Would Lorraine's marriage go forward? The betrothal had all but been announced—but sweet, soft-spoken Lorraine could be persuaded to cry off if others felt the marriage unseemly, if enough pressure was applied.
Her beau, the Honorable Broderick Mainworthy, one day to inherit the title of viscount from his father, was clearly smitten with Lorraine, but her advanced age of five-and-twenty had made his family look askance at the heir's choice. Lorraine's lack of fortune had also worked against her. That was the final reason Elizabeth had allowed herself to be persuaded to elope, because then her half of the dowry allotments would go to Lorraine. Papa could hardly be expected to support a vulgar elopement by awarding any income to the man who had carried his daughter away in the night. Everyone knew it took at least four days to reach Gretna Green—and everyone knew a girl's reputation was gone the minute a carriage rolled out of her yard with that location in mind.
That was why Elizabeth had written in her parting note that she understood her share would not be forthcoming and must go to Lorraine, and why she had surrendered all chance of a dowry except for the few jewels she carried with her. Broderick Mainworthy's family would be pleased to learn Lorraine's portion had doubled. It was still no great sum, but any additional honey would only serve to sweeten the pot, surely?
Of course, giving her dowry portion to Lorraine had made perfect sense when Elizabeth had thought she was marrying a wealthy man. She had been mistaken on more than one account.
Eloping with Radford had been a gamble, of course. A foolish one, Elizabeth saw that now. But it had all seemed so logical, so neat and tidy, at the time.
And unless Elizabeth stayed hidden, discreetly missing—so that some taradiddle about her going to visit an aunt or godmother or cousin could be got about, as she had instructed in her note—it would all be for naught. She could not let that happen. She had to be invisible. She had to smother any hints of scandal.
That was that, then, Elizabeth thought. Her path was clear: she must play the part of addled inmate until such time as she was able to exchange her bits of jewelry for money to hire a carriage to carry her anonymously away. She must do all she could to become mobile once more, and if possible consult a map for the sake of finding an out-of-the-way hamlet in which to pass the next few months, or however long it was before Lorraine was safely married.
Elizabeth frowned, not liking the duplicitous slant of her plans, but there was nothing for it.
Her frown deepened, for it occurred to her that it was odd that Lord Greyleigh had not mentioned her small purse filled with jewelry. Surely it had been reported to him that she had it. Someone had placed the purse in the drawer. He would not be unjustified in thinking she had stolen the pieces, but perhaps he had already seen their worth was not great, and had dismissed them as of no consequence regardless of why she had them.
A sharp knock at the chamber door caused her to startle and flush guiltily. It was one thing to be a liar, but another to feel at ease with the charade. "Come in," she called, her voice not quite even.
The maid with the eyepatch curtsied her way in and announced, "Mister Clifton to see you, miss."
The surgeon, a heavyset man somewhere in his fifth decade and with kind eyes, entered and bowed at the waist. "I see my patient is awake at last."
"You must be the one who bandaged my heel," Elizabeth said, resettling on the bed in a more upright position. She flushed scarlet again, realizing she had forgot to seem vague or disjointed. This was a rocky path she had chosen, this playacting.
"I am." The surgeon nodded, crossing to the bedside, his black bag in hand. "A wicked cut that was. I would like to see if there is seepage, if I may?"
Elizabeth surrendered her foot, and grimaced when he said the bandage must come off and be replaced.
"Can it be left off altogether?" she asked, trying once again for a singsongy, rather childlike tone. "Please?"
"No, indeed not, my girl! This wound is very deep. Do you understand me? The bandage serves as much to hold the sides of the wound together as it does to stop any bleeding. You must have it on for several weeks, or else the damage will only worsen." He stared into her eyes, as if looking for comprehension.
What could she say, or do? This was unbearable, this role playing. Better to retreat into silence... indeed, had she not heard of people so disturbed that they never spoke again? Better silence than lies, for silence could not trip her up.
She pursed her lips, and looked away.
