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“I have been at this for what seems to me to be forever. I am—or was—the youngest daughter of Mr. Howard Grant, who resides with my mother and the rest of my family on his estate, Hollymead, in Shropshire. Six years ago, when I was but seventeen, I was brought to London for my first Season. I was abducted from the park near my father’s town house by a man I knew slightly, a man named George Wickham.

He abused me violently, at knifepoint, and when he had done with ruining me, he took me to Mrs. Younge, or Madame Charpentier as she calls herself now.

My family found me, but they preferred to disown me, saying that I had been killed in a hunting accident at a neighbor’s estate in Shropshire.

And so, I worked for Mrs. Younge, entertaining what she refers to as ‘gentlemen,’ until this house opened, when she brought me here. ”

“I know not what to say!” Elizabeth took the other girl’s hand and held it. Her own hands had begun shaking at the mention of George Wickham.

“There is no need to say anything at all.” Arabella lowered her eyes, and her voice was barely audible.

“I have a kind of hope, and if you can believe it, my current situation may advance my plans. During my first Season I fell in love with a young gentleman, and he with me. He was--is--a second son, and it was necessary for him to find a profession. He worked as private secretary to the Duke of __ and was generally thought to have a fine future in the diplomatic service. When I was—when I was captured, it was he who found me. It was he who made every attempt to rescue me, even after my parents disowned me. His own parents forbade him to continue, but he persevered, even to the point where his employer discharged him. He works now as a clerk in a counting-house with many clerks, saving every shilling of his pay to buy my freedom. He purchases an hour of my time each month, and he never puts a hand on me. Rather we sit together and talk of our future. My hope and his has been that when my appearance begins to fade, I can escape to him.” She paused.

“Well, I should say that these injuries have quite stolen any beauty I might have had in the eyes of the clientele here. And if they put me in Covent Garden, I can try to make my way to him.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were wet. “What is his name?”

“His name is Robert Mason. He works for the firm of Conklin and Pierce, a counting-house.”

“Arabella, if I survive this place, I will do everything in my power to get you out of here. And if I do not find you here, I will see to it that Covent Garden is searched until you are found. Upon my honor, I will.”

“Let us hope that comes to pass.”

The two young women lay down on their mattresses and tried to compose themselves for sleep, but it took Elizabeth many long minutes to drop off.

Darcy’s beloved, now-familiar face continually rose up behind her closed eyes, and she was hard pressed not to weep bitterly.

It seemed she had just dozed off when the woman and her lantern invaded them once more.

She hung the lantern on its peg, saying nothing to Elizabeth, and proceeded to bathe Arabella’s wounds, which looked worse to Elizabeth.

“Ah, I detect a slight fever. That is not good, Miss Grant. Drink this water, and I shall leave you with a flagon of water to finish off tonight. If you have fever, I shall not feed you.”

She turned to Elizabeth. “As for you, Miss Bennet, stand up.” Elizabeth obeyed, and the woman tied a blindfold around her eyes. “Now, say farewell to Miss Grant.”

“Arabella! Arabella, God keep you! Have courage. I will do what I can for you.”

“Which is precisely nothing, Miss Bennet. Now, come with me.”

She led Elizabeth up a flight of stairs and out a door.

“Here are four broad steps down,” she said, taking Elizabeth by the arm.

They walked along a gravel path for a few yards, which was unpleasant to Elizabeth’s unshod feet, though she relished the fresh, cool air.

Clearly, she was in London. Traffic noises from the street were everywhere. “Go up four broad steps.”

Elizabeth complied and found herself within doors again.

The feel of the floor under her bare feet told her that she was standing on a wooden floor.

It was much quieter here; in fact, there was no noise at all.

She could detect scents of beeswax, floor polish, lavender, and cut flowers; in fact, all of the scents associated with a well-managed home.

She resolutely suppressed a pang of homesickness and awaited her captor.

As she did so, she breathed in again, detecting the odor of fresh paint.

