In her seven and twenty years, Eliza had done very little to offend, displease or even surprise polite society. There was something exceptionally thrilling, therefore, about their escape from Harefield Hall; although it took two weeks to plan, though each member of the Balfour family had been warned by letter of their decision, and though they were to travel in a sedate Somerset carriage, it still felt to Eliza quite as illicit as if they were hightailing to Gretna Green on a mission of elopement.
“Did your mother write again today?” Margaret asked, as they climbed into the carriage, Eliza’s lady’s maid, Pardle, following behind. As the journey was not long—under twenty miles—and the February morning so bright, Eliza had opted to have the barouche deliver them to Bath, so they might enjoy the warmth of the sunshine upon their faces. Their luggage had gone ahead of them in the company of Perkins and two housemaids, who were the only other members of the household Eliza had taken with her. Having deprived Harefield of its butler—which she should not have done had Perkins not specifically requested it—she had felt too guilty to claim any more of the hall’s servants than this.
“There will certainly be a letter waiting for us when we arrive,” Eliza said.
Predictably, none of the Balfour clan had been pleased with their decision, but bolstered by Margaret’s rallying and the fictional excuse of a doctor’s recommendation, Eliza had remained steadfast. And when none of Mrs. Balfour’s letters—ranging from the scolding to the pleading—had proven effectual, permission for Margaret to accompany her had been given, however reluctantly, until Lavinia’s child emerged and Margaret would be fetched away.
“And have you had anything yet from Somerset?” Margaret asked.
Eliza did not reply, pretending to arrange her skirts around her. With hot bricks at their feet and blankets upon their laps, they would be comfortable until they paused for refreshment, but Eliza had still worn her warmest—and dowdiest—dress for the journey: another black robe, long in the sleeve and high in the neck, with a thick woolen cloak and an unwieldy traveling bonnet that made it rather difficult to turn her head.
“You still have not written to him?” Margaret guessed. “Eliza!”
“I will!” Eliza promised defensively. Somerset’s approval of the scheme was, of course, of equal importance as Mrs. Balfour’s, for only he had the power to remove her fortune; and yet, though Eliza had sat down to pen the letter a dozen times, on each instance she could not write a single word. How was one supposed to write a formal note to a gentleman with whom one had once exchanged love letters?
“I will write as soon as we arrive,” Eliza vowed.
She took one final look back at Harefield’s intimidating sprawl. She could remember, vividly, how alarming it had appeared to her, on the first time she had arrived—seventeen years old and trembling with nerves, worrying that she might be murdered within it. But she had survived and today she was emerging not as the timorous Miss Balfour, nor a diffident wife, but as the independent Lady Somerset.
“Let us go, Tomley,” she instructed with as much command as she could muster and they set off at a brisk, slightly lurching pace. Eliza’s usual driver had been taken ill, and the more youthful Tomley had a more cavalier way with the reins—Eliza winced a little as they jolted over a divot in the road; it was a good thing neither she nor Margaret were prone to travel sickness.
“What are you desirous of doing first?” Eliza asked Margaret a little way into the journey, as she opened her portfolio. It was expected that any lady of quality should cultivate accomplishments, but under the influence of her grandfather, a respected member of the Royal Academy, Eliza had received an unusually advanced artistic education—though it had not equipped her to draw in a barouche that was bumping over every irregularity of the road.
“Of course we will be severely limited by your mourning—not that I blame you, of course . . .”
“Your understanding is appreciated,” Eliza said absently. Ought she to advise Tomley to slow down? This would be the first significant journey she had undertaken without either her father or her husband to manage proceedings, and she was not sure how involved she ought make herself. The road had truly become very narrow—surely such speed was inadvisable?
“. . . but that still leaves a great deal open to us. The Sydney Gardens, of course, and the Pump Room—I say, Tomley, look out!”
There was a large pothole in the road ahead, just ahead of a sharp turn. Tomley pulled the horses wildly to the right in order to avoid the pit at precisely the same moment a post chaise came thundering around the corner. The collision was at once fast and slow: Tomley wrenched the horses around and the other driver tried desperately to pull his to a stop, but it was too late, contact was inevitable. Their wheels scraped sickeningly together, splinters of wood flying into the air above, and Eliza and Margaret grasped desperately onto each other as the barouche ricocheted in the opposite direction, and their seat cushions, blankets and reticules went flying over the sides.
The barouche teetered once, twice, and seemed on the point of turning completely . . . before it at last righted itself with a resounding crash. Both carriages came, at last, to a standstill, and there was silence—save for the comically peaceful noise of birds twittering in the trees above.
“Are you all right?” Eliza gasped.
“I—I think so,” Margaret said, reaching up to adjust her crooked bonnet.
“Pardle? Tomley?”
“Yes, milady,” Pardle whispered, clutching the sides of the barouche with white knuckles.
“My apologies, milady, my apologies,” Tomley babbled, as he leapt from the carriage to see to the horses, who were dreadfully spooked, their eyes rolling and their mouths frothing. Across the road, the other driver was doing the same.
Eliza ran her hands down her arms, as if—nonsensically—to check all her limbs were intact. Miraculously, both she and Margaret appeared uninjured, though Margaret was pale under her freckles and Eliza felt herself begin to shiver violently.
Into the silence came the slow creak of a door being opened, and a man stepped out of the other carriage. He was tall, with dark curling hair and a brown complexion and—unlike Eliza and Margaret’s dishevelment—the only evidence of the crash upon his person was the angle of his hat, which had slipped from rakish to precarious. He looked about the scene with an expression of mild astonishment, taking in first his driver, then the barouche and then, finally, Margaret and Eliza.
“Do you mean to rob me?” he asked, more curious than alarmed. “Is this a stand-and-deliver moment?”
Eliza stared at him. Had she hit her head in all the commotion?
“N-no, of course not!” she stammered out.
“Do you mean to murder me?” he asked.
“Certainly not!” Eliza said. What on earth . . . ?