Chapter Eight

I stood at the window of my aunt's drawing room in Scarborough, watching raindrops trace dreary patterns down the glass. A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, carrying with it the briny scent of the sea mixed with coal smoke from the nearby chimneys. The weather matched my mood perfectly – dark and utterly miserable. I pressed my fingertips against the cold glass, feeling the subtle vibration of each raindrop's impact.

"My dear Caroline," came Aunt Margaret's shrill voice from behind me, accompanied by the rustle of silk skirts. "Do come away from that dreary window. Mrs Whipple has informed me that her nephew, Mr. Edmund Brown, is to visit next week. A most eligible young man, I assure you – two thousand a year at least!"

I caught my own grimacing reflection in the window. "How fascinating," I murmured, not bothering to turn around.

"Really, child," my aunt continued, settling herself into her preferred chair with a creak of whalebone stays, "you might show a little more enthusiasm. These three weeks you have been with us, and I have yet to see you display proper interest in any of the gentlemen I have mentioned. Why, yesterday at tea, Mrs. Pembroke was telling me—"

"That her second cousin's wife's brother is seeking a wife?" I interrupted, my voice sharp as a pin. "Or perhaps it was her third cousin's husband's nephew?" I finally turned from the window, fixing my aunt with what I hoped was a withering stare. "I confess, after three weeks of such riveting discourse, the relationships have begun to blur together."

"Well!" Aunt Margaret's face flushed an unbecoming shade of purple. "I never! Such ingratitude, when we have only your best interests at heart. Why, if you had shown half this much spirit at Pemberley—"

At the mention of Pemberley, I felt my fingers curl against my skirts. The endless parade of local gossip and matrimonial schemes I had endured these past weeks only served to remind me of what I had left behind – the elegant halls of Pemberley, where I had spent innumerable hours attempting to catch Mr Darcy's eye. I now sorely regretted my many speeches to Aunt Margaret about my anticipated betrothal to Mr Darcy. Despite my every carefully calculated gesture, my most accomplished piano performances, and my subtle compliments about his magnificent library, he had remained frustratingly indifferent to my charms. And now he had departed suddenly for London – on the very same day as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of all people. The coincidence gnawed at my thoughts, refusing to let me rest.

The very thought made my spirits chafe. That a gentleman of Mr. Darcy's consequence should be so bewitched by a young woman who seemed to pride herself on flouting every convention of polite society! It was an affront to the natural order of things. I lifted my chin, watching my reflection grow prouder in the rain-dappled window. I, at least, knew my true worth. If Mr. Darcy chose to blind himself to it, then perhaps he was not quite the prize I had imagined him to be.

Yet even as the thought formed, I felt its hollowness.

"I believe I shall take some air in the garden," I announced, though the rain still drummed steadily against the windows.

"In this weather? You will catch your death! Besides, Miss Hartley is expected for tea, and she particularly wished to tell you about her brother-in-law's—"

"I fear I shall have to disappoint Miss Hartley," I said, already striding toward the door. "I find myself suddenly afflicted with a megrim."

My aunt’s indignant spluttering followed me into the hallway, where I nearly collided with a maid carrying fresh linens. The girl cried out and pressed herself against the wall, eyes downcast, as I swept past. I had endured quite enough of Scarborough and its inhabitants, regardless of their income or connections. It was time take direction of my own affairs.

My thoughts kept returning to the abrupt way Mr. Darcy had departed for London. The morning post had brought something worse than any news - no news at all. My careful inquiries to my London acquaintances had yielded nothing but polite deflections. Even my own brother Charles, usually so forthcoming, had written only the briefest note: "All is well, dear sister. Remain in Scarborough as planned."

As if I were some child to be managed! I paced the length of the gallery, my skirts rustling against the carpet. Through the interior window, I caught sight of my aunt in the foyer below, deep in conversation with that insufferable Mrs Pembroke. No doubt plotting yet another introduction to yet another dull country squire.

"I am Caroline Bingley," I whispered to myself, coming to an abrupt halt. "I do not wait to be told what is happening in my own circle, or to be given permission to depart this tedious situation."

"Adèle!" I called sharply to my lady's maid. "Pack our things. We are leaving."

Adèle appeared in the doorway, her expression cautious. "But Madamoiselle, your brozher expects you to remain ‘ere until—"

"My brother," I said with newfound resolution, "has forgotten that I am quite capable of managing my own affairs. I refuse to spend another moment listening to Aunt Margaret's endless simpers about the local squire's son. We leave within the hour."

