Chapter 8
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The beginning of Elizabeth's journey was simple. She rode a couple of towns over, to the east. She stopped at a dressmaker's that she'd heard of through neighbors, but hadn't ever visited personally. It didn't go as smoothly as she'd hoped though.
The dressmaker listened to her request and then tried to turn her off, declaring roundly, "I don't buy stolen dresses!"
Elizabeth gritted her teeth and replied, "You're a dressmaker aren't you!? Look at me, really look, and tell me again those dresses are stolen!"
The dressmaker yielded that point, but remained unconvinced.
"Look," Elizabeth said as calmly as she could manage, "I cannot tell you that all is well, under the circumstances, but I'm hoping that you'll buy these at a fair price. And I'll promise that as soon as I can afford to, if they're still in your shop, I'll buy them back at the same price, plus 10%." The dressmaker looked dubious but appeared to give it more consideration than she had previously. "And I won't expect them to still be here when I return, for I'm tall enough that you should be able to cut them down to fit most anyone."
"Anyone not too plump!" snapped the dressmaker. "And that's no small amount of work into it either!" Still, eventually she offered a small sum. Elizabeth tried to argue that the materials alone had cost more, and the dressmaker argued back that materials came in nice lengths that could be made into anything, and she was welcome to sell them elsewhere.
Eventually Elizabeth accepted the argument and the offer. For while she was certain she was receiving a small fraction of the dresses original cost, she did as the dressmaker did, doubt that she would do much better, and was certain to need more than a few pence on this adventure.
At the third town, she had to stop and ask directions. To cover for her ignorance, she claimed that she was trying to go straight to Essex, rather than back down to London and up again to Essex, but had never ridden this direction before. This truthful excuse seemed to pass, as did her crude disguise, though she felt that anyone who actually paid attention must surely notice and wonder.
It took her most of a week, to cross a distance she was nearly certain that the messenger whose coat she'd stolen, could have crossed in a day or two. But at last, the innkeeper on the fifth night, was able to give both specific directions, and an estimate of how much farther, the estate of one Marques Waverly was. She was however, too tired to attempt it that night, so she asked for room, and board, and stable, and a wake up call near dawn, and thank you.
So far along, Elizabeth still wondered if she'd chosen correctly, not to take a post coach. But though the money from the dresses would probably have covered it, barely, she would have had to come up with a way to return her horse. It would also have left her without the means to return, if something, she hadn't tried to specify what, didn't work out.
--
The next morning, with the sun midway up the sky, she rode into the estate of the Marques Waverly. Her horse whom she'd kept to a walk all morning, suspecting a bruised foot, seemed to sense that this was their destination and took her rider directly up to the stables.
Elizabeth, distracted by a sudden fear that she'd not previously considered, simply handed her horse over to the groom, who had emerged to see what horse approached, as though she'd done it a hundred times. She set off nervously toward the large... well, it was too large to be a house, and not fortified in the least, so she presumed that mansion might be the best word for it.
Up the steps she went, to the front door. She banged on the knocker. Dreadfully anxious, when the door was answered by a dignified older gentleman, she spilled out a string of words, "I must speak to the Marques Waverly! Please do not tell me that he's already gone to London, or has not yet arrived. I mean, if he has, you must tell me of course, though, then I should need to ask if I might rest a while before going on..." the torrent of words finally spilled to a stop. Because only on riding into the estate, had it occurred to her that there was no reason for him to be here, and that she'd been guessing his location based purely on her own family's habits during the summer.
The butler, as she presumed him, was not unaccustomed to dealing with anxious messengers, as it turned out. He directed her inside, to a small waiting room, and bid her to wait a few moments.
Shortly, a taller, younger gentleman, wearing a suit of clothes more in the current London mode, entered the room and asked her, "What is the message?"
"I'm sorry," she replied anxiously, "I must speak directly with Lord Waverly."
The man gave her a considering look, then nodded, "Wait a bit more then," he said, and returned through the door he'd entered. Several more minutes passed, she was sure it was minutes, though it felt more like hours, or even years.
