted a license, and it wasn't the same church, bans would need to be called in each. They hoped a license would be granted, for Elizabeth was afraid, after further consideration, that if her aunt were in town she'd write to her father upon hearing the bans.
"Do I need a different gown if it's just us?" Elizabeth asked.
Mark gave her a wry look. She blushed again. His young bride blushed very easily, he'd noticed. "While that light summer gown you are wearing is pretty enough, it's hardly fitting for my Marchioness," he answered carefully. "And you will need more clothes than that."
Elizabeth frowned, and bit her lip. "I have more clothes at home though, and I indicated that at some point I would return to try to claim the dresses I sold."
She was then obliged to explain more of her adventures in reaching Essex. "I should write home," she added worriedly, "and tell them at least that I am safe."
He nodded. "After we are married, we can pay your family a visit, and see to your things, and also find out about your horse," he offered. "At least, I believe I can get enough of my affairs here settled to do that, in perhaps two weeks?"
She cast a relieved look across the table. "Yes, please," she smiled at him.
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
At the inn, Elizabeth looked out the coach window as they arrived, and shrank back a little. "Oh no," she said faintly.
"What's wrong," asked the Marques.
"This is the same inn I stayed at last night," she replied. "They will recognize me."
"Did you do anything wrong while you were here?" Mark inquired in an amused tone.
"Well, no," she said.
"Then what matter if they do," he replied and drew her from the coach. "I doubt they will recognize the messenger in the lady anyway," he added, recalling her grubby first appearance.
"Wait!" She clutched at his sleeve.
He turned, quizzical eyebrow raised.
"How should I address you in public?" she asked nervously. He appeared puzzled and didn't immediately reply. "I mean," she went on, "that in public Mama refers to Papa as 'Sir Dowen' to other people, and calls him Matthew directly, and to us says your Papa." The explanation spilled out. "Should I refer to you as Lord Waverly, or as my Lord? Or..?"
"The pattern your parents use sounds fine if you are comfortable with it, my Lord would probably also be correct," was Mark's reply.
"But, I wasn't asking what is comfortable for me, but what you prefer?" she queried.
"My dear," he replied with a wry smile, "I confess I've never considered how my wife ought to address me in public. Your parents' example seems like a perfectly respectable one to pattern ourselves after."
"What about before?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly.
"Last time I was married," he responded, the smile falling away, "I was merely the Waverly heir, and it didn't really matter how my wife addressed me, so long as she wasn't hurling insults in public," he faltered. "Which unfortunately happened a few times."
"Oh," she replied, subdued, and reached out to take his hand.
"Shall we enter then?" Mark asked, with a touch of amusement rising again in his tone.
"Yes," she replied.
They entered the inn, and were seated. Food was brought. Elizabeth fiddled with the stew that had been offered for their luncheon.
"Not hungry?" asked Mark.
"I'm kind of hungry, but also afraid to be sick again," she confessed.
He frowned. "I think you should eat some at least. Perhaps we could ask for a basket to take along after." He surveyed her briefly. "You seem a little thin and pale."
"Breakfast has not been kind to me of late," she replied.
The innkeeper overhearing, as the inn was too small for a private dining room, approached. "If you're having trouble keeping down food, I can give you some broth, or pressed cider?" the stout man suggested. "It's a favorite with my wife when she's increasing."
Elizabeth accepted the offer and soon sipped at a mug of cider.
The innkeeper offered them a small jug of the cider, an apple, and roll stuffed with a bit of cheese in a napkin as traveling rations, "As you took for breakfast," he said looking at Elizabeth directly.
She flushed. "Mark, I fear I am caught," she said to Mark. And to the innkeeper said, "If there are any left, I'd rather have a few of the dry fruit and nut biscuits, like the one that was added to my breakfast."
The innkeeper told them he'd be glad to check. "If you had told me," fussed the innkeeper to Elizabeth, "I could have given you a better bed!"
Surprised by this response, she quickly replied, " 'Tis fine, I slept so soundly, I'd never have known the difference!"
The Marques laughed. "I have noted, in my own travels, that the straw ticks offered my servants are often fresher and sweeter than the feather mattresses deemed suitable for me anyway."
The innkeeper defended the mattresses at his own inn, but admitted that in general, straw ticks were indeed more often freshly stuffed. Soon they were on their way again.
Elizabeth did not sleep in the coach any more, nor was sick again.
--
They arrived at Lord Waverly's London house as evening was settling in. Ultra-modern gas lights warmly lit the little curved drive that arched from the street, past house and stable, and back out to the street. Mark explained that he had been fortunate enough to visit the extraordinarily splendid display of lights at the Soho works back in '02 during the treaty, as he helped his tired young bride from the coach.
