Lydia and Kitty followed not long after, their energy undiminished by the hour.
“Did you sleep well?” Kitty asked, directing the question toward Jane.
“Very well, thank you,” Jane replied.
Lydia cast a glance toward Mr. Collins, her expression studiously neutral. “Better than some, it would seem.”
Jane gave her a small look of reproach, though it held no real severity.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “I trust,” he said, “that the rest of the household was not similarly inconvenienced.”
“No, sir,” Jane answered. “We were quite comfortable.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head, as though accepting a matter of some importance.
Elizabeth listened, her attention divided between the conversation and the familiar arrangement of the table before her. She reached for her cup again, her fingers finding it easily, the warmth of the tea a welcome contrast to the lingering chill of the morning.
The door opened. A maid entered, her steps steady, her arms occupied with additional items for the table. Elizabeth did not turn, but she was aware of the movement, of the slight shift in the air as the girl approached.
There was a hesitation in her manner. Elizabeth did not think on it. Her attention returned to the table. She reached for what she assumed to be a small plate set just within her reach. Her hand met something else.
Heat, sharp and immediate. Elizabeth drew in a quick breath as she pulled her hand back, the sensation stinging where her fingers had brushed against the surface.
“Ah—”
She turned her head instinctively, angling her gaze to bring the object into view. A hot pot of tea sat just beyond where she had expected it. Too close. Too near her right side.
Lydia was at her side in an instant. “Lizzy!” she exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”
Elizabeth shook her head, though the sting had not entirely subsided. “It is nothing,” she said, her voice steady. “Only a misjudgment.”
Kitty leaned forward. “It should not have been placed there.”
Mrs. Bennet rose at once, her expression shifting from concern to indignation. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
The maid had retreated toward the door, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her.
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze fixed upon her. “Hill!”
Mrs. Hill appeared almost immediately, drawn by the raised voice. “Yes, ma’am?”
“This new maid,” Mrs. Bennet said, gesturing sharply, “must be properly trained. My poor daughter burned herself. The pot was placed without any thought for where she might reach.”
Mrs. Hill inclined her head, her expression composed. “I will see to it at once, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bennet turned back toward Elizabeth, her tone softening, though not without a trace of agitation.
“My poor girl,” she murmured.
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. “It was only a moment’s discomfort.” The sting in her fingers lingered, though it was already beginning to fade into something more manageable. She flexed her hand once, testing the movement, then rested it lightly against her lap.
Her gaze shifted toward the door. The maid remained there, her expression pale, her eyes wide with evident distress. She could not have been long in service, Elizabeth thought. Therewas a stiffness in her posture that spoke of inexperience rather than carelessness.
Elizabeth met her gaze as best she could, though the distance rendered the girl’s features slightly indistinct. She smiled. A small gesture. Intentional.
The maid blinked, as though uncertain she had seen it correctly, then lowered her eyes. Mrs. Hill moved toward her, speaking in low tones that did not carry across the room.
Elizabeth turned back to the table. The conversation resumed, though not with its earlier ease. Mrs. Bennet continued to express her dissatisfaction in quieter terms, while Lydia and Kitty exchanged glances that required no words. Jane, ever composed, redirected the discussion where she could, her manner calm and steady.
