Chapter 1
London, February 1812
She was tempted—oh, so tempted—to enter Heptinstall bookseller at number seven Fleet Street, abandoning her journey to number one. But the bookseller, a publisher of law texts, was unlikely to stock the recent novels of either Maria Edgeworth or Sarah Burney. Reluctantly, she walked past, noting an edition ofA Treatise on the Law Concerning Idiots, Lunatics and Persons Non Compotes Mentisproudly displayed in the window—perhaps of interest only to the Middle Temple lawyers whose court stood next door. Number One, cramped between Preedy’s Hatter and the grand arch of Temple Bar, was an undistinguished building—narrow, rising three floors to an attic above, a black iron balustrade barring the ground floor windows, a dark green door seemingly the only guardian of the wealth she knew lay behind.
Bracing herself, she entered, finding a clerk standing at a high bench, occupied with making entries in a large ledger.
“Ma’am, you have business here?” he said, rather querulously. Certainly, her brown woollen walking dress marked her as neither a woman of fashion nor a servant—unremarkable. She handed him her card, meticulously crafted only that morning.
“I represent Mr. Gardiner—an appointment with the board… eleven o’clock?”
He was tall but thin, rather sallow. He looked at her suspiciously, then turned to another journal on his desk.“Gardiner? The appointment is for a Mr. Edward Gardiner…” Unspoken was his expectation of a gentleman, not a woman.
She had learnt, when dealing with the tenants and cottagers on her father’s estate, it was best not to engage them in badinage, for men almost always thought to impose their male superiority on a mere woman, especially in business.
“Mr. Gardiner is unable to attend. It is a matter of some delicacy which I shall explain to the board. Please convey me to the meeting room—time is precious, but certainly I do not wish to waste that of the bank’s partners.” She smiled, a twinkle in her eye that caught his attention. Her eyes were dark, exceedingly fine, sparkling with intelligence. She was not laughing at him, merely establishing that a clerk, even of the most prestigious private bank in England, could not intimidate her.
He blushed. “My apologies, ma’am. Few women come to the bank.” He turned once again to the journal. “The meeting is scheduled for the Oak Room. Please follow me.”
* * *
She was shown into a dark, oak-panelled chamber on the floor above, which spanned the width of the building, illuminated by the three front-facing windows. Along the centre of the room stood a long, polished mahogany table supported by two immense pedestal pillars, with three upholstered chairs along one side and two on the other. This curious asymmetry amused her for a moment, until she realised that the remaining chairs stood against the wall; she herself was led to one of the two chairs placed opposite the windows. The glare from the morning light shone in her eyes, which would make her observation of any others in the room difficult, whereas they would have a clear view of her—a subtle play of power and rank.
A door, which had hitherto remained unnoticed, opened, and an older gentleman entered. She stood and curtsied; he, staring at her with some bewilderment, took a chair opposite. His expression was difficult to determine, shadowed as it was against the bright light streaming in from outside. Shortly thereafter, a fashionably dressed woman entered, followed by a clerk, who took a chair against the wall.
The woman was handsome—though not a beauty—with dark hair in ringlets framing her face, wearing a superfine French cambric morning gown over a cambric slip with full, long sleeves. She wore a neck chain and seal set in gold; bracelets and a necklace of red carnelian, together with a floral cap of white satin and lace, set off her costume. Perhaps eight and twenty years—very young to hold such an august position in the bank. Certainly, this was Lady Sarah Child Villiers, Countess of Jersey, and head partner of Child & Co.
“Mrs. Elizabeth Bennet?” The lady glanced at the card in her hand. “We were expecting Mr. Gardiner.”
Elizabeth gave a deep curtsey. “My apologies, my lady, Mr. Gardiner is indisposed. His wife was taken to her chamber this morning, and he felt obliged to attend her. I have an understanding of commerce, as my card implies.”
“Humph!” The gentleman snorted, clearly unimpressed by the cause of Mr. Gardiner’s absence. “Surely, ‘tis not a man’s place in the birthing chamber—never heard of such a thing.”
“That is, Harry,” said Lady Jersey, “because you have never married. My dear Lord Jersey attended both our sons’ birth—George and that of little Augustus. If men have the pleasure of begetting a child, they should share the pain of its entry to the world.” She glanced at Elizabeth, who was blushing. “Oh, my pardon, Mrs. Bennet—perhaps not a discussion for a maiden; though I suspect, given your presence here—using the honorificMistress—that you are a hardier creature than most girls in society.”
They took their seats, indicating that Elizabeth should also sit.
“Well, I am not sure what is intended, for we would understand how Mr. Gardiner’s company has prospered over the past two years. But, pray, I wish to know more of yourself, for I am rightly curious about how a woman—a gentlewoman, no doubt—intends to present the business. Perhaps introduce yourself and your relationship with Mr. Gardiner. Don’t you think, Harry, that the day is proving to be more entertaining than we thought? I am so glad that James was unavailable—I’m sure he would have sent Mrs. Elizabeth off, and we would have missed her story. Oh, pardon me. Is it too impolite to call you Mrs. Elizabeth? Mrs. Bennet sounds too much like a matron, which you certainly are not.”
The lady’s laugh was slightly improper, but Elizabeth heard a kindness in her words. Here was a woman who dealt daily with the posturing of men. Was she herself equal to presenting to a countess? What if she failed, if they were unimpressed by her exposition, would her uncle’s business be ruined?
“Certainly I am comfortable with the appellation Mrs. Elizabeth. Mr. Gardiner?—my uncle, I reside at his home in Gracechurch Street.”
“Oh, wonderful,” said the countess. “The good end of Gracechurch Street, near Lombard Street and Cornhill, or the poor end, near Fish Street Hill?”
“Talbott Court—likely nearer the Monument than the Bank of England. But it suits very well, for it is near his customs warehouse on the Legal Quays.”
“Of course, a sensible location.” Lady Jersey paused, looking thoughtfully at Elizabeth. “Are your family in London?—though I cannot imagine you would prefer your uncle’s house to theirs.”
“My father’s estate is near Meryton, in Hertfordshire, some seven miles north of St. Albans. While I prefer country life, it behoves me to assist my aunt and uncle at this time.”
“Why for?”
Elizabeth felt the full impertinence of the lady’s questions, but she was not in a position to avoid an answer. “The estate is entailed, your ladyship. The heir presumptive proposed, and I declined—my presence at Longbourn was deemed undesirable, since he had switched his attentions to my younger sister, Mary.”
“You declined! Surely it was a good match; you would have become mistress of the estate.”
“Mr. Collins was a fool. I could neither respect nor admire him.” Nervously, Elizabeth shuffled the papers she had retrieved from her portfolio. “With respect, ma’am. Time passes, and I am sure you would like to hear Mr. Gardiner’s report—if not from me, then perhaps on another occasion. I do not wish to take up more of your valuable time.”