And Lord Waverly stepped through the door. He was flanked, though Elizabeth barely noticed as she stood, by both the butler and the unknown man. She pulled off the messenger's hat and addressed the Marques. "Mark, I hope you will forgive me for coming to you a little late."
Lord Waverly regarded her with a somewhat stunned expression as she continued. "I'm afraid I greatly overestimated my ability to come to you. And as it turns out, I'm far more helpless and spoiled than I had ever imagined."
She gulped, and paused, but his expression told her nothing, so she continued. "Mama told me it was impossible to meet with you unless we chanced to meet during the season. And Papa burned my letter. And when I want to write to someone, I simply write the message and their name across the front, give it over, and expect that it will arrive, and generally it does, so I never thought to get detailed addressing from you, and I didn't know where to send a letter myself..."
Possibly mercifully, Lord Waverly spoke up as she wound down again. "What on earth am I to do with you?" he asked quietly.
Elizabeth gasped, and cried, "I thought you had some plan! If, if I hadn't thought that, I should have tried to," she paused and glanced uncertainly at the other two occupants of the room.
"Should have tried to?" repeated the Marques.
"To, to see a doctor or a midwife, for, for a potion, to be rid..." tears left unshed for weeks began to trickle down her cheeks, and she was unable to continue the sentence. It was one of the more drastic plans she'd come up with.
"No!" objected Lord Waverly, aghast. And he stepped forward and took hold of her arms. "I didn't mean," he stopped, uncertain how to continue.
"What, what do you usually do with the young women you have knocked up?" she asked through the tears.
"I never have," he replied. He was still holding her arms, as though uncertain whether to shake her, or to embrace her.
"Older women?" came her hesitant query.
"To my knowledge," he replied somewhat grimly, "the only woman I've ever gotten with child was my wife, who died of it."
"Oh, oh Mark," she said, her hand rose toward his cheek hesitantly. The flow of her tears inexplicably slowed a little. "I'm so sorry."
Now he embraced her. Hugging her tightly, he said, "It's alright." He paused and pulled back a little, and wryly added, "I know what I shall do with you in the short term."
He turned toward the butler, whose practiced expressions did not seem to fully hide his shock and disapproval, though whether of persons, dress, or illicit relations wasn't clear. "I want a bath prepared immediately in my chambers," Lord Waverly ordered.
The butler nodded and exited the room.
"But what shall we do about a gown?" Lord Waverly asked.
"I have one," Elizabeth offered, lifting the bag on her shoulder slightly.
When he raised an eyebrow at her, she wanted to laugh. "It's, well, you said you don't turn women away from your doorstep, you didn't say anything about grubby messengers." She added the last bit ruefully.
His mouth quirked and he agreed, "No, I don't suppose I did."
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The beginning of Elizabeth's journey was simple. She rode a couple of towns over, to the east. She stopped at a dressmaker's that she'd heard of through neighbors, but hadn't ever visited personally. It didn't go as smoothly as she'd hoped though.
The dressmaker listened to her request and then tried to turn her off, declaring roundly, "I don't buy stolen dresses!"
Elizabeth gritted her teeth and replied, "You're a dressmaker aren't you!? Look at me, really look, and tell me again those dresses are stolen!"
The dressmaker yielded that point, but remained unconvinced.
"Look," Elizabeth said as calmly as she could manage, "I cannot tell you that all is well, under the circumstances, but I'm hoping that you'll buy these at a fair price. And I'll promise that as soon as I can afford to, if they're still in your shop, I'll buy them back at the same price, plus 10%." The dressmaker looked dubious but appeared to give it more consideration than she had previously. "And I won't expect them to still be here when I return, for I'm tall enough that you should be able to cut them down to fit most anyone."
"Anyone not too plump!" snapped the dressmaker. "And that's no small amount of work into it either!" Still, eventually she offered a small sum. Elizabeth tried to argue that the materials alone had cost more, and the dressmaker argued back that materials came in nice lengths that could be made into anything, and she was welcome to sell them elsewhere.
