The king’s arrival was greeted with murmurs of “Your Majesty.” He had been paraded by his doctors before—they were hardly more than jailors—and each time, an irritated spark within me rose hotter. People had ignored Papa this same way at the end of his illness. He would sit stoically as if he did not notice, then fume and moan about it at night.
Whatever a person’s illness, this treatment was cruel. A king should either be dressed and greeted as a monarch or granted the dignity of solitude. Instead,his keepers prodded him about with snide contempt as if he were no more aware than a cow or sheep.
The court, as usual, had clustered around the prince like bees to a hive. But my irritation launched my feet, and I found myself walking to the king. One of his doctors, a wiry and grimacing man, waved me away, but I ignored him and curtsied, the court curtsy I had practiced when a dance instructor still called on Hartfield—a full sweep with one pointed toe, then sinking deeply on my back leg to wait with head bowed and gown spread. I said, loudly enough to carry, “Your Majesty.”
The room quieted. Every pair of eyes pressed.
I hoped the king would recognize courtesy, but I did not expect him to respond—he had been thoroughly mad for years. Yet, in an old man’s hoarse voice, he said, “Rise.”
I recovered smoothly from the curtsy, thinking that my dance instructor would have been pleased, and looked into the clouded, hunting eyes of the king. His face roamed up and around the room, then toward me again. Fretfully, he said, “Who are you?” Gasps sounded from the court.
“Miss Woodhouse, sir.”
“What is this? Where am I?”
“Pemberley, sir.”
“Oh.” His lips, unevenly stubbled from a poor shave, thrust out like a petulant two-year-old’s. His lined face furrowed and became tragic. “War, is that it?”
I had no idea how to answer, but Princess Caroline rushed past me, her emerald gown flapping. “Grandpapa!”
The tragedy etching his face fell away like a shattered mask, and he beamed. “Darling girl!” She embraced him, and there were delighted whispers and approving taps of over-polished fingernails on palms.
Seeing the king happily engaged with his granddaughter, I backed away, then dodged the courtiers’ grasping congratulations until I was behind the mass of the crowd.
Mr. Knightley stood there, hands clasped behind his back. I halted, toes bent mid-step. I had steadfastly avoided him since he announced he would travel to the occupied south, but I found I was smiling happily.
“That was nicely done,” he said. “Boldly.”
He had come from practicing; I scented the pine rosin he rubbed on his violin bow. My smile wobbled amid rushing, conflicted feelings. I settled for asking, “Are you still leaving?”
“I must.” He angled his head toward the troupe of courtiers. “These indulgences rub me wrong. They mock my leisure.”
“Can you not invent a few hardships and be content to stay?”
“Most gentlemen would. Do you think that satisfactory?”
“I know you do not.” I surprised myself by announcing the brash resolution I had formed. “I am going to help Nessy.”
“You have some new insight?”
“I am simply determined.”
“Nessy is a sweet girl. Her illness is unfair.” He drew a breath. “But a child bedridden with consumption—”
“Do not! Do not say it is impossible.” If I was to be alone, could I not have these successes? Aid my sister. Aid Nessy.
He nodded slowly. “I admire your devotion. But there are other hurts in the world. Other callings for your care. I have seen a hundred lives transformed by the Freedom Society.”
“I cannot imagine helping a hundred lives. Helping one child is hard enough.”
Lizzy and Mr. Darcy had approached to a polite distance. Mr. Knightley nodded to them, and they joined us, complimenting me on my respect to his majesty.
“He reminded me of Papa,” I said honestly.
Mr. Darcy exchanged a glance with his wyfe, then said, “Elizabeth and I wish to extend an offer. You recall my mother’s condition?”
She had obsessions like mine. I nodded.
