8.8

"Well, Bennett," Tilney said languorously as he set his fork down, "Where were you bound anyhoo?"

Lizzie tried to cover her momentary panic with a bit of a cough, necessary anyway as the sudden constriction of her throat had caused a bit of her egg to go down the wrong way. "Bound -- er, well, no where in particular, I suppose," she said, remembering to keep her voice low and gruff as she might.

"Anyway the wind blows, eh?" Tilney laughed and the hearty sounds rang through the mostly empty inn. The landlord polishing glasses, looked up at the sound, but returned to his own thoughts when there seemed to be no immediate order behind their sounds. "So is that the adventurous spirit that got you into hot water in the first place?"

Lizzie tried not to betray the confusion she felt, until she remembered that she had suggested calamitous happenings were in her past and responsible for her destitute present. "Ah, yes…" She swallowed and took a big mouthful of coffee to hide her confusion. Why, oh why, did I think it was going to be easier to pretend to be a man? Lizzie scolded herself firmly. She had chosen her path and now it must be followed until another opportunity came her way. Lizzie tried to maintain her composure. Mr. Tilney must not glean from her appearance just how much she was attempting to hide.

Sure enough, there seemed to be a twinkle of amusement in his eyes that Lizzie was determined should not undermine her confidence in the charade. However, she was not well-prepared for his next conversational sally. Tilney picked up his own cup and used it to gesture lazily at Lizzie. "Let me guess: was it a press gang? Somehow I can imagine something of the sort, a wild type of lad like you, frequenting taverns on the coast -- we all know the typical hellholes." He winked at Lizzie. "Too much ale and the poor sort of acquaintances who don't watch out for your best interests, I'll wager."

A flush of indignation rose from Lizzie's breast, but she checked herself from a hot retort. Why not a press gang? She had read of them in her uncle's newspapers, so she was familiar with the basic narrative. From a press gang she could easily work her way around to the pirates with a convincing ring of familiarity. With the pirates she could stick more closely to her experience and away from the need to tell expansive lies (which were, she admitted, much harder to keep in memory). "From Southampton, I'm afraid. I was at the Three… ah, Three Crowns when I was pressed. Service on the seas for some days, I couldn't tell you how long. I was rather seasick at first." Lizzie was loathe to portray herself as prone to seasickness, particularly because she had perhaps some immoderate pride on behalf of her good stomach, but expediency in narrative must overlook such small matters as truth.

Tilney seemed quite enraptured by the tale. "Heavens, lad. What a confounded havey-cavey business! They were free-traders I suppose, that was a bit of a hobble."

Lizzie was a bit flummoxed by his outrageous cant, but she forged on as fearlessly as possible. It was with a full knowledge of the effect of her words that she said carelessly, "Oh, that was nothing compared to the pirates."

"Pirates! Lawks! You don't mean to say…?"

"Captured," Lizzie smiled to herself as she bent her head down to the last few bites of bacon. It was a delight to be listened to with such rapt attention. I should not get used to this, she scolded herself, yet she found the pause before resuming her tale more delicious than the crispy bacon she popped into her mouth.

8.7

Stepping into the cool darkness of the public house, Lizzie was struck once more with the strangeness of being treated like a man. No one rushed forward to lead her to a table, no one greeted her with more than a grunt. It was a bit disconcerting, but less so than the fact that she was about to sit down to eat with a man to whom she was a stranger.

"Here, lad," that same easy voice called over to Lizzie as she peered into the gloom of the inn. The young gentleman lounged easily at one of the small wooden tables near the far window. The morning sun was just beginning to work its way round to the angle, so when he sat up Lizzie was able to take a second glance at her young patron.

No doubt he'd be considered a swell of the first stare, Lizzie thought as she too cautiously lowered herself into the chair opposite. Tall and a bit thin, but with the swift movements of a man of action. Wiry rather than muscled, but with a strong sense of confidence that belied his lazy drawling manner of speech. It told her something that he was conscious of his effect on people and sought to affect it against him. It bespoke intelligence, Lizzie was certain.

"Name's Tilney, Sidney Tilney. The Manor House, Woolton, Hertfordshire. Pleased to meet you, eh -- ?" Tilney used this speech to clasp Lizzie's hand in his and shake it vigorously.

Lizzie swallowed and finally stammered out the answer, "George Bennett, pleased to meet you." There was an unexpected squeak in her voice as she spoke which she tried to cover up with a cough. "No family, no home at present, although I hope to make my way back home eventually."

Tilney's eyes seemed to dance with amusement. "Must be a bit of a tearaway, Bennett. Penniless and far from home. Too ripe and ready by half, I must say."

Lizzie smiled, feeling a little puzzled by the high flung cant, but she determined to press on enthusiastically. "And you, sir? Are you adventuring at present?"

