14.8

Lizzie felt the need to do something useful while Tilney slumbered and, tired of the endless repairing of clothes, steeled herself to do her duty. Certain that Tilney would not at all mind, she retrieved his letter case from his baggage and sat down to compose a letter to the King of Naples.

It was funny how comforting the very act of writing was. Sitting at the small table in the corner where the light shone to its best in the late afternoon, Lizzie uncapped the ink and sharpened the quill. With luck she would have some time before the physician arrived to check on his patient and see the improvement the day had brought.

She selected one of the smaller size papers among Tilney's collection. Dipping the quill in the tiny bottle, Lizzie drew a breath and quickly wrote the date at the top, marveling again how much time had passed since that fateful day of the funeral. Another dip and she write "Your Majesty," in her usual manner, which was far too florid for her liking, but she found herself incapable of writing with the neat penmanship Lady Mangrove had always praised in her own writing. However much she might control the rest of her life, Lizzie found it impossible to restrain her pen.

It was provoking. Lizzie often suspected that her handwriting revealed things about her that she would prefer to keep locked in her most private thoughts.

She dipped the pen once more into the inkpot and paused. As her hand hovered over the ink, allowing a stray drop to fall back into the bottle rather than blot the paper, Lizzie felt her good intentions sink.

What had she to say?

Her immediate thoughts were to apologize for the delay in responding to his last missive, but how then to explain what had happened in the succeeding interval? "My excuse is rogues, pirates, destitution and a considerable amount of time spent in disguise as a young man." Hardly satisfying to her correspondent, Lizzie imagined.

Nor flattering when put so baldly, she had to admit. Mrs. Radcliffe would make much of such a narrative, but Lizzie was certain she had neither the skill nor the patience to make much of the events. Besides, it wasn't really the point, after all.

What was the point, though? Telling the king that she would be coming to Naples somewhat unexpectedly? That she had taken the hinted promises as definite indications? Where did she stand with the king after all?

Lizzie stared at the clean white page and sighed. Such a terrifying tyranny in that empty space.

14.7

As Tilney snored on, Lizzie's thoughts raced. What indeed were they to do? What was her rightful situation at this point? She glanced down at Tilney's calm face, a little careworn to be sure, but just as open and appealing as it had been at her first sight of him.

That was the problem, after all.

By all that was right, she owed her affections to the hinted promises of the King of Naples, who, if he had been less than forthright in his declarations (a factor she put down to Italianate modesty), had nonetheless implied a very positive outlook in return for her attentions.

Despite his prodigious knowledge of insects, their habits and habitats, Lizzie had found that the immediate and tangible charms of Tilney had somehow made it very easy to forget the primarily literary appeal of the King. He was royalty, too, she tried to remind herself. Italian royalty to be sure, which was not quite the same thing; nonetheless, for a woman in her somewhat marginal position in English society, royalty of a kind was nothing to be sniffed at by any means.

Yet she must admit that she had hardly spared a thought for the King in some considerable space of time. Lizzie could not simply blame the rigours of caring for Tilney in his compromised position. Tending a sick bed had often left her with ample time to peruse the informative letters posted by her Neapolitan friend, re-reading with interest his knowledgeable dissertations on the dining habits of the common cockchafer.

You have not shown the slightest interest in cockchafer lore, Lizzie scolded herself.

It was true: since meeting up with Tilney on that fateful day, she had spared little more than the occasional thought for the King and his little creatures. She looked down at her friend's slumbering visage. It wasn't that he was remarkably handsome. His face, while pleasant enough, did not have the dazzling attraction of someone like the elusive Kit Barrington, who had so fascinated her poor cousin, Alice.

Yet there was so much good humour and lively wit in that face when it was awake. That was the chief distraction, Lizzie thought with a sigh, a mind that kept up with her own. Be fair, she reminded herself, a mind that sometimes pulled ahead, too. Trapped in the well-intentioned enclosure of Mangrove Hall, Lizzie frequently tired of slowing her thoughts to match the pace of those around her. Love them as she might, she could not claim much in the way of intellectual stimulation for the kindly relatives who took her in. It was a pleasant change to be kept on her toes by a friend who was every bit as clever as she, and more than willing to chafe her verbally.

But duty was a thing a young woman ought not abandon completely. Lizzie felt a flush of shame at her own indulgent ways. As much fun as her adventures had been (in retrospect anyway; it was difficult to recall now just how frightened she had been when Tilney was shot), it behooved her to remember that pleasure was not the aim of life and she owed it to her relations and to the memory of her parents to do what was right.

"We shall go to Naples," Lizzie said aloud. Tilney stirred at her words, but did not waken, turning his sweet face away from the light from the window. Lizzie felt a painful tugging at what was surely her heart-strings. Why must he look so thoroughly agreeable just then?