They entered the house, to be greeted by a very surprised butler. He was introduced to Elizabeth as Devons. "Is Devons his given or surname?" Elizabeth whispered to Mark.
"William Devons," the butler answered, overhearing.
"Thank you," Elizabeth replied, flushing a little.
Mark regarded her wryly.
"A light supper has been awaiting your arrival," suggested Devons. "If you'll just give me a moment to add a place setting."
Mark nodded in approval. Then he guided Elizabeth to the very modern water closet set within a retiring room beneath the grand staircase that dominated the end of the two story entrance.
Afterward he showed her into a small dining room on the other side of the stairs, indicating the door to his study as they passed it. "The breakfast room," he said as they entered, "though we tend to take all our meals in here. During the day when the shutters are open, it overlooks a small flower garden," he said indicating the far wall which also had a door set in the center. Another doorway was set into the left wall. He guided her to a place setting at that end of the table, and then seated himself at the other end of the table.
Devons emerged from the door behind her bearing food. He offered them wine from a side table. Elizabeth gazed unhappily down the table toward Mark.
Mark frowned. "What's wrong love?"
"I'm sure," she replied hesitantly, "that this seating arrangement is very proper... but do you think that perhaps, if it's just us, we might sit across the table from each other in the shorter direction?"
He gave her a little grin, and said, "Of course, let us move at once." He stood, and had Devons shift their plates and things to places at the center of the table.
Seated once more across from each other, but much closer, the meal resumed. Mark laid his arm across the table and coaxed her into giving him her hand. "Better?" he inquired.
She nodded, and squeezed his fingers lightly.
During the meal the Marques laid out the tentative plans for their marriage that he'd been pondering as they traveled. "Tomorrow we'll find a dressmaker," he proposed, "and I'll go and find out about getting a license, or posting bans." He asked, "Which church does your family attend while in London?"
Elizabeth told him, for if he weren't granted a license, and it wasn't the same church, bans would need to be called in each. They hoped a license would be granted, for Elizabeth was afraid, after further consideration, that if her aunt were in town she'd write to her father upon hearing the bans.
"Do I need a different gown if it's just us?" Elizabeth asked.
Mark gave her a wry look. She blushed again. His young bride blushed very easily, he'd noticed. "While that light summer gown you are wearing is pretty enough, it's hardly fitting for my Marchioness," he answered carefully. "And you will need more clothes than that."
Elizabeth frowned, and bit her lip. "I have more clothes at home though, and I indicated that at some point I would return to try to claim the dresses I sold."
She was then obliged to explain more of her adventures in reaching Essex. "I should write home," she added worriedly, "and tell them at least that I am safe."
He nodded. "After we are married, we can pay your family a visit, and see to your things, and also find out about your horse," he offered. "At least, I believe I can get enough of my affairs here settled to do that, in perhaps two weeks?"
She cast a relieved look across the table. "Yes, please," she smiled at him.
At the inn, Elizabeth looked out the coach window as they arrived, and shrank back a little. "Oh no," she said faintly. "What's wrong," asked the Marques. "This is the same inn I stayed at last night," she replied. "They will recognize me." "Did you do anything wrong while you were here?" Mark inquired in an amused tone. "Well, no," she said. "Then what matter if they do," he replied and drew her from the coach. "I doubt they will recognize the messenger in the lady anyway," he added, recalling her grubby first appearance. "Wait!" She clutched at his sleeve. He turned, quizzical eyebrow raised. "How should I address you in public?" she asked nervously. He appeared puzzled and didn't immediately reply. "I mean," she went on, "that in public Mama refers to Papa as 'Sir Dowen' to other people, and calls him Matthew directly, and to us says your Papa." The explanation spilled out. "Should I refer to you as Lord Waverly, or as my Lord? Or..?" "The pattern your parents use sounds fine if you are comfortable with it, my Lord would probably also be correct," was Mark's reply. "But, I wasn't asking what is comfortable for me, but what you prefer?" she queried. "My dear," he replied with a wry smile, "I confess I've never considered how my wife ought to address me in public. Your parents' example seems like a perfectly respectable one to pattern ourselves after." "What about before?