The surgeon clucked his tongue, then proceeded to bandage her wound. When he was done, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face up to where sunlight could illuminate it. He stared into her eyes, then asked to see her tongue, which she obligingly thrust out for his inspection. He clucked his tongue again, and met her gaze squarely.
"I am going to see that Lord Greyleigh understands you are not to travel soon, not even if your family should be quickly discovered. It would do this wound great damage. We will have to see what level of putrefaction occurs. Although I do not favor leeches in all circumstances, this might also be required. If not properly cared for and left to mend, this wound might even affect your ability to walk with this foot later. Do you understand me?"
She must have gone pale, for he nodded, and said, "I can see that you do. Do not remove this bandage, miss, and avoid putting any weight on the foot. It is very important it be left to mend, unmolested, for at least two weeks."
Two weeks? she cried out in her mind. There went all her plans to leave promptly! How could she ever keep up a charade of insanity for two weeks? It was impossible. She simply would have to ignore this man's advice.
"At worst, you could be crippled." the doctor w arned. apparently not liking something he saw in her expression.
She lowered her eyes. "I understand."
He seemed satisfied with that, nodding his head and gathering his supplies once more into his black bag. "I will speak with Lord Greyleigh." he repeated just before he left the room.
Elizabeth sighed and settled back into the pillows. Two weeks? So which was the greater: the need for quick removal from this place, or the risk of permanently injuring her foot? Logic said the latter, but a kind of deliberate logic had led her to elope with Radford—and what a disaster that had proved.
Either way she chose, risky speed or impatient lingering, there was only one way to get on w ith things. She withdrew her purse from under the covers and loosened the knotted draw strings. She up-ended the contents on to her lap: one ivory cameo: three pairs of earbobs. two of precious gems and one of pearls: one diamond and amethyst choker: two gold hair combs studded w ith diamond chips: and five rings of varying decoration.
It was a fair feminine inheritance, in the normal sense of things, but in terms of purchasing a half year's existence, it was precious little. She hated to sell them, these last gifts from her mama, but there was no use in feeling regret that they must go. A girl had to eat and pay her keep. All the same, she sighed heavily as she replaced the jewelry in the purse.
Things about this atypical household put a body on edge— for even as Elizabeth pulled the pursestrings into a knot, she jerked up her head at a glimmer of movement that had caught the corner of her eye. A flash of red. but then it was gone, and it was at that moment Elizabeth realized she stared at an angled looking glass placed over a dresser. Her own reflection did not reside in that angle—she turned abruptly to face the area mirrored in the silvered surface.
A tapestry hung there, its bottom edge just touching the floor. It stirred ever so slightly.
"You there, come out!" Elizabeth ordered, her voice roughened by alarm.
There was no response, and the tapestry settled once more.
"I shan't be perturbed with you, but I would like you to come out," Elizabeth insisted. She studied the far wall. Where would someone hide, for the surface was flat. Was there a door behind the tapestry? Or perhaps a window to echo the open one to her left?
No one came forth.
What had she seen? A flash of red—a cloak? But, no. For a heartbeat she had thought she had looked at her own reflection. ... Had she seen a face? Gooseflesh raced up Elizabeth's arms at the thought.
She threw back her coverlet, only to catch her breath and go utterly still. Her movement had caused intense pain to radiate all the way up from her heel to her knee.
Gasping and moving gingerly, and with an eye on the tapestry, Elizabeth reached across the width of the bed, her fingers just managing to grasp the bellpull.
A sharp tug brought a knock at her door in short order. "Come in," she called at once.
A maid entered, one Elizabeth had certainly not seen before, for this one was undeniably in the family way. The woman's high, rounded belly thrust forward, tightly covered by a white apron.
"Miss?" the maid inquired on a curtsy.
Elizabeth stared, realizing she had never before seen an expectant maid, at least not one clearly engaged in service. Most maids were unmarried girls, in service until such time as they attracted a husband, whose house they then went to and where they spent their confinements. "I..." Elizabeth floundered for a moment as this newest shock displaced her previous alarm. She shook her head, as though to clear it of cobwebs, and uttered, "The tapestry. Please pull it aside."