Detained at the Faro Tables

Your humble narrator begs your forgiveness, but she has been detained at the faro table, where she hopes to earn back the estate she seems to have lost...

14.6

"I can see nothing for it," Lizzie said slowly, turning the thoughts over in her mind as she dared to say the words aloud, "but to continue as we have done. At least for the moment, anyway."

"Do you mean--?" Tilney frowned. "As we have done?"

"I mean," Lizzie said with the decision evident in her tone, even as she continued to sprawl luxuriously in the chair, "that we cannot change things here, certainly. And it may not be safe to alter our arrangements as we travel."

"Travel," Tilney echoed, seeming somewhat nonplussed.

"Think, Tilney," Lizzie said urgently, sitting up in her chair to regard him quite seriously. "We're in a bind now. We've gone with this masquerade for so long now that people have been taken in by it. We cannot change anything at present—it would cause too much confusion. So we need to continue to pretend. Otherwise we will be in for difficulties for sure."

Tilney frowned, but nodded his head. He must have realised she was right. "But for how long shall we do this? Surely after we leave this place we can return you to your rightful situation. Whatever that may be," he finished lamely, looking at her now with frank curiosity. "What is your rightful situation?"

Lizzie sighed. "I hardly know where to begin."

Tilney leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. "I have no immediate plans."

Lizzie sighed again and thought about where to begin. "We were on the way to my cousin Alice's father's funeral," she began, but paused. "Perhaps I need to mention the King of Naples?"

Tilney raised an eyebrow. "Miss Austen would enjoy your tale, I suspect."

Lizzie could not entirely squelch the pleased grin that rose to her lips. "Let us begin with the funeral and add other elements as they come along."

"Were you close to your uncle?" Tilney quizzed her as he settled into his pillow.

"If you are going to ask those sort of questions at every juncture," Lizzie said with a narrowed eye, "this will take much longer than it need do."

"I am quite contrite," Tilney said with a yawn. "I will ask no more!"

Lizzie smiled. At this rate he would soon fall asleep and she need not expose all of her lively details of the story. Accordingly she made her voice as even and droning as possible as she began to tell the story of the funeral.

"It was a quiet day, very little in the way of plant growth or insect life," she started and was pleased to see Tilney's eye lids droop precipitously. "Alice and I were in our very finest mourning clothes and made sure that we had very neat and starched handkerchiefs in our pockets or sleeves, as that is certainly the most important part of funeral preparation."

Lizzie noticed that Tilney's eyes were closed now and so droned on in a similar tone. "We were riding along trying to recall what people had been wearing at the Assembly Ball," which wasn't entirely true, but seemed perfect for lulling Tilney into slumber. "I was trying to recall who had linen whereas Alice tried to recall who had worn silk and we compared notes on who had been the more raucous."

Tilney was not only asleep, but beginning to snore. Thank goodness, Lizzie thought. Now I can do a little thinking!

14.5

"How long have you known?" Lizzie couldn't decide between anger and dismay at Tilney's discovery. Surely if he had known…but ah! There was no good thinking about that.

"How long," Tilney repeated. "It's hard to say." He paused and looked up at Lizzie speculatively. "There was always a hint, I think."

"A hint!"

Tilney shrugged, the bedclothes shrugging along with him. "I knew something was not quite right."

"Nonetheless --"

"Yes," Tilney responded as if anticipating her comment, "I did nothing."

Lizzie stared at him. "You knew and did nothing. Sir, I must ask --"

"No, no, no," Tilney cried, his fist hitting the bed without a sound. "I beg you not to think of me as some kind of commonplace mind, fiend seize it! I was uncertain if I were right and what's more, I knew that if you were undertaking such a charade, there must be some kind of excuse for it."

"You mean --?"

"Yes, damme. I knew you were in some kind of havey-cavey business if you were engaging in this masquerade. I didn't know if you were in the suds with some kind of family matter or trying to escape some sort of unfortunate attachment. Lawks, Bennett, it's not as if you were easy to read."

"I suppose not," Lizzie admitted, flinging herself into the chair by the bedside, relieved at least to no longer have to carry off the disguise, although she had found it quite comfortable over time. "I was doing my best not to bring you any trouble or dis-ease."

"You were a cracking companion," Tilney admitted with a half-smile. "Lud, but you were cool-headed in the midst of that infernal dueling nonsense. I may have made a cake of myself getting shot, but I'm glad there was someone as sensible as you there to assist me, Bennett."

"You-you are most welcome, Tilney." Lizzie felt her face flush hot. As comfortable as she had been with Tilney all this time, she suddenly felt awkward and peevish now that he knew her secret and was complimenting her on her disguise.

"Not at all, Bennett," Tilney responded, his eyes searching her face carefully. "I say, what should I call you anyway, Bennett? I can't keep calling you Bennett. Nor George, I suppose."

"My name is Bennett," Lizzie said softly. "Elizabeth. Lizzie."