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly. "Last time I was married," he responded, the smile falling away, "I was merely the Waverly heir, and it didn't really matter how my wife addressed me, so long as she wasn't hurling insults in public," he faltered. "Which unfortunately happened a few times." "Oh," she replied, subdued, and reached out to take his hand. "Shall we enter then?" Mark asked, with a touch of amusement rising again in his tone. "Yes," she replied. They entered the inn, and were seated. Food was brought. Elizabeth fiddled with the stew that had been offered for their luncheon. "Not hungry?" asked Mark. "I'm kind of hungry, but also afraid to be sick again," she confessed. He frowned. "I think you should eat some at least. Perhaps we could ask for a basket to take along after." He surveyed her briefly. "You seem a little thin and pale." "Breakfast has not been kind to me of late," she replied. The innkeeper overhearing, as the inn was too small for a private dining room, approached. "If you're having trouble keeping down food, I can give you some broth, or pressed cider?" the stout man suggested. "It's a favorite with my wife when she's increasing." Elizabeth accepted the offer and soon sipped at a mug of cider. The innkeeper offered them a small jug of the cider, an apple, and roll stuffed with a bit of cheese in a napkin as traveling rations, "As you took for breakfast," he said looking at Elizabeth directly. She flushed. "Mark, I fear I am caught," she said to Mark. And to the innkeeper said, "If there are any left, I'd rather have a few of the dry fruit and nut biscuits, like the one that was added to my breakfast." The innkeeper told them he'd be glad to check. "If you had told me," fussed the innkeeper to Elizabeth, "I could have given you a better bed!" Surprised by this response, she quickly replied, " 'Tis fine, I slept so soundly, I'd never have known the difference!" The Marques laughed. "I have noted, in my own travels, that the straw ticks offered my servants are often fresher and sweeter than the feather mattresses deemed suitable for me anyway." The innkeeper defended the mattresses at his own inn, but admitted that in general, straw ticks were indeed more often freshly stuffed. Soon they were on their way again. Elizabeth did not sleep in the coach any more, nor was sick again. -- They arrived at Lord Waverly's London house as evening was settling in. Ultra-modern gas lights warmly lit the little curved drive that arched from the street, past house and stable, and back out to the street. Mark explained that he had been fortunate enough to visit the extraordinarily splendid display of lights at the Soho works back in '02 during the treaty, as he helped his tired young bride from the coach. They entered the house, to be greeted by a very surprised butler. He was introduced to Elizabeth as Devons. "Is Devons his given or surname?" Elizabeth whispered to Mark. "William Devons," the butler answered, overhearing. "Thank you," Elizabeth replied, flushing a little. Mark regarded her wryly. "A light supper has been awaiting your arrival," suggested Devons. "If you'll just give me a moment to add a place setting." Mark nodded in approval. Then he guided Elizabeth to the very modern water closet set within a retiring room beneath the grand staircase that dominated the end of the two story entrance. Afterward he showed her into a small dining room on the other side of the stairs, indicating the door to his study as they passed it. "The breakfast room," he said as they entered, "though we tend to take all our meals in here. During the day when the shutters are open, it overlooks a small flower garden," he said indicating the far wall which also had a door set in the center. Another doorway was set into the left wall. He guided her to a place setting at that end of the table, and then seated himself at the other end of the table. Devons emerged from the door behind her bearing food. He offered them wine from a side table. Elizabeth gazed unhappily down the table toward Mark. Mark frowned. "What's wrong love?" "I'm sure," she replied hesitantly, "that this seating arrangement is very proper... but do you think that perhaps, if it's just us, we might sit across the table from each other in the shorter direction?" He gave her a little grin, and said, "Of course, let us move at once." He stood, and had Devons shift their plates and things to places at the center of the table. Seated once more across from each other, but much closer, the meal resumed. Mark laid his arm across the table and coaxed her into giving him her hand. "Better?" he inquired. She nodded, and squeezed his fingers lightly. During the meal the Marques laid out the tentative plans for their marriage that he'd been pondering as they traveled. "Tomorrow we'll find a dressmaker," he proposed, "and I'll go and find out about getting a license, or posting bans." He asked, "Which church does your family attend while in London?" Elizabeth told him, for if he weren't granted a license, and it wasn't the same church, bans would need to be called in each. They hoped a license would be granted, for Elizabeth was afraid, after further consideration, that if her aunt were in town she'd write to her father upon hearing the bans. "Do I need a different gown if it's just us?" Elizabeth asked. Mark gave her a wry look. She blushed again. His young bride blushed very easily, he'd noticed. "While that light summer gown you are wearing is pretty enough, it's hardly fitting for my Marchioness," he answered carefully. "And you will need more clothes than that." Elizabeth frowned, and bit her lip. "I have more clothes at home though, and I indicated that at some point I would return to try to claim the dresses I sold." She was then obliged to explain more of her adventures in reaching Essex. "I should write home," she added worriedly, "and tell them at least that I am safe." He nodded. "After we are married, we can pay your family a visit, and see to your things, and also find out about your horse," he offered. "At least, I believe I can get enough of my affairs here settled to do that, in perhaps two weeks?" She cast a relieved look across the table. "Yes, please," she smiled at him.