The maid glanced between Elizabeth and the tapestry, open puzzlement etched on her features, but she moved to do as she was bid.
Behind the tapestry there rose a flock-papered wall. No window, no door.
"But," Elizabeth said on something near a gasp. "Is there not some manner of door there?"
"No, miss," the maid said, and now it was her tone that implied puzzlement.
'There must be a ... what are they called? A secret passage, used by monks, to escape persecution."
The maid just stared, still holding back the edge of the tapestry.
"Well, then, don't just stand there, knock on it, on the wall," Elizabeth instructed, pointing at the width of the tapestry.
The maid obliged with a series of raps down the wall, atop the tapestry, all of which made a solid thunk as she knocked. "It's just a wall, miss," she said.
Elizabeth gazed at the wallpaper, pale yellow and white, and then back at the looking glass. Maybe she had considered the angle wrong? But a quick glance proved nothing in the room was red, and no matter how one considered it, the flash of red that the looking glass had shown had to have been in the vicinity of the tapestry.
"Did you want luncheon, or perhaps tea and biscuits, miss?" the maid asked, releasing the tapestry to come back around to the bedside.
"No," Elizabeth said, only to instantly reconsider. Perhaps that blow to her forehead had done more harm than she had thought? Or perhaps she was faint from lack of nourishment, and she was seeing things. "Rather, yes," she said, causing the maid to ever so slightly raise her eyebrows. "I would care for luncheon after all, please."
The maid nodded, then left, a decided waddle to her step, betraying yet again her enceinte state.
Left on her own, Elizabeth glared at the tapestried wall—she was unquestionably being affected by this house, with its curious selection of maids, its somber walls made of brick like a prison, and its master who was rumored to be unsteady in his mind.
Two weeks. Things could not go on as they stood.
Elizabeth reached once more for the bellpull, and this time it was the maid with the eyepatch who answered. "Miss?" she asked, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. "Luncheon is coming."
"Very good. What is your name?"
"Polly, if it please you, miss." The pronouncement was accompanied by a small curtsy.
"Polly, I rang again because I need to see Lord Greyleigh."
"Before luncheon?"
"Yes, if he is at home."
A mutter of reluctant assent was all Elizabeth got before the maid retreated once more into the hall. At least, Elizabeth thought to herself, if the maid found it odd that Elizabeth wished to receive the master of the house here in her sickbed, she did not say as much. That, for once, was a happy reaction in this peculiar household.
"Has the doctor reported my condition to you?" Elizabeth asked of Lord Greyleigh twenty minutes later. He stood three large strides from her bedside. Really, one might think from his remote stance that she was contagious—although three strides' distance was preferable to his usual seated pose nearly at her elbow.
"Mister Clifton did confide in me, yes."
"It was made clear to me that I ought not travel for a week."
"Two weeks."
Elizabeth compressed her lips together, then had to concede the point. "Yes well, I suppose the surgeon did say two weeks. I hope this length of time is not an inconvenience for you."
Lord Greyleigh cocked his head ever so slightly to one side, and Elizabeth could almost read his mind: he must be wondering why she was suddenly sounding so rational.
She would explain to him in a moment, but first she wanted no other misunderstandings. "I do want to be clear, very clear," she rushed on, "that I will not impose on your hospitality beyond the two weeks."
He nodded in acceptance, and it seemed his countenance cleared as though in relief. "You recall where your family resides?"
'That is something I cannot share," she stated, sounding prim even to herself. "But I wish you to understand something, Lord Greyleigh." Elizabeth took a deep breath and plunged into one final lie. "I came to this place to ... to restore my nerves. Such a cure has been effected. I may have been of a nervous disposition, but I was not then nor am I now mad, my lord."
She glanced up at Greyleigh to judge how her words struck him, but she might as well have been looking at carved marble.
His regard was marked only by its usual banal aspect of half-interested attention.
Elizabeth pursed her lips again, and decided the man was decidedly lacking in social aptitude. "I have reasons for not wanting to return to my family, and therefore have made other plans," she said firmly.