Elinor’s heart wrenched. “Oh, Gavin, it’s not your fault we haven’t married.”
The strain across his brow didn’t ease. His wife laid a comforting hand on his arm, and Elinor’s heart broke for him. She buried her face in his scratchy wool coat and prayed he wouldn’t say more. Truly, he’d done his very best to see her and all of her sisters married off. What hope had he ever had for success, when there were no eligible men? Or even ineligible men?
“I’ll keep watching for a duke,” he said finally. A forced laugh indicated this was meant in jest, not in cruelty, and certainly not in seriousness.
If she could have eased his mind without explaining what she meant to do, she would have done so. She was entirely certain she’d be betrothed to Grantham within a fortnight. But her brother’s remark proved that while he did wish to see her wed, he had no confidence in her ability to attract a blue-blooded husband, or perhaps any husband. And in normal circumstances, she would have had to agree.
That was why the circumstances must be abnormal. Certainly what she intended to do qualified as the latter.
“Should I find your duke, I’ll write posthaste,” Gavin continued, drawing light laughter from their sisters, his wife and her sister, who had all gathered again in expectation of Elinor’s departure. “I might even shackle him to an anvil so he doesn’t escape.”
Elinor released a pent breath; now that her brother was in good humor again, the difficult part was past. She gave her sisters each a hug, then traded curtsies with Delilah, Gavin’s wife, and Lucy, Delilah’s spinster sister, who was staying with them for Christmastide.
Without warning, Delilah stepped forward and embraced Elinor as if they were indeed intimate. “Do have fun,” she murmured in Elinor’s ear.
Elinor nodded and hugged her sister-by-law back. She was coming to like the new Mrs. Conley, and in fact, she owed her entire plan today to her brother’s pretty wife. If Delilah hadn’t run away to Gretna Green with him, Elinor would have never thought to concoct a harebrained scheme to smash a rickety carriage into Grantham’s manor lawn.
But Delilah had indeed behaved badly, and it was rumored that her sister, Miss Lucilla Lancester, was cut from the same hoyden cloth. In light of the scandals these two had caused—actual ladies!—what Elinor intended to do paled in comparison. What was a crushed azalea or two in the pursuit of true love?
“Well, good-bye then,” she said to her family, for there was no point in delaying any more. She leapt into the carriage. It didn’t just squeak under her weight. It sobbed. Elinor smiled at the empty interior. When this pitiful contraption suddenly took a dive into a ditch, thereby tossing her into Grantham’s arms, would anyone be the wiser why it had given out?
Fortunately, she’d thought far enough ahead to ensure her safe arrival at Chelford House. She’d mended a strategic crack in the carriage wheel with a metal plate smuggled from her brother’s ironworks. She wouldn’t remove the plate until they’d reached Yorkshire, for she had no desire to be stranded anywhere between her brother’s house and Grantham’s.
Unfortunately, that meant she had more than a day’s time to pass in the nauseating conveyance before she could be free of it. Where was her Ladies’ Companion? She must have something to occupy her mind.
She withdrew the magazine from her satchel and set it on the bench beside her. One last round of waves to her sisters, then finally, the carriage lurched forward. She grinned.
Then she squealed and wriggled in her seat. She was off!
ALMOST A day and a half later, she rapped hard on the carriage roof. Her knuckles came away wet, and there was a dark splotch on the ceiling in the shape of her fist, but she didn’t mind. According to her calculation at the last toll road, they were mere miles from Chelford House, Grantham’s family seat.
Rap, rap.
Nothing happened. She rapped a third time, with the same results.
“Driver, driver!” she shouted, beginning to fear they would pass Chelford House and ruin her entire scheme.
“Jes’ call me James, miss.” The old man’s voice filtered through the sagging roof. “What can I do for ye?”
“I… Er… Is there a stopping point ahead? An area of convenience, perhaps?”
Mr. James’s guffaw was unmistakable. “I don’t think ye mean ’ta blackberry brambles, miss, though they look right ‘nough for me.”
Despite her request being nothing but a ploy, she shuddered at the thought of relieving herself in the wilds. “Is there nothing else ahead?”
“Mr. Conley said not to stop, ’cepting official post houses, so I can’t say there is, miss. I was jest teasing ye about ’ta brambles.”