‘Well, I know she couldn’t have. She has allergies. Thank you so much, Lizzie. It was so kind of you to do them.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said, her throat suddenly clogged with tears.
She didn’t move until he’d left to go to the drawing room for tea. She didn’t dare, certain that movement would cause the gathering tears to fall. She picked up the two buckets that were left and had to wipe her face and her nose on her arm as she walked.
She got to the bottom of the long staircase and went to the side door to let herself out. It was locked. Now her tears were threatening to turn into sobs and she went quickly to the front door, desperate to escape.
Just as she arrived, Sir Jasper shot out of a room – perhaps the library? – nearly bumping into her. He looked at her with horror, and then took in the buckets, the apron and the fact he’d already shouted at her for cutting his shrubs.
‘Oh, you’re the florist! For a moment I got you confused with one of those ghastly young women Vanessa inflicted on us. I’ll open the door for you.’
The next moment she was free, walking down the shallow steps to the gravel drive.
She found her way back to the potting shed. Mr Dudley had gone but left the key in the door so Lizzie went in. She put down the buckets and hung the apron on the back of the door. Then she found the hook for the secateurs.
For a while she inhaled the musty, particular smell of the shed. It was very different from the heady fragrance of the flowers in the ballroom but it wascomforting. Now she was supposed to go back to the house, walk up many flights of stairs to the nursery for a bath. Would there be hot water? She doubted it. The more she thought about it the less appealing the thought of getting ready for a ball was. But she couldn’t stay in this shed and hide all night.
The garden was lovely and although now she was crying freely, she still appreciated its beauty. In fact, the beauty made her cry more: for herself, certainly, but also for Hugo. He was going to marry a woman who could help him in his career, would bring up his children properly, stand by his side, beautiful, useful but possibly demanding. But would Electra love him as she did?
While she thought she walked until she found herself at the ha-ha, looking over it to the water meadows, and beyond them, the river.
Mr Dudley had told her that the river often flooded and thinking of this made Lizzie want to go and look at it. Running water would be soothing, she thought. She wasn’t going to the ball. She wasn’t going to hear the announcement of Electra and Hugo’s engagement. Knowing there was going to be one was quite painful enough. And while the entire party would think that Electra had arranged the flowers, she and Hugo (as well as her friends) would know that, in fact, Lizzie had done them. That was good enough.
Without quite knowing how she did it, she found her way to the fields and was soon on the riverbank. She did find the water soothing, and laughed a little, picturing herself as Ophelia, lying in the water with daisies in her hands. She walked along until she found a bench, obviously put there because it had a perfect view across the river and more meadows to where the little town sat on the horizon, visible mostly because of the church tower. Everything had a sort of golden hue, like a painting by Constable.
This weekend – and it was still only Saturday – had seemingly gone on forever. Lizzie thought back to their arrival. If only she’d worn something different! If only she hadn’t been so set on being a dolly bird with her short skirt and headscarf.
Then something Vanessa said came into her mind. It was while they were apologising for being late. ‘Didn’t you take a taxi from the station?’ Now she thought more about it she realised that meant there must be a station at the little town that looked so pretty in the distance.
A station meant a train – to London. It felt so near – within sight – but so far. How on earth would she get there?
She sat there for a while, working it out. Now she’d had the idea she so wanted to carry it through. If she left now she wouldn’t be a pathetic little Cinderella figure, stuck in an attic instead of akitchen; she’d have taken charge of her own destiny and got away from a place where she was clearly not wanted.
She got up and started walking again, thinking hard as she went. At last she reached a slight bend in the river and there, tied up to the bank, was a small boat.
She hurried forward to inspect it. It had oars. It looked fine. She made her decision and turned back to the house at a run.
She knew the side door was locked and so went in through the kitchen door, which was open for the caterers. As quickly as she could, without actually knocking anyone over, she made her way through the people, out of the kitchen, through the green baize door and into the main part of the house. People were in the drawing room, gathering before dinner, and she had to wait while a couple came downstairs, cowering at the end of the passage. It seemed early for dinner to Lizzie but remembered Vanessa thought it might be at seven – earlier than usual because of the ball afterwards.
She was panting when she reached the attic but didn’t stop. She went into the bedroom she was sharing and found her case. She found a jumper and tied it round her waist with its sleeves, to save carrying it. Then she put on her raincoat, got her handbag and slung it round her neck. She was ready!
Just as she was leaving she thought to write a note. She had to tear a sheet out of her diary and write with the tiny pencil.
Dear Alexandra and Meg, I’m going back to London. I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry about me. See you on Sunday night. Love, Lizzie. Although she was still running, she tiptoed past several open doors and back down to the kitchen. She thought she heard someone call after her but didn’t stay to investigate. She was going to get out of that house and away; nothing would stop her.
Chapter Sixteen
It took Lizzie a little time to find the boat again. Also, she had no idea of train timetables so she knew she might be stuck on the station all night. It wasn’t a tempting prospect but she’d got this far, she wasn’t changing her mind. Also, there might easily be a train back to London. It was still relatively early, after all.
Lizzie knew she wasn’t an experienced rower – the little boating lake in the park in her home town was the only place she’d ever done it – but how experienced did she have to be? The river wasn’t all that wide. She just had to get in and row to the other side. Getting out might prove a bit tricky, but she’d manage. Then, using the church spire as a guide, she would walk across the fields to the town.
She had to jump into the boat from a bit of a distance as it wasn’t as near the bank as it looked. Nor was there a proper jetty. But she managed to scramble on and, after trying for a while to unhitch the rope tying the boat to the post, she gave up, anduntied the rope from the boat end, which was far easier.
It took her a little while to get the oars into the rowlocks – she knew she couldn’t row unless she did so. It was a bit disconcerting to realise the boat had travelled downstream quite a lot while she was doing that. She hadn’t noticed the river had much of a current. But at last she had the oars where they needed to be and soon she was rowing.
Because she wanted to cross the river she manoeuvred the boat so it was pointing at the opposite bank, although this only lasted a short time as the current swept her along sideways and the bow turned so she was parallel to the bank and not going towards it.
She’d been struggling to take control of the little boat for a few minutes before she began to feel frightened. This was not working out as she had imagined it. She had no idea where the boat would end up if she allowed the current to take it. She was aware that it had started raining and, worse, the boat seemed to be leaking. The wind had also got up so she was fighting that as well.
