maid asked, releasing the tapestry to come back around to the bedside.
"No," Elizabeth said, only to instantly reconsider. Perhaps that blow to her forehead had done more harm than she had thought? Or perhaps she was faint from lack of nourishment, and she was seeing things. "Rather, yes," she said, causing the maid to ever so slightly raise her eyebrows. "I would care for luncheon after all, please."
The maid nodded, then left, a decided waddle to her step, betraying yet again her enceinte state.
Left on her own, Elizabeth glared at the tapestried wall—she was unquestionably being affected by this house, with its curious selection of maids, its somber walls made of brick like a prison, and its master who was rumored to be unsteady in his mind.
Two weeks. Things could not go on as they stood.
Elizabeth reached once more for the bellpull, and this time it was the maid with the eyepatch who answered. "Miss?" she asked, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. "Luncheon is coming."
"Very good. What is your name?"
"Polly, if it please you, miss." The pronouncement was accompanied by a small curtsy.
"Polly, I rang again because I need to see Lord Greyleigh."
"Before luncheon?"
"Yes, if he is at home."
A mutter of reluctant assent was all Elizabeth got before the maid retreated once more into the hall. At least, Elizabeth thought to herself, if the maid found it odd that Elizabeth wished to receive the master of the house here in her sickbed, she did not say as much. That, for once, was a happy reaction in this peculiar household.
"Has the doctor reported my condition to you?" Elizabeth asked of Lord Greyleigh twenty minutes later. He stood three large strides from her bedside. Really, one might think from his remote stance that she was contagious—although three strides' distance was preferable to his usual seated pose nearly at her elbow.
"Mister Clifton did confide in me, yes."
"It was made clear to me that I ought not travel for a week."
"Two weeks."
Elizabeth compressed her lips together, then had to concede the point. "Yes well, I suppose the surgeon did say two weeks. I hope this length of time is not an inconvenience for you."
Lord Greyleigh cocked his head ever so slightly to one side, and Elizabeth could almost read his mind: he must be wondering why she was suddenly sounding so rational.
She would explain to him in a moment, but first she wanted no other misunderstandings. "I do want to be clear, very clear," she rushed on, "that I will not impose on your hospitality beyond the two weeks."
He nodded in acceptance, and it seemed his countenance cleared as though in relief. "You recall where your family resides?"
'That is something I cannot share," she stated, sounding prim even to herself. "But I wish you to understand something, Lord Greyleigh." Elizabeth took a deep breath and plunged into one final lie. "I came to this place to ... to restore my nerves. Such a cure has been effected. I may have been of a nervous disposition, but I was not then nor am I now mad, my lord."
She glanced up at Greyleigh to judge how her words struck him, but she might as well have been looking at carved marble.
His regard was marked only by its usual banal aspect of half-interested attention.
Elizabeth pursed her lips again, and decided the man was decidedly lacking in social aptitude. "I have reasons for not wanting to return to my family, and therefore have made other plans," she said firmly.
"Plans?" he echoed casually, as if she talked of going on a mere jaunt to view the ocean.
"These plans need not concern you, my lord, other than to make you aware that I shall leave promptly after two weeks have passed." She folded her hands together, a gesture of finality.
"What if your wound remains unfit for travel?"
"Even so, I will go. All I require from you is information as to when the Post runs through Severn's Well."
"The Post, Elizabeth? I think not, not with a foot that requires coddling. You will make use of
"No," Elizabeth said, only to instantly reconsider. Perhaps that blow to her forehead had done more harm than she had thought? Or perhaps she was faint from lack of nourishment, and she was seeing things. "Rather, yes," she said, causing the maid to ever so slightly raise her eyebrows. "I would care for luncheon after all, please."
The maid nodded, then left, a decided waddle to her step, betraying yet again her enceinte state.
Left on her own, Elizabeth glared at the tapestried wall—she was unquestionably being affected by this house, with its curious selection of maids, its somber walls made of brick like a prison, and its master who was rumored to be unsteady in his mind.
Two weeks. Things could not go on as they stood.
Elizabeth reached once more for the bellpull, and this time it was the maid with the eyepatch who answered. "Miss?" she asked, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. "Luncheon is coming."
"Very good. What is your name?"
"Polly, if it please you, miss." The pronouncement was accompanied by a small curtsy.
"Polly, I rang again because I need to see Lord Greyleigh."
"Before luncheon?"
"Yes, if he is at home."
A mutter of reluctant assent was all Elizabeth got before the maid retreated once more into the hall. At least, Elizabeth thought to herself, if the maid found it odd that Elizabeth wished to receive the master of the house here in her sickbed, she did not say as much. That, for once, was a happy reaction in this peculiar household.
"Has the doctor reported my condition to you?" Elizabeth asked of Lord Greyleigh twenty minutes later. He stood three large strides from her bedside. Really, one might think from his remote stance that she was contagious—although three strides' distance was preferable to his usual seated pose nearly at her elbow.
"Mister Clifton did confide in me, yes."
"It was made clear to me that I ought not travel for a week."
"Two weeks."
Elizabeth compressed her lips together, then had to concede the point. "Yes well, I suppose the surgeon did say two weeks. I hope this length of time is not an inconvenience for you."
Lord Greyleigh cocked his head ever so slightly to one side, and Elizabeth could almost read his mind: he must be wondering why she was suddenly sounding so rational.
She would explain to him in a moment, but first she wanted no other misunderstandings. "I do want to be clear, very clear," she rushed on, "that I will not impose on your hospitality beyond the two weeks."
He nodded in acceptance, and it seemed his countenance cleared as though in relief. "You recall where your family resides?"
'That is something I cannot share," she stated, sounding prim even to herself. "But I wish you to understand something, Lord Greyleigh." Elizabeth took a deep breath and plunged into one final lie. "I came to this place to ... to restore my nerves. Such a cure has been effected. I may have been of a nervous disposition, but I was not then nor am I now mad, my lord."
She glanced up at Greyleigh to judge how her words struck him, but she might as well have been looking at carved marble.
His regard was marked only by its usual banal aspect of half-interested attention.
Elizabeth pursed her lips again, and decided the man was decidedly lacking in social aptitude. "I have reasons for not wanting to return to my family, and therefore have made other plans," she said firmly.
"Plans?" he echoed casually, as if she talked of going on a mere jaunt to view the ocean.
"These plans need not concern you, my lord, other than to make you aware that I shall leave promptly after two weeks have passed." She folded her hands together, a gesture of finality.
"What if your wound remains unfit for travel?"
"Even so, I will go. All I require from you is information as to when the Post runs through Severn's Well."
"The Post, Elizabeth? I think not, not with a foot that requires coddling. You will make use of
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