“He is my friend, Lizzie. I would not have him discomforted when it can be easily prevented.”
“I cannot imagine that he will be uncomfortable. I do not think he notices other people when he is beside you. Would youratherbe placed beside Mr. Collins, Jane?”
The older girl shook her head emphatically. “No. No, I shall go and speak to Mr. Bingley. As afriend,Lizzie, and that is all! If you keep smiling like me like that then I shall eat dinner in my room and not come down at all.”
“No, you shall not hide.” Lizzie said firmly, “Not even from my little schemes, my love. Do not hide your courage or the beautiful friendship you have with Mr. Bingley. Let mama see what real happiness looks like. I fear that she has forgotten.”
“Then she needs only look at you and Mr. Darcy.” Jane murmured mischievously.
Now it was Lizzie’s turn to blush.
They had not come down in time for breakfast once, all week.
The table was set, the seating plan arranged. Elizabeth was just about to relax when she caught sight of the butler walking carefully into the dining room with a heavy tray. On it, several full carafes chimed together. The house had been free of liquor for so long that Elizabeth smelled the sharp tang at once.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, marching over, “I thought I was clear: there will be no wine served at this table!”
“It was the master’s order, sir.” The butler looked apologetic beneath his bushy black eyebrows. “I cannot disobey.”
Elizabeth reeled around, ready to run through the house and find Darcy, when she was stopped by the sight of Mrs. Reynolds. The woman looked past her to the wine, then back at Mrs. Darcy’s white face. With a reassuring, sympathetic smile, Mrs.Reynolds invited Elizabeth to join her for a cup of tea in her private sitting room.
This was such a rare request that Lizzie was stunned. For a moment, her shock at seeing the wine was numbed. Mrs. Reynolds seemed quite calm, and ifshewas not worried, then perhaps she knew something about it. Following her meekly, Elizabeth barely noticed the curious looks of the other servants as they walked through their quarters.
It was almost unheard of for a housekeeper to invite the mistress into her private rooms. They were sacrosanct: a sanctuary away from the stress and hard work of the estate. Staff and masters were not welcome there, only personally-selected friends.
Elizabeth found herself in a comfortable room. It was simply decorated but showed decided preferences for colours and designs which were not found in the house above. There were some things that would not have looked out of place in the drawing room: a tea set, for instance, painted with bright yellow flowers. These were doubtless gifts from Lady Anne: items that had been replaced and discarded, much like the second-hand dresses which were given to ladies’ maids. There were rustic ornaments scattered around the room and some small watercolour paintings. They all seemed to be done by the same hand. Elizabeth blinked at one in fascination.
“I did not know you were an artist, Mrs. Reynolds!” she cried, “These are lovely.”
“I paint when I can spare the time.” The older woman said serenely. It was a poor attempt to hide her pleasure at being praised, but she managed it by looking stern: “Lately, madam, I have not had any chance at all.”
“I am truly sorry.” Elizabeth replied, “It has been unavoidable. Between the ball, the dower house and my sisters…”
“I do not mind the work, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds interrupted, “It is wonderful to see life returning to Pemberley. I trust you to give the staff a much-needed respite once the ball is over.”
Elizabeth smiled at the pointed note in the housekeeper’s voice, “I have already made arrangements for a small party of their own, and gifts to express my gratitude for their hard work. I am truly grateful for their efforts, Mrs. Reynolds - and for yours.”
The housekeeper could not keep her stern expression; she looked both amazed and proud, “You have come a long way, madam.”
Lizzie laughed, “Thank you, I have had a very good teacher.”
They sat down and, for the first time since they had met, did not speak of the house at all. They spoke candidly of other matters. Mrs. Reynolds cut two pieces of seed cake and poured them both a cup of tea - a different blend than was served upstairs, and one which Elizabeth found delicious. Elizabeth was utterly lulled away from her earlier shock, which was the housekeeper’s intention. When she believed her mistress to be capable of truly listening, she changed the topic.
“You looked quite distressed when I stumbled across you,” she said gently, “Were you unaware of the master’s orders to unlock the wine cellar? I thought you had agreed, ma’am, since he had the key.”
“He has his own key.” Elizabeth explained bluntly. “He always did.”
Mrs. Reynolds’ face twisted in surprise. Elizabeth nodded ruefully and then took another swallow of tea.
“All of our schemes, Mrs. Reynolds, were for nothing! He had a key all along. I ought to feel cheated, but you know as well as I do that he was as bound by his principles as he ever was by our lock.”
“He must love you very much.”
Lizzie blinked at the sudden, unexpected and frank statement. Mrs. Reynolds waved her hand in the air in an attempt to explain her rather unprofessional outburst.
“When Miss Darcy had her accident, ma’am, the master no more thought of his principles than he did his haircut. He had no hesitation or shame in drinking, as you seem to imagine. For him, the real disgrace was not that he drank, but that he willingly gave up every shred of pride and honour that still remained to him. He had once held those things sacred, Mrs. Darcy, but after his sister fell ill, he stopped caring.”
“He cares now.” Elizabeth offered, trying to sound light-hearted to overcome her awkwardness: “Sometimes I think he has rather toomuchpride.”