"Quite suits you," Tilney said decisively. "Lizzie it is."

"Thank you. I think," Lizzie said, marveling at the sound of her name from his lips.

"Well then, what are we going to do?"

"Do?"

"Well, we're in the devil's own scrape here, Bennett -- er, Lizzie."

"What do you mean?"

Tilney guffawed. "Let's see: you're a lone female traveling as a man, with a single gentleman for companion with a reputation as a bit of a rake, who's also been shot in the midst of a French duel. Bad form, Bennett, very bad form."

"When you put it that way…" Lizzie paused. What on earth could they do?

14.4

"Indeed," Lizzie said with an affectedly lazy drawl. She avoided raising her eyes and concentrated on nibbling at the piece of bread very slowly. "And what would that be, Tilney?"

He paused, the soup spoon still clutched in his hand. "What was the name of the sawbones who attended me?"

Lizzie felt herself relax a little. Was this all he was wondering? "M. Sangsue. He ought to be coming sometime today in order to examine you further. He has been quite confident of your recovery when I was quite concerned."

Tilney's face looked slightly clouded, as if he were trying to recall something elusive. "It was he who fished out the shot from my side?"

Lizzie nodded. "It was quite an exacting procedure. It took him a good long while to extract the ball from your wound. Quite a bit of delicacy involved. I'm sure you'll find monsieur le docteur to be a most trustworthy and painstaking task master."

Tilney sighed, setting the spoon back in the cooling bowl of soup. "Painstaking is correct. I say, Bennett, did you help with this procedure?"

"Indeed I did," Lizzie answered, trying hard to maintain her lazy drawl even as she rose in excitement. Oh, if Alice could only see her then! How she would marvel at her cousin and her ability to sustain such a painful and difficult procedure, to say nothing of the blood. No doubt at all: it was a fabulous encounter and no less. Lizzie took unaccustomed pride in her careful charade. She had portrayed the male not only in the casual wearing of the clothes, but in the midst of shocking adventures, had maintained the role with all aplomb. "It was quite horrifying, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

"You have been a good friend, Bennett and brave." Tilney nodded sagely, leaning back again the pillows.

"Why thank you, Tilney. You're most kind."

"Why it's no less than the truth," Tilney rejoined. "Quite a lot to withstand—horror, blanche and blood," he added, shaking his head as if in disbelief of it all."

"Especially when one is a girl, yes?"

Lizzie froze once more. He knew!

14.3

Lizzie tried not to feel her heart beating in her throat, where it seemed to have leaped at the moment she heard his words. A mystery to clear up? He could only mean the secret of her identity which he seemed to have figured out, at least insofar as he had deduced that she was not the boy she pretended to be.

As she hurried down the stairs, the feeling of panic rose. Lizzie's mind fluttered helplessly over the problem. What to do, what to do? If Tilney knew, what would he do? Would he send her away? Expose her? Or -- worse?

No, Lizzie thought with a determined chin jutted out at no one in particular, she could not think Tilney a man capable of getting her started in the petticoat line. He might not be above a scrape or two, Lizzie assured herself, but underneath all the casual devilry, he was a regular gentleman.

She ordered some soup from the landlord, who had become accustomed to her self-assured commands and scrupulous accounting. Lizzie had been loathe to use any more of Tilney's money than was absolutely necessary, but lacking any of her own, it was required.

The landlord seemed a bit spooked by her sudden appearance. He was a bit taken aback to see her so flustered and bustled himself to get the soup with all due speed. "The young monsieur, he is awake?" he croaked in his limited English as he handed the tray to Lizzie, a generous half loaf of bread with a wedge of fine ham tucked in beside the bowl.

Lizzie smiled. "Oui, monsieur. I think he has begun to recover at last."

"Dieu merci! Then perhaps you can get some rest, too. Vous êtes très fatigue!"

Lizzie smiled and shrugged in a most Gallic manner as she took the tray and headed back up the stairs. It was true, she was completely done in, as much by the worry as by the lack of sleep. She stifled a yawn. This would not do. There was still much to be done.

Pushing open the door to Tilney's room, Lizzie smiled. He looked very tired and wan, but there was more than a spark of life in his face now. "Come now, old man. I have some fine soup for you here." She laid the tray across his lap as he struggled up to a sitting position.

"Ah, Bennett, that has to be the best soup I have ever smelled," Tilney said with relish as he seized the spoon. Lizzie grinned. It was only a simple peasant stew, but it must indeed seem heavenly to his deprived senses.

Tilney dove in, scooping up a few quick spoonfuls before he spoke another word. Lizzie satisfied herself with a little handful of bread torn from the loaf. Tilney looked up at her with a familiar twinkle in his eye.

"I say, Bennett, there is one thing we need to speak about very soon,"

Lizzie stiffened, her hand frozen with the bread at her lips.