Eventually Elizabeth accepted the argument and the offer. For while she was certain she was receiving a small fraction of the dresses original cost, she did as the dressmaker did, doubt that she would do much better, and was certain to need more than a few pence on this adventure.
At the third town, she had to stop and ask directions. To cover for her ignorance, she claimed that she was trying to go straight to Essex, rather than back down to London and up again to Essex, but had never ridden this direction before. This truthful excuse seemed to pass, as did her crude disguise, though she felt that anyone who actually paid attention must surely notice and wonder.
It took her most of a week, to cross a distance she was nearly certain that the messenger whose coat she'd stolen, could have crossed in a day or two. But at last, the innkeeper on the fifth night, was able to give both specific directions, and an estimate of how much farther, the estate of one Marques Waverly was. She was however, too tired to attempt it that night, so she asked for room, and board, and stable, and a wake up call near dawn, and thank you.
So far along, Elizabeth still wondered if she'd chosen correctly, not to take a post coach. But though the money from the dresses would probably have covered it, barely, she would have had to come up with a way to return her horse. It would also have left her without the means to return, if something, she hadn't tried to specify what, didn't work out.
--
The next morning, with the sun midway up the sky, she rode into the estate of the Marques Waverly. Her horse whom she'd kept to a walk all morning, suspecting a bruised foot, seemed to sense that this was their destination and took her rider directly up to the stables.
Elizabeth, distracted by a sudden fear that she'd not previously considered, simply handed her horse over to the groom, who had emerged to see what horse approached, as though she'd done it a hundred times. She set off nervously toward the large... well, it was too large to be a house, and not fortified in the least, so she presumed that mansion might be the best word for it.
Up the steps she went, to the front door. She banged on the knocker. Dreadfully anxious, when the door was answered by a dignified older gentleman, she spilled out a string of words, "I must speak to the Marques Waverly! Please do not tell me that he's already gone to London, or has not yet arrived. I mean, if he has, you must tell me of course, though, then I should need to ask if I might rest a while before going on..." the torrent of words finally spilled to a stop. Because only on riding into the estate, had it occurred to her that there was no reason for him to be here, and that she'd been guessing his location based purely on her own family's habits during the summer.
The butler, as she presumed him, was not unaccustomed to dealing with anxious messengers, as it turned out. He directed her inside, to a small waiting room, and bid her to wait a few moments.
Shortly, a taller, younger gentleman, wearing a suit of clothes more in the current London mode, entered the room and asked her, "What is the message?"
"I'm sorry," she replied anxiously, "I must speak directly with Lord Waverly."
The man gave her a considering look, then nodded, "Wait a bit more then," he said, and returned through the door he'd entered. Several more minutes passed, she was sure it was minutes, though it felt more like hours, or even years.
And Lord Waverly stepped through the door. He was flanked, though Elizabeth barely noticed as she stood, by both the butler and the unknown man. She pulled off the messenger's hat and addressed the Marques. "Mark, I hope you will forgive me for coming to you a little late."
Lord Waverly regarded her with a somewhat stunned expression as she continued. "I'm afraid I greatly overestimated my ability to come to you. And as it turns out, I'm far more helpless and spoiled than I had ever imagined."
She gulped, and paused, but his expression told her nothing, so she continued. "Mama told me it was impossible to meet with you unless we chanced to meet during the season. And Papa burned my letter. And when I want to write to someone, I simply write the message and their name across the front, give it over, and expect that it will arrive, and generally it does, so I never thought to get detailed addressing from you, and I didn't know where to send a letter myself..."
Possibly mercifully, Lord Waverly spoke up as she wound down again. "What on earth am I to do with you?" he asked quietly.
Elizabeth gasped, and cried, "I thought you had some plan! If, if I hadn't thought that, I should have tried to," she paused and glanced uncertainly at the other two occupants of the room.
"Should have tried to?" repeated the Marques.
"To, to see a doctor or a midwife, for, for a potion, to be rid..." tears left unshed for weeks began to trickle down her cheeks, and she was unable to continue the sentence. It was one of the more drastic plans she'd come up with.