Within two hours, I had arranged for a hired carriage and driver, leaving behind a tersely worded note for my relations. The vehicle itself was a shock to my sensibilities - a shabby conveyance that bore little resemblance to my brother’s well-sprung carriages. The leather seats were cracked, releasing a stale, musty air whenever I shifted my weight, and the windows rattled alarmingly with every bump in the road.

“Mademoiselle,” Adèle ventured, her French accent more pronounced in her anxiety after a particularly violent jolt had sent my reticule tumbling to the floor, “Per’aps we should ‘ave waited for ze bettair weathair?” She gestured to the ceiling, where an ominous drip had begun to form.

“Nonsense,” I snapped, though I drew my feet away from the growing puddle beneath the window. “A little rain never hurt anyone.” Even as I spoke, a spray of muddy water splashed through the ill-fitted window frame, speckling my yellow silk traveling dress with some revolting substance.

The driver seemed determined to hit every rut in the road. Each impact sent shudders through the carriage's ancient frame, and my stomach lurched in most unladylike ways. The familiar comfort of my morning chocolate, hastily consumed before departure, now seemed a grievous error.

"I do not suppose," I said through clenched teeth, "that you have any of those peppermint lozenges?"

"Non, Mademoiselle. You did not allow zhe time to pack such zings."

I pressed my lips together, fighting both nausea and the urge to snap at my maid. The countryside rolled by indistinctly through the grey morning, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of poorly-oiled springs. A distinctive farmyard smell wafted through the carriage, making my stomach roil afresh.

"What is that appalling odour?"

"We are passing zhe dairy farm, Mademoiselle."

"A dairy farm," I repeated faintly. I had always rather enjoyed cream in my tea, but had never considered its origins quite so... viscerally.

The carriage struck another bone-rattling bump, and my carefully arranged coiffure began to collapse, sending hairpins descending down my neck. Outside, the driver shouted something incomprehensible at his horses, accompanied by a crack of the whip that made me start.

"Adèle," I said, trying to maintain my dignity as my hair continued its rebellion, "Did you think to bring any—"

"Extra pins, Mademoiselle? Non. Nor spare 'andkerchiefs, nor your evening tonique, nor—"

"Yes, thank you, Adèle, I take your point." I closed my eyes, willing my stomach to settle. When I opened them again, I found myself staring at a suspicious stain on the ceiling that I could have sworn was spreading. At this rate, I would arrive in London looking quite unrecognizable as a lady of quality—if we managed to arrive at all.

This, I reflected as another jolt sent my hat askew, was not quite the dramatic departure I had envisioned.

The first inn we approached - The King's Arms - had such a respectable facade that I felt my spirits lift. Surely here we would find suitable accommodation. I swept through the door with my usual authority, Adèle trailing behind.

"We require your finest room," I announced to the proprietor, a portly man whose smile faltered as he looked past me to the doorway.

"We, madam?"

"Indeed. Myself and my lady's maid."

He peered around me again. "No... gentleman in your party?"

"I am Miss Caroline Bingley of—"

"Begging your pardon, miss, but we can not accommodate unaccompanied ladies. We have a reputation to uphold, you understand."

"I beg your pardon?" I drew myself up to my full height. "Do you have any idea who my brother is? Who my connections are?"

"Very sorry, miss. Perhaps try The Crown in Millbury? They might be more... accommodating."

The Crown in Millbury was not, in fact, more accommodating. The proprietress there, a thin woman with suspicious eyes, did not even let me finish my introduction.

"No gentleman? Then no rooms. We run a respectable establishment."

By the third inn - The Rose & Crown - the sun was sinking and a chill wind had picked up. My hair, already loosened by the carriage ride, had begun to escape its pins entirely. My yellow dress bore suspicious spots from the leaking carriage, and my kid leather slippers were splashed with mud.

"Please," I said, hating the note of desperation that had crept into my voice. "We have traveled all day. I can pay handsomely—"

"No doubt you can, miss," the innkeeper said, not unkindly. "But rules are rules. Would not be proper, would it?"

"Mademoiselle," Adèle murmured as we made our weary way back to the carriage, "per'aps we should return to—"

"We most certainly shall not!" But I heard the lack of conviction in my own voice.

The shadows lengthened. We passed two more inns without stopping - one looked so common that I could not even bring myself to inquire, and the other had such a boisterous common room visible through the windows that even Adèle shuddered.

