She glanced down.
The mud had dried in streaks along the front of her gown, one sleeve was smeared with black cellar grime, and the hem hung heavily about her ankles. Her working glove dangled from one hand, and the other was bare, dirty, and still faintly trembling from excitement.
Mr. Philips’s brow rose. “And for heaven’s sake, do not go back down there.”
“I shall not.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“I mean it, Lizzy.”
“So did I.”
He looked unconvinced.
Elizabeth sighed. “Very well. I promise I shall not return to the mysterious subterranean chamber beneath the cellar floor until you give permission, or until the house catches fire, or until some equally persuasive emergency arises.”
“Without qualifications.”
“Uncle.”
“Without qualifications.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I promise I shall not go back down there.”
“Good.” Satisfied only because he had extracted obedience twice, Mr. Philips turned and motioned Mr. Darcy to precede him. “Come, sir. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Elizabeth remained where she was until their footsteps had faded up the stairs. Mr. Darcy did not look back, which was a mercy. Or perhaps not. She could not decide which possibility mortified her more.
Susie waited only until the men were out of hearing before taking Elizabeth by the arm. “Come upstairs.”
“I ought to help secure the trap door.”
“You ought to be boiled.”
Elizabeth stopped. “Boiled?”
“In hot water. With soap. Possibly lye, though I daresay that would ruin your complexion.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “That sounds severe.”
“You have mud in your hair, Miss Lizzy.”
“I do not.”
Susie gave her a look and led her toward the stairs with the determined authority of a woman who had survived flood, death, deserting servants, and one reckless gentlewoman too many. “I shall have Cook put water on at once.”
“A bath seems excessive. I could wash my hands and change my gown.”
Susie said nothing. She merely guided Elizabeth upstairs, across the hall, and positioned her before the looking glass near the passage.
Elizabeth gasped.
There was no other possible response.
She looked dreadful. Not charmingly disheveled. Not romantically distressed. Dreadful. A streak of mud crossed one cheek like war paint. Several curls had escaped and now hung limply about her face. Her gown was stained from hem to waist, and one shoulder bore the unmistakable remains of cobweb. Her bare hand was filthy, and a thin dark line of mud had found its way beneath her fingernails.