"Now, that's enough of this 'sir' business, Bennett. We're going to be good pals, eh? Now can we get this devil of a landlord to spring us some eggs and decent bread, d'you think?"

Lizzie called over to the landlord in her accurate if somewhat timid French and the man waved his assent and waddled toward the kitchen.

"Damn clever of you to know this French tongue so well," Tilney said with evident relief. "I spend half my day trying to remember the right word. Half the time it comes out all German anyway."

"My gov -- er, tutor always insisted on reading Voltaire in the original language. My father thought Voltaire essential to the well-educated young… man," Lizzie finished lamely.

"Sound like your papa was a task master," Tilney said, not unkindly.

"He was a very good man," Lizzie thought with a stab of loss, that melancholy pain of great sorrow that lingers softened only by the joy of one so beloved. She was glad the landlord bustled up just then to lay two trenchers of eggs and sausage before them. To the devil with a genteel appetite, Lizzie thought wildly as her mouth watered, and tucked into the breakfast with breakneck speed.

"Gad, you were hungry!" Tilney said with a chortle before lifting his own fork to eagerly join in the meal.

8.6

Lizzie -- or rather, George, she hastily reminded herself -- turned to see the person who had hallooed her. A striking young man had just alighted from a tall chestnut hunter, its flanks wet from exertion. "I say there, boy! Come take my horse."

Lizzie froze. She willed her self to step forward, but for once her body was not responding to her mind's prompting. This was precisely the moment she had anticipated, but she found herself terrified at the idea of impersonating a young male. Surely frozen terror was worse than the poorest disguise, she scolded herself and made her numb legs take a step toward the young man who was looking impatiently at her.

"Oh heavens, I forget myself," the young man continued smacking himself on the forehead. "S'il vous plaît, garçon. Mon cheval -- oh, hang it. Horse? You understand, right? The fiend seize it! I can't keep this slippery language in my head for five minutes at a time."

It seemed so long since Lizzie had heard one of her countrymen speak that she grinned at once, cheered to feel a little bit of home so far from it. "Not to worry, sir," Lizzie said, remembering to lower her voice as much as possible, "I'm an English lad."

"Are you then? 'Pon rep, that's fortunate. Give me German any day, these Romance languages just don't suit my mouth, I swear. There now, be good to my Darcey here -- he's a prime bit of blood." The young man patted his horse affectionately and Lizzie made sure to praise its fine lines and good musculature.

"There then, lad, see my horse well groomed and put away and there's good coin in it for you -- sink me! You're not a stable lad, are you? Look at those hands. You're not some rough." Lizzie became acutely aware of the probing intelligence behind those hazel eyes, belied as it might be by his lazy tone and slipshod canting vocabulary.

"N-n-n-no, sir!" Lizzie stammered, thinking swiftly. "But I may have to make my living soon enough in that manner. I don't have a feather to fly with, you see -- destitute!"

"Heavens!" the young man looked surprised and not a little intrigued. "Well, lad, take this horse around to the barn, see that the groomsman takes him in hand, then join me inside for a hearty breakfast. I'm fair gutfounded and you look like you could do with a bite as well. Then you can tell me what a young gentleman like you is doing without a sixpence to scratch with so far from home."

"Yes, sir!" Lizzie said and led the chestnut off to the stables behind the inn. A sleepy groom met her there, scratching himself elaborately and yawning as he took the reins from her hand. Lizzie could only imagine that she might have been spared the sight had she been there in a fine frock and her usual accoutrements, but the revelation of the male world was already proving interesting.

Speaking of interesting, Lizzie was deeply curious about her unexpected benefactor. His lively eyes and cultured voice intrigued her. Of course, she reminded herself, her heart belonged entirely to the King of Naples, but the dangerous situations she found herself in of late required her to adapt to the unusual circumstances in all sorts of ways. A short time alone with young gentleman could not possibly prove of any scandalous difficulty, Lizzie assured herself. She was merely curious, that was all, what it was like to speak with a man as a man. A scrape it was, but a most interesting one. Lizzie had every confidence that she would prove to be its master.

8.5

It was early yet, but there were those here and there who stirred. Here and there, a carter hitched up his horses and a landlady opened her shutters as her meat pies baked. The smell so bewitched Lizzie's nose that she thought for a moment she might simply swoon away with the delicious aroma of that simple meal. As she slipped along the quiet streets, Lizzie pondered the relative requirements of morality and hunger. While she was not one to pay close attention to the vicar's advice on most Sundays, Lizzie had the same moral compass as most girls her age had.

Trained by novels sentimental and gothic, Lizzie knew that rules were rules, but also that rules could bend when circumstances called for it and the heroine were sufficiently in need. If she found herself in a strange country, far from home and without succor, it was perfectly understandable that a heroine might find herself taking part in activities or going places where a young woman might not be expected to wander alone.

