She looked down to the pavement, toying slightly with her reticule. “I expect,” she answered in a low voice, “that you do not mingle with many tradesmen’s families.”
He shifted on his feet, aware once again of the poorly fitting shoes. “No.”
“And you do know this about me for a certainty. Whatever else I might claim for a pedigree, my people are not of your circle, whatever that is. Can any good come from knowing you as other than a footman?”
He felt his chest tightening strangely. “It is not likely,” he confessed, but even as he agreed with her, he felt a ripping through his core. She was right, and he knew it… but what he would have given at that moment to hear her reveal that she was, indeed, the daughter of one of his equals! Were her last name Cavendish or Fitzherbert or Ashby, he would at least be able to speak with her again after this dreadful day had ended.
She gave a short nod, blinking for just a moment. “Then do not tell me more. I would only ask your Christian name, for I cannot continue calling you ‘sir.’ Any lady would know her footman’s first name.”
He smiled again… could not help it. In fact, he could hardly look at her without smiling, but he did not like to think on that, considering their agreement. “My sister calls me William. Will that suit, Miss Bennet?”
“If you will call me ‘Miss Elizabeth,’ for I keep looking about to see where my sister is when you call me ‘Miss Bennet,’” she laughed.
He bowed from the waist, right there on the pavement outside a boot shop. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I as well, William.” She dipped a modest curtsy. “Well, now, that is settled,” she brightened at once, “where are we expected to spend the afternoon?”
“I thought you would never ask,” he grinned and put his hand out to summon a hack coach.
Elizabeth could not remain sedately in her seat. She leaned forward, touching eager fingers to the window as each famous sight rolled by; The Strand once again, with that hotel which had refused them service; Charing Cross with its awe-inspiring statue of the troubled King Charles I; the humble Scotland Yard, followed by the pristine buildings of White Hall. This was a part of Town she rarely saw… and might seldom, if ever, see again. She blinked away an unwelcome bit of emotion from her eyes, determined to wring every bit of enjoyment from this day that it had to offer.
There was a thumping from the back wall of her coach, and she leaned back to press her ear to the panel. “Look to your right,” came a muffled voice.
Chuckling, Elizabeth did.
“Behind the Horse Guards buildings,” he urged when she did not respond at once. “Do you see it?”
Elizabeth craned her neck, trying to see better from the moving carriage. She knew well that St James’ Park, in all its dashing splendour, lay just there to delight the eyes and stir her deepest yearnings. There, beautifully dressed ladies walked on the arms of their sensible-looking husbands, military fanfare dazzled the young and swelled the hearts of the aged, and classical architecture and verdant bowers melded into one gracious Walk. She sighed, her chest squeezing just a little. What she would give to admire it at leisure, knowing that at any time she could return to indulge her senses just a little more. But it was no good to long for that whichcould only make the choices before her seem more miserable than they already were.
“Would you like to stop?” she heard through the carriage wall.
The smile returned to Elizabeth’s face. Her escort was attentive, whatever else might be said of him. And this time, he had not permitted so much as a facial twitch or a cough of ill humour when one of the oldest carriages in all London had answered his hail. It was clean and safe, that much he had assured them both, but his voice from without could hardly be heard over the squeaking of worn leather and wood.
“No, thank you,” she called back to him, pressing her cheek to the panel so that he would be certain to hear her. “I would prefer to go on.”
He did not answer directly, so she rapped her knuckles against the wall, just as he had done to attract her attention. He replied in a quick, staccato beat just behind her ear.
The carriage slowed briefly, and Elizabeth tried speech once again. “Are you quite safe back there?”
“I have made a bargain with Fate,” his muted words filtered through the panel.
“And that is?”
“If this foot peg breaks under my weight and I am trampled by that fine pair of chestnuts behind us, I shall never again have to wear such uncomfortable shoes.”
Elizabeth giggled, and could nearly see that faint twitching round his mouth, the mock gravity crinkling his eyes as he spoke. “Let us only hope the carriage behind us belongs to no one you know.”
“It does. I do not think they would drive to the curb simply to avoid my body.”
“Then I dearly hope your hands are strong!” she laughed, then playfully knocked again near the place she had heard his last thumps. To her childish delight, he replied in kind.
The carriage rocked forward again, and for several minutes the traffic moved ahead at a moderate pace. She could not have heard him then if he had tried to speak, but there sounded another knock on the left side of her head as they approached Westminster Abbey. Elizabeth looked on, breathless in admiration for yet another building she would dearly love to explore.
Their driver chose a meandering route through the back streets—or perhaps he had received the direction from her escort—and Elizabeth was treated to several more quaint views. Then, as if by magic, London fell away, and they began to pass fields of wheat and fruit orchards. The cobblestones still rang loudly beneath the horse’s feet, but there were fewer of them, and the carriage seemed to roll more freely. A lad of perhaps eight or nine, standing amid a golden wheat field with a sickle in his hand, waved energetically as they passed. Elizabeth waved back but realised belatedly that the boy had not been offering his civility toher, but to the tall man clinging to the back of the carriage. Elizabeth leaned a little farther to the right, searching the ground, and could see the shadow of his hand lifted in greeting to the young farmer.
She drew back again to the seat, her cheeks almost weary from the constant smile they bore. Such a peculiar man, this William! When he had uttered those first, disdainful slurs in her presence that very morning, she would have sworn that he was conceited, arrogant, and cared nothing for the feelings of others. How wrong had been that first impression! She could not help but wonder what his usual manner was when among his equals in society. She would have wagered the last of her pin money that he did not mingle and cavort freely, as did those gentlemen who were usually deemed “amiable.” Yet, there was a gentleness in him, and a deep feeling akin to sincerity and kindness, if one took the time for a second look. Was that not, to her tastes, more amiable than the sort of man her mother had taught her to admire?
She felt herself sighing again and shook her head. “You must stop,” she muttered aloud. There, she had spoken it, and must now heed. She could not afford to think of him, even if he would ever look at her. She had been given one day to peer beyond the veil of her own destiny, one day in the presence of the very sort of man who could teach her that they were not all fools. She must content herself with that. She must continue to treat him as a kind stranger, one whom she would never see again after this day had ended.