It was nearly dark when we finally found The White Horse Inn. The whitewash was grey with age, the horse on the sign so faded it might have been any sort of beast. A tabby cat watched us disdainfully from a windowsill, and the smell of boiled cabbage wafted from somewhere within.

I stood in the rutted courtyard, feeling my shoulders fall. "Surely not here," I whispered.

"Zhe choice, Mademoiselle," Adèle said with uncharacteristic firmness, "is zis or zhe carriage."

The innkeeper's wife was a broad-faced woman whose apron had seen better days. She looked me up and down with shrewd eyes.

"Unchaperoned, are you? Well, would not be my first choice to put you up, but night is falling and there is talk of footpads on the road." She named a price that made me wince and consider whetherfootpads would be more economical. "Take it or leave it, miss. And payment in advance."

The room, when we reached it, was small enough that I could touch both walls with my arms outstretched. The furnishings were worn, the draft whistled through ill-fitting windows, and something that might have been a mouse scurried into a corner. But it had a copper bath, which the innkeeper's wife promised would be filled with hot water.

"Not what you are used to, I would warrant," the woman said, noting my expression. "But it is clean enough, and the locks are good." She paused. "You will be wanting to use those locks, miss. Not everyone here is as particular about reputation as those other inns."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Into what circumstance had I placed myself?

"At least I may refresh myself," I said to Adèle, trying to maintain my dignity as I slipped into the steaming bath behind the dressing screen. I sent Adèle to fetch more towels, and for a few moments, I allowed myself to relax in the warm water, eyes closed.

The sounds from the outer room barely registered at first – just the quiet creaking of floorboards. But then came the distinct sound of a door closing. I sat up, water sloshing around me.

"Adèle?"

No response.

"Adèle! Come at once!"

When my maid finally emerged from behind the screen, she wrapped me in a borrowed robe. The scene before us made my blood run cold. Every piece of clothing I owned – my traveling dress, my spare gowns, my pelisse, everything – had vanished. But worst of all, my reticule containing all my coin was gone.

The innkeeper was unsympathetic to my plight. "Begging your pardon, miss, but if you cannot pay, you will be leaving come morning."

"Zhe gown is perhaps a little short, Mademoiselle," Adèle observed as I tugged at the worn muslin hem that exposed my ankles. Her spare black work dress hung awkwardly on my taller frame, the bodice uncomfortably loose.

"It will have to do," I said through clenched teeth.

A burst of laughter from below gave me a start. Through the floorboards wafted the aroma of mutton stew - the sort of common fare I would have dismissed the cook for presenting at my own dinner table. Yet now the rich smell of meat and vegetables, however coarsely prepared, caused my stomach to growl with mortifying insistence. I found myself imagining the taste of the gravy soaked into a crust of bread, an image that would have revolted me mere days ago.

"You there, girl!" A sharp voice made me turn automatically. A woman in a modish but well-worn pelisse stood in the hallway, gesturing imperiously. From her dress and manner, she might have been a merchant's wife, or perhaps a moderately successful farmer's daughter. "We need more coal in the private parlor."

"I am not—" I began, drawing myself up with what remained of my dignity.

"Oh, I see. One of those, are you? Too fine to fetch coal, I suppose." The woman's eyes narrowed as she took in my ill-fitting dress. "These new girls, putting on such airs. Mrs. Barnes!" She raised her voice. "Your new maid needs instruction in her duties. Standing about idle when there is work to be done!"

From below stairs came the innkeeper's harried voice: "Girl! Get down here and help with the washing up!"

I fled back up the stairs, my face burning. To be dismissed not as an impoverished gentlewoman, but as an incompetent servant by a woman I would once have considered beneath my notice - there was a particular sting in that.

As evening fell, the smells from below grew more tantalizing. I crept down the back stairs, intending to inquire about dinner, only to find myself pressed against the wall as serving maids hurried past with platters of modest fare. Through the half-open parlor door, I glimpsed traveling salesmen and local farmers' families dining at rough wooden tables, their pewter tankards catching the dim candlelight, their voices growing louder with each round of ale.

My own stomach twisted. The innkeeper's wife had made it clear - no payment, no food. The last of our money had gone to the room.

"Here." A girl with red, chapped hands appeared beside me, making me jump. "Cook says you are to have these." She thrust forward a plate bearing bread and cheese.