Without realizing it, Lizzie had turned her steps toward the public house from which rose the enchanting scent of baked meats. A more seasoned observer might have guessed that Lizzie already planned to partake of the food one way or another, seeing her singular focus and the way she licked her lips as she slipped along between the sparse buildings in the dawn light. Our heroine herself, however, still sought to find thoughts reconciling her to thievery in the pages of the many novels she had read. It was unfortunate that the tome which rose to the top of her consciousness happened to be Miss Fielding's instructive volume of school girls and their governess. Miss Fielding's heroine would not allow such a thing as she was contemplating; no, her self-denying good girls would sooner starve than steal.

The kitchen window was in sight now. Lizzie could feel the marvelous scent assaulting her like an unseen mist. Now she knew how the dogs outside the butcher's shop on the high street felt. It would have been quite undignified to have her tongue hanging out, but Lizzie had never felt quite as hungry as she did then. It was with a start that she recalled her last meal aboard the Bonny Read. It gave her a disconcerting moment of confusion. None of it seemed real.

Alice, sweet Alice! Where could she be? Alone! Lost! Worse than that, she could not allow herself to go. Her head seemed to fill with a grey fog and she froze halfway across the alley, uncertain. Just then the rising sun hit her with a shaft of light and Lizzie swallowed as best she could with her dry mouth.

I shall think about this later, Lizzie told herself as resolutely as any of Miss Radcliffe's heroines. She drew in a deep breath and plunged across the road, intent upon the pies just beyond the window. She flattened herself against the wall of the public house and listened for a moment. All seemed quiet enough and she was about to dart a hand in when a loud voice startled her.

"Boy! Come here!"

8.4

As she trudged along the road, Lizzie -- or rather George, as she must now consider herself -- considered the likelihood of carrying out her masquerade. How did men behave in general, she quizzed herself, how were they likely to speak?

Lizzie put away the poetic lines of the King of Naples and tried to ponder more ordinary gentlemen. She kept herself to that class as Lizzie feared being unable to reproduce the noise and behavior of the lower classes with any accuracy. Besides, she realized, there was little to go on for that behavior. She called to mind the very strange Mr. Radley, who seemed to always be out in the garden planting carrots or deadly nightshade (the latter, he always said, had a grave purpose to safeguard the family, but Lizzie had never known of him actually employing the flowers in any kind of scheme; perhaps that was all for the best). There was also Mr. Bird, the butler, but he seemed to slip in and out of rooms without leaving behind so much as a shadow and thus offered little in the way of useful instruction.

The less said about Master Dick Spiggot the stablehand, the better.

So she was left with the examples of various affable young gentlemen like the persistent Arthur Boylett, whose conversation never failed to drive Lizzie to find someone more charming to talk to or a dance to join. She sighed as she walked along, remembering the pressure Alice had been facing to marry that very tedious young man. When he got going on the kings of England, a very dull night was promised for all. To hear him extrapolate on the true nature of Æthelred the ill-advised was to know the true meaning of infinitude and envy the unlettered people of hinterlands who might be spared the droning experience that Arthur’s stories offered.

The constantly changing swirl of young men who appeared at various house parties and assembly rooms offered little more help. They were dressed in like manner, they spoke in the same lazy tones and, unlike Arthur, mostly spoke about horses, complimenting this or that “beautiful stepper” or threatening to draw someone’s cork if their favorite hunter were not sufficiently praised.

What we need, Lizzie thought with a certain peevishness that might be forgiven in light of the early hour and her strenuous journey, is a better class of men.

I shall simply act as my self, she vowed. I will recall to keep my voice low, speak as little as possible and not offer any opinions. I may be thought a stupid young man, Lizzie scolded herself, but I will not be discovered as a woman. With that resolution, she picked up her pace, seeing the first outlying buildings of a small town coming into view with the dawning light.

8.3

Vestis virum reddit, Lizzie thought as she wiped the water from her chin after gulping a healthy amount of water from the well. Although its dark shape had alarmed her initially, she was grateful for its cool, restorative waters. She was nervous of lingering long by the group of cottages, but Lizzie was reluctant to leave the well behind immediately. It had been too long since she had drunk so deeply of fresh water.

Where would she go anyway, Lizzie reminded herself. She peered in the midnight dark toward the lane that led right up to the well. Many a cart had traveled this way; no doubt the fishermen had carried their catch to market daily. They would head out long before dawn, surely.

Strangely, she had no desire to be noticed. While at first Lizzie had longed to knock on a cottage door and be welcomed into the friendly warmth of a nearby hearth. Caution had checked her wish then, but what about now? Surely she could risk meeting others in her guise as a young man, hair carefully pulled back, pants attesting to her stature as a man.