"No!" objected Lord Waverly, aghast. And he stepped forward and took hold of her arms. "I didn't mean," he stopped, uncertain how to continue.
"What, what do you usually do with the young women you have knocked up?" she asked through the tears.
"I never have," he replied. He was still holding her arms, as though uncertain whether to shake her, or to embrace her.
"Older women?" came her hesitant query.
"To my knowledge," he replied somewhat grimly, "the only woman I've ever gotten with child was my wife, who died of it."
"Oh, oh Mark," she said, her hand rose toward his cheek hesitantly. The flow of her tears inexplicably slowed a little. "I'm so sorry."
Now he embraced her. Hugging her tightly, he said, "It's alright." He paused and pulled back a little, and wryly added, "I know what I shall do with you in the short term."
He turned toward the butler, whose practiced expressions did not seem to fully hide his shock and disapproval, though whether of persons, dress, or illicit relations wasn't clear. "I want a bath prepared immediately in my chambers," Lord Waverly ordered.
The butler nodded and exited the room.
"But what shall we do about a gown?" Lord Waverly asked.
"I have one," Elizabeth offered, lifting the bag on her shoulder slightly.
When he raised an eyebrow at her, she wanted to laugh. "It's, well, you said you don't turn women away from your doorstep, you didn't say anything about grubby messengers." She added the last bit ruefully.
His mouth quirked and he agreed, "No, I don't suppose I did."
The beginning of Elizabeth's journey was simple. She rode a couple of towns over, to the east. She stopped at a dressmaker's that she'd heard of through neighbors, but hadn't ever visited personally. It didn't go as smoothly as she'd hoped though. The dressmaker listened to her request and then tried to turn her off, declaring roundly, "I don't buy stolen dresses!" Elizabeth gritted her teeth and replied, "You're a dressmaker aren't you!? Look at me, really look, and tell me again those dresses are stolen!" The dressmaker yielded that point, but remained unconvinced. "Look," Elizabeth said as calmly as she could manage, "I cannot tell you that all is well, under the circumstances, but I'm hoping that you'll buy these at a fair price. And I'll promise that as soon as I can afford to, if they're still in your shop, I'll buy them back at the same price, plus 10%." The dressmaker looked dubious but appeared to give it more consideration than she had previously. "And I won't expect them to still be here when I return, for I'm tall enough that you should be able to cut them down to fit most anyone." "Anyone not too plump!" snapped the dressmaker. "And that's no small amount of work into it either!" Still, eventually she offered a small sum. Elizabeth tried to argue that the materials alone had cost more, and the dressmaker argued back that materials came in nice lengths that could be made into anything, and she was welcome to sell them elsewhere. Eventually Elizabeth accepted the argument and the offer. For while she was certain she was receiving a small fraction of the dresses original cost, she did as the dressmaker did, doubt that she would do much better, and was certain to need more than a few pence on this adventure. At the third town, she had to stop and ask directions. To cover for her ignorance, she claimed that she was trying to go straight to Essex, rather than back down to London and up again to Essex, but had never ridden this direction before. This truthful excuse seemed to pass, as did her crude disguise, though she felt that anyone who actually paid attention must surely notice and wonder. It took her most of a week, to cross a distance she was nearly certain that the messenger whose coat she'd stolen, could have crossed in a day or two. But at last, the innkeeper on the fifth night, was able to give both specific directions, and an estimate of how much farther, the estate of one Marques Waverly was. She was however, too tired to attempt it that night, so she asked for room, and board, and stable, and a wake up call near dawn, and thank you. So far along, Elizabeth still wondered if she'd chosen correctly, not to take a post coach. But though the money from the dresses would probably have covered it, barely, she would have had to come up with a way to return her horse. It would also have left her without the means to return, if something, she hadn't tried to specify what, didn't work out. -- The next morning, with the sun midway up the sky, she rode into the estate of the Marques Waverly. Her horse whom she'd kept to a walk all morning, suspecting a bruised foot, seemed to sense that this was their destination and took her rider directly up to the stables. Elizabeth, distracted by a