“You may reach behind you and remove your blindfold.” Elizabeth complied, feeling a nervous flutter.

She found herself standing in a wide hallway looking forward at what appeared to be a front door.

“That door, and the door to the rear, remain locked and guarded at all times. You are not to approach them unaccompanied. Aside from that, you may move freely about this, the ground floor, and the rooms of the first floor. Do not enter a closed door without knocking and identifying yourself. Your room, and those of the other young ladies who share this house, are on the two upper floors. Now I will take you to your room.”

They ascended two pairs of stairs. It is like being in a school, thought Elizabeth.

Of course, her reason told her that this could not be true.

She knew perfectly well what sort of establishment this was.

For now, she thought she was safe. She would learn what she could, and hopefully that would be sufficient to enable her to effect an escape.

She had no idea how long her safety would last, but it would surely extend to a bath and some clean clothes.

When they arrived upstairs, her captor opened one of the doors, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter.

The room was dark, much as the rest of the house was dark, because the window was obscured by heavy velvet curtains.

Candles burned on the mantelpiece in an effort to ward off the gloom.

It would have been impossible to see without them. A fire burned in the grate.

A young blonde girl in a simple but attractive gown, apron, and cap was supervising two footmen who were filling a copper bathtub set down in front of the fire.

The water steamed invitingly and smelled divine to Elizabeth.

She barely looked at the young maid, so anxious was she to get into the bath.

The girl spoke tenderly to the older woman. “Mama, you look tired. Do sit down for a few minutes and rest yourself. You may keep watch—eh, keep Miss Bennet company while I go and fetch clean towels.” She dismissed the footmen and whisked out the door and down the hallway.

The woman Elizabeth mentally referred to as her captor pulled the door almost closed and seated herself in the chair.

There did not appear to be a screen to place around the bathtub nor any sort of shift for Elizabeth to put on after removing her clothing.

“Do go ahead and remove your clothes, Miss Bennet.” The woman sounded weary.

“There is no false modesty here. Just leave them in a pile over there. They will be discarded and burned.”

So great was Elizabeth’s desire for a bath that she complied without demur, turning her back to the woman and seating herself gratefully in the tub of warm water.

A cake of deliciously scented soap, quite different from what they used at Longbourn, was already in the bath, and she began to lather herself all over.

The girl reappeared and handed her a flannel cloth for washing, and Elizabeth began to scrub every inch of herself that she could reach.

When the time came to wash her hair, the girl was ready with warm, herb-scented water to rinse it, and when Elizabeth stood, she was first handed a warm towel, then assisted into a plain linen nightgown and a dressing gown.

Not wishing to dislodge her captor from the room’s only chair, she pulled the bench from the dressing-table over to the fire.

“Is there a comb?” she managed. One was instantly placed in her hand together with a dry towel, and she sat for many minutes, saying nothing, engaged in the familiar, comfortable task of drying her hair by the fire.

Her heart turned over as she remembered cozy times spent with Jane and her other sisters, seated by the fire, combing and drying their hair together.

Shaking off her despair, Elizabeth examined her surroundings.

The room was small but well-furnished and clean.

It boasted a closet, a fireplace, a bureau, a wardrobe, a dressing-table, a single bed and candle stand, and the modest but comfortable chair occupied by her captor.

There were looking glasses wherever she turned .

Her captor spoke from the chair. “You are free to treat this room as your own while you are here. However, you must never, under any circumstances, approach the window or attempt to open the curtains. The window has been nailed shut, and there is a heavy blanket nailed to the frame behind these draperies. Stay away if you know what is good for you.”

Elizabeth nodded and continued to dry her hair.

Anxiety thrummed in her veins like a second pulse as she looked over her surroundings again.

While Ruth and her captor were present, she would be unable to examine the room carefully, but there was no way to determine how long she would be here or whether she would ever be left alone.

In a few minutes, the young maid left, only to return moments later with a tray, which she set on the dressing-table.

The aromas were so savory that Elizabeth could hear her stomach growl.