"I... thank you, but I cannot pay—"

"Never mind about payment. I am Sally from the scullery." She nodded at my borrowed dress. "Seen plenty like you before. Fine ladies in reduced circumstances. Though usually they have more sense than to travel alone."

I opened my mouth to deliver a stinging retort about impertinent servants, but my stomach growled again. The bread, though coarse, was fresh.

"Thank you," I managed instead.

That night, lying on the uneven pallet with Adèle's spare shawl pulled tight around my shoulders, I listened to the sounds of revelry below. The fire had long since died, and drafts whistled through the window frame. Something skittered in the corner - I told myself it was just the old boards settling.

A particularly loud burst of laughter floated up, followed by the clink of glasses. Were they drinking negus now? Or perhaps port? I had always loved the way port was served in crystal decanters at Pemberley, the way the firelight caught the rich red liquid...

My teeth chattered. In the other bed, Adèle snored softly. She seemed remarkably untroubled by our circumstances, as though sleeping in a freezing room with mice was a perfectly ordinary occurrence.

Another scrabbling sound. I pulled the thin blanket over my head, no longer caring about the state of my hair. What did it matter? My borrowed garments proclaimed my circumstances as clearly as any herald - I was no longer Miss Caroline Bingley of anywhere at all.

In the grey hours of morning, Sally was already at her tasks. Her arms plunged again and again into murky water, scrubbing at stubborn stains. She hauled buckets up creaking stairs without pause, and seemed to appear in three places at once - stoking dying fires, sweeping dirt into corners, emptying chamber pots.

"Is it not excessively fatiguing?" I found myself asking, watching her attack a particularly resistant mark upon the floor.

"No more than usual, miss." She shifted her weight to better apply the brush, without looking up.

I tried to smooth the borrowed gown at my waist, conscious of its patched weave against my fingers.

The church bells struck eight, each toll seeming to echo my predicament. In an hour, perhaps less, we would be turned out. The driver had made it quite clear the previous evening - no payment, no journey. Where might a lady walk alone? I had never troubled myself to learn distances between towns, having always traveled in well-sprung carriages with fresh horses at every stop. Now such knowledge seemed rather crucial.

My contemplation of these unhappy circumstances was interrupted by heavy footsteps in the corridor. The innkeeper appeared in the doorway, but she was not alone. Behind him stood my brother Charles, his usually cheerful face creased with worry.

"Caroline! What were you thinking, running off alone? I have been searching everywhere!"

I stood there in Adèle's ill-fitting dress, my hair uncombed, my feet cold in borrowed stockings, and for once in my life, I found myself entirely without words. How could I explain to my perpetually good-natured brother that I had fled Scarborough in a fit of wounded pride, only to find myself reduced to accepting kindness from a scullery maid?

The smells of breakfast wafted up from below – eggs and bacon and fresh bread that I would not taste. I observed my reflection in the spotted looking glass: a young lady in a borrowed maid's dress, her hair quite undone, who bore little resemblance to the Miss Bingley of Grosvenor Street. The neat ordering of my former life – the carriages always ready at precisely the right moment, the fires lit before dawn, the dinner appearing as if by magic – seemed now like a dream from which I had been rather rudely awakened.

"Charles," I began, but the words I had rehearsed through the long night - explanations, justifications, grievances - seemed to have fled along with my dignity. My brother stood before me in his immaculate coat and gleaming Hessians, every inch the gentleman, while I... well. The contrast between us had never been quite so marked. How peculiar that the world should continue in its ordinary way - fires being lit, tea trays arranged, boots polished - while I stood thus transformed.

When had I last thanked a servant? When had I last noticed their existence at all?

These thoughts, so foreign to my nature, quite undid me.Tears filled my eyes. I dropped my gaze to my borrowed shoes, unable to meet my brother's concerned eye.

But Charles, dear Charles, simply wrapped his coat around my shoulders. "Come, sister. I will take you home."

As we descended the stairs, I paused by the scullery. Sally looked up from her work, her hands red from the washing.

"I shall not forget your kindness," I said softly.

She just nodded, already turning back to her tasks. She had no time for prolonged farewells – there was work to be done, as there always had been, as there always would be. And for the first time in my life, I truly saw it.

But it was Charles who reached for his purse and drew out a guinea, pressing it into Sally's hand with his characteristic generosity. For once, I did not think him excessive in his liberality.

"Thank you, Charles," I said softly - words I had perhaps not spoken since childhood.

He glanced at me curiously but said nothing as he handed me into the carriage.