“And how do you propose to accomplish that?”
Elizabeth straightened her spine, gathering her courage. “I could speak to the drivers ahead of us. As Lady Catherine’s lady’s maid.”
Wickham stared at her. “Why would they care?”
“Consider the other carriages,” Elizabeth said, improvising as she spoke. “No doubt the occupants would prevail upon themselves to curry Lady Catherine’s good will. One word from her could open invitations to the highest of society.”
“Who cares about society when stuck in a deluge?” Wickham’s pout might have looked adorable on a four-year-old.
“Oh, Georgie, how little do you know about the habits of society,” Elizabeth said. “I find it hard to believe you grew up in the Darcy household and do not understand the snobbishness of influence in these rarified circles.”
“What do you propose?” A gleam revived in Wickham’s demeanor, sensing an advantage he had yet to avail himself of.
“I could poll the carriages and request they make way for Lady Catherine. I will act as her lady’s maid and inform them that Lady Catherine is ill and requires to cross first.”
Jenkins, listening from his position in the driver’s seat, cleared his throat skeptically. “Begging your pardon, but no one’s going to move for a lady’s maid, miss. Not even Lady Catherine’s.”
“I disagree,” Elizabeth replied, raising her chin with a confidence she did not entirely feel. “A lady’s maid to someone of Lady Catherine’s consequence carries significant authority among the serving class. Coachmen will listen, particularly when reminded that their masters would not wish to inconvenience Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Hobbs shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a risk. She could run.”
“To where?” Elizabeth gestured at the sodden landscape visible through the window. “Into a flooded field? Besides, would it not draw more attention if I attempted to flee? Far better to return successfully and continue our journey.”
Wickham narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “And why would you help expedite our journey to Gretna Green?”
Elizabeth allowed a hint of resignation to color her voice. “I merely wish for a dry bed tonight rather than being trapped in this coach. The smell of wet wool is becoming quite oppressive.” She wrinkled her nose in Hobbs’s direction.
“I still don’t like it,” Jenkins grumbled. “What if someone recognizes her?”
“An excellent point,” Elizabeth interjected before Wickham could respond. “Unlike yourselves, I am not a wanted person. I have no unsavory history that might be recognized.”
Jenkins and Hobbs exchanged quick, alarmed glances that confirmed Elizabeth’s suspicion. These were not merely Wickham’s hired help—they were men with reasons to avoid scrutiny.
“She has a point,” Wickham said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Elizabeth. “But how can I trust you won’t betray us?”
“Simple self-interest,” Elizabeth replied with calculated pragmatism. “I am a practical woman, Mr. Wickham. My reputation is already compromised by our departure together. Whether willingly or unwillingly matters little to society’sjudgment. My only sensible course is to reach Scotland and secure the protection of marriage.”
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she maintained a calm, logical expression that seemed to sway Wickham.
“Very well,” he said after a moment’s consideration. He reached into his coat and withdrew a bulging envelope sealed with Lady Catherine’s distinctive crest. Breaking the seal, he counted out several coins. “This should suffice for your… diplomatic mission.”
“How generous,” Elizabeth murmured, eyeing the substantially thicker stack of notes he returned to the envelope before tucking it back into his coat pocket. “Though if I am to represent Lady Catherine’s household, even indirectly, I should appear somewhat more presentable.”
Wickham surveyed her disheveled appearance with a critical eye. “You hardly look the part of a lady’s maid at present. Your dress is torn, and you’ve lost your bonnet.”
Elizabeth touched her tangled curls self-consciously. “A simple matter to rectify. Lady’s maids are not expected to be fashionable, merely neat. With your handkerchief to tie back my hair and perhaps your coat to conceal the worst of the damage to my gown, I shall present a sufficiently respectable appearance.”
Hobbs reluctantly surrendered a grimy neckerchief, which Elizabeth used to bind her hair into a severe style. Wickham’s coat, though too large, covered her torn sleeves and muddied skirts when draped over her shoulders like a cloak.
“Keep to the shadows,” Wickham instructed as Jenkins opened the carriage door, admitting a blast of wind and rain. “And remember—I shall be watching your every move.”
“How reassuring,” Elizabeth murmured, stepping carefully into the downpour.
The rain soaked her almost instantly, plastering the borrowed coat to her shoulders and sending rivulets of waterdown her face. Perfect, she thought—the weather provided additional concealment for her bruised wrists and tear-stained cheeks.
She moved with the brisk efficiency she had observed in Lady Catherine’s maid—a woman whose perpetually harried expression suggested serving her ladyship was akin to managing a particularly demanding regiment. She approached the nearest carriage, rapping sharply on its window with her knuckles.
“Good day to you,” she called, pitching her voice into the nasal tones of a servant accustomed to authority over lesser domestics. “I represent Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park. Her ladyship’s carriage requires passage with all haste.”