But Lizzie found herself desiring instead to strike out on this unknown lane and see what she might encounter along its curves. She had already begun to consider what her name might be in this masquerade. George, surely, seemed the most suitable name for some reason that she could not quite recall. Lizzie had considered Cesario, but discarded it as far too romantic a notion. After all, there would be no likelihood of meeting a Duke Orsino, as she already had a nobleman’s heart (although she felt a stab of pain remembering the state of the King of Naples’ letter and hoping that once dry it would still be legible). She would keep the Bennett surname, as it might prove useful.

With one further deep drink from the well, “George” set out on the lane heading away from the sea. If only I had some boots, Lizzie tutted, but if wishes were horses -- well, there she was. In time, no doubt, her feet would become accustomed to the rough life of the traveler. No doubt there would be much to get used to in this new life, Lizzie thought as she jumped at a strange sound, only to realize it was an owl hooting on her late night hunt.

I am alone, thought Lizzie. This thought had terrified her on the wide ocean’s waves, but now she regarded it with a strange sense of wonder. Had she ever been truly alone in her life until this singular voyage? She had certainly felt bereft when her parents had died, suddenly plunged into the position of poor relation and lonely orphan. Lizzie had been at an awkward age: not quite old enough to be on her own, yet not young enough to be the fawning child who might make new parents love her as their own. Admittedly, Alice’s parents were hardly the warm home of tender novels. The peculiar and nearly silent Lord Mangrove frightened her at first, as did Lady Mangrove with her sudden passions and constant wrangling with Lord Mangrove. Alice was sweet enough -- if only she could manage to interest her in books without pictures!

Ah, Alice, Lizzie thought with a sudden stab of longing -- where are you now?

8.2

For a time, Lizzie could do nothing more than lie on the soft white sand and cry tears she did not realize had been waiting for release. Chary of thirst, she had held them in as she floated upon the black waters, but upon the shore once more, they came with relief, happiness and not a little grief. Alice, sweet Alice, where might she be? It was too much to hope that her dear cousin, too, had survived the pitching waves, but Lizzie would not give in to despair.

But where was she?

Once the tears subsided and the night wind began to chafe her cold clothing, Lizzie shivered and looked about. To find someone! That must be her next quest, but Lizzie stopped the shout that had risen to her lips. Many a thrilling gothic adventure rose from her memory—bereft gentlewomen, far from the care of family, so often became the terrified prey of an unscrupulous (yet often handsome and dashing) young man. Such a thing ought not happen to her.

Lizzie was cold, miserable and lost without a friend, but she knew she had a clever wit, a good sense of propriety and a reasonable knowledge of human nature. She pulled at the ropes knotted around herself and the barrel as her mind thought rather feverishly of the options. There must be warmth, or else she would soon catch her death. There must be water or she would faint from dehydration all too soon. After that, food would be the most needful thing, but fresh clothes -- how were they to be obtained? She had no money of any kind and little in the way of bargaining.

With great effort she finally released herself from the barrel’s company, chafing at her wrist and scouting about her on the strand. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dark of the night and the brightness of the strand, Lizzie could see that there were some cottages nearby. Probably the fishermen, she mused. I hope they don’t have dogs, Lizzie thought as she headed in that direction, telling herself that no doubt they had cats (somehow cats and fish seemed to connect naturally in her mind). While she was eager to be near people once more, Lizzie felt certain that a damp and friendless young woman like herself would be in far too vulnerable a spot to ask for assistance from people to whom she had never been introduced.

As she approached the nearest cottage, Lizzie could hear the gentle sounds of snoring and took some comfort in it. At least she was no longer alone. Approaching the corner of the little house, she peeked nervously around and drew in her breath sharply, thinking she had been seen. When no sound materialized, Lizzie drew up her courage and looked round the edge of the wall. It was not a person, but only the laundry hanging in the night breeze. With relief, Lizzie let out the breath she had not been aware of holding.

An idea struck her. While loathe to purloin from these poor folk, Lizzie knew she would be in grave danger should she not get out of her wet clothes soon. As she examined the laundry in the moonlight, she was somewhat taken aback to see nothing but boys clothes.

“Any port in a storm,” she muttered and grabbed a pair of breeches and a shirt that appeared to be about the right size. Looking carefully around, Lizzie saw no one watching and scooted away toward the next cottage to slip between it and into the darkness once more. When she was some distance away in a small tangle of shrub, she deemed it safe to disrobe and try on her new apparel. What a surprise to find that the unmentionable garment was far warmer than her frilly dress and the shirt quite a bit more comfortable than the fussy sleeves of her usual attire. Lizzie looked back at the cottages after she had knotted her wet clothes into a bundle and stuffed them inside the still damp mending bag.

She could not have known that the feeling she had was much like that of any successful thief, for if she had Lizzie might have been ashamed. Instead she felt only satisfaction that far from home and on her own, she had succeeded in the first step of her own rescue.