sudden fear that she'd not previously considered, simply handed her horse over to the groom, who had emerged to see what horse approached, as though she'd done it a hundred times. She set off nervously toward the large... well, it was too large to be a house, and not fortified in the least, so she presumed that mansion might be the best word for it. Up the steps she went, to the front door. She banged on the knocker. Dreadfully anxious, when the door was answered by a dignified older gentleman, she spilled out a string of words, "I must speak to the Marques Waverly! Please do not tell me that he's already gone to London, or has not yet arrived. I mean, if he has, you must tell me of course, though, then I should need to ask if I might rest a while before going on..." the torrent of words finally spilled to a stop. Because only on riding into the estate, had it occurred to her that there was no reason for him to be here, and that she'd been guessing his location based purely on her own family's habits during the summer. The butler, as she presumed him, was not unaccustomed to dealing with anxious messengers, as it turned out. He directed her inside, to a small waiting room, and bid her to wait a few moments. Shortly, a taller, younger gentleman, wearing a suit of clothes more in the current London mode, entered the room and asked her, "What is the message?" "I'm sorry," she replied anxiously, "I must speak directly with Lord Waverly." The man gave her a considering look, then nodded, "Wait a bit more then," he said, and returned through the door he'd entered. Several more minutes passed, she was sure it was minutes, though it felt more like hours, or even years. And Lord Waverly stepped through the door. He was flanked, though Elizabeth barely noticed as she stood, by both the butler and the unknown man. She pulled off the messenger's hat and addressed the Marques. "Mark, I hope you will forgive me for coming to you a little late." Lord Waverly regarded her with a somewhat stunned expression as she continued. "I'm afraid I greatly overestimated my ability to come to you. And as it turns out, I'm far more helpless and spoiled than I had ever imagined." She gulped, and paused, but his expression told her nothing, so she continued. "Mama told me it was impossible to meet with you unless we chanced to meet during the season. And Papa burned my letter. And when I want to write to someone, I simply write the message and their name across the front, give it over, and expect that it will arrive, and generally it does, so I never thought to get detailed addressing from you, and I didn't know where to send a letter myself..." Possibly mercifully, Lord Waverly spoke up as she wound down again. "What on earth am I to do with you?" he asked quietly. Elizabeth gasped, and cried, "I thought you had some plan! If, if I hadn't thought that, I should have tried to," she paused and glanced uncertainly at the other two occupants of the room. "Should have tried to?" repeated the Marques. "To, to see a doctor or a midwife, for, for a potion, to be rid..." tears left unshed for weeks began to trickle down her cheeks, and she was unable to continue the sentence. It was one of the more drastic plans she'd come up with. "No!" objected Lord Waverly, aghast. And he stepped forward and took hold of her arms. "I didn't mean," he stopped, uncertain how to continue. "What, what do you usually do with the young women you have knocked up?" she asked through the tears. "I never have," he replied. He was still holding her arms, as though uncertain whether to shake her, or to embrace her. "Older women?" came her hesitant query. "To my knowledge," he replied somewhat grimly, "the only woman I've ever gotten with child was my wife, who died of it." "Oh, oh Mark," she said, her hand rose toward his cheek hesitantly. The flow of her tears inexplicably slowed a little. "I'm so sorry." Now he embraced her. Hugging her tightly, he said, "It's alright." He paused and pulled back a little, and wryly added, "I know what I shall do with you in the short term." He turned toward the butler, whose practiced expressions did not seem to fully hide his shock and disapproval, though whether of persons, dress, or illicit relations wasn't clear. "I want a bath prepared immediately in my chambers," Lord Waverly ordered. The butler nodded and exited the room. "But what shall we do about a gown?" Lord Waverly asked. "I have one," Elizabeth offered, lifting the bag on her shoulder slightly. When he raised an eyebrow at her, she wanted to laugh. "It's, well, you said you don't turn women away from your doorstep, you didn't say anything about grubby messengers." She added the last bit ruefully. His mouth quirked and he agreed, "No, I don't suppose I did."
