“Let it be Grinstead, then. And Parsons, see that Gladden and the servants have their vails; a guinea will do for the wenches; here is my purse. And see to your pistols, Parsons; this beggarly slough is full of smugglers and footpads.”
The suave and obsequious Parsons left to prepare his mistress’s departure. The Lady Letitia, still unduly distressed, hobbled up to her bedroom by the back stairs, so that she should not pass her nephew’s door. The guineas Richard had loaned to her were sewn up in a leather bag under her hoop. Miss Betsy was flinging gowns, petticoats, and underclothing into the trunks, being no less eager than the Lady Letitia to flee the house that the pest had entered. The room was littered with scarves, pomade-boxes, pins, ribbons, jewelry, gowns, stockings, and shoes. The dowager stood leaning on her stick, scolding and directing the girl as she hurried the multifarious articles into the trunks.
The old lady did not attempt to conceal either her nervousness or her annoyance from her maid.
“Drat the small-pox,” she said, with feeling; “one would think that the devil had the sowing of the pest. Confusion, wench, what are you doing with that green silk sack? Don’t crush it up as though it were dirty linen. Yes. I have told Parsons that we must make Grinstead before dusk.”
Miss Betsy sat back on her heels as she knelt beside the largest trunk, and glanced round at the hundred and one articles littering the floor.
“Poor Mr. Richard!” she said.
“What’s that you’re saying?”
“It does seem mean, ma’am, that we should be running away and leaving him alone.”
“Betsy,” quoth the dowager, curtly, “you’re a fool.”
“La, ma’am!”