“You are brooding,” Nana said.
“I’m thinking,” Elizabeth denied the charge.
“There is a difference?”
“Yes. Brooding is unproductive, and I’m being exceedingly productive, or I will be when I have resolved this conundrum.”Elizabeth sighed. “If you must know, I am thinking about how to ask Mrs Reynolds about Sally Wilson without revealing why I need to know.”
“You do not need a reason. You are mistress of this house. The tenants are your concern. Ask about the families, the farms, the welfare of the women and children. It is your right and your duty, and Mrs Reynolds will think nothing of it.”
Elizabeth considered this. It was true. She had been making a study of the tenants since her arrival; Darcy had encouraged it, and Mrs Reynolds had been walking her through the families, their histories, their needs. Asking about the Wilsons could be part of that. A natural question in a natural conversation.
A knock at the door heralded Mrs Reynolds herself, looking apologetic.
“I am sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but Lady Catherine has advised me that there is a draught in Miss de Bourgh’s rooms and the fire is smoking, and the curtains are not to her liking. She wishes it attended to immediately.”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. Mrs Reynolds had probably already inspected the rooms herself before making the long walk down one staircase and up another, to deliver Lady Catherine’s complaints in person. A waste of the housekeeper’s time, and all for a fire that was almost certainly fine and curtains that were certainly not going to be changed on Lady Catherine’s whim. At least Elizabeth did not have to take that route; there was a hidden door from her parlour directly to the east wing.
“Very well,” she said, and marched across the room to press the catch beneath the second shelf of the bookcase. The left side swung inward on old hinges, revealing the narrow passage behind. She was two steps in before she realised Mrs Reynolds was not following.
Elizabeth stopped. Turned.
Mrs Reynolds was standing exactly where she had been, her hands folded, her face perfectly composed. But her eyes were wide.
Behind her, Nana said something that would not have been considered ladylike in any century.
Elizabeth looked at the passage. Looked at Mrs Reynolds. And understood, with a cold drop in her stomach, what she had just done. Nana had shown her this door weeks ago, after Elizabeth had watched her drift through the bookcase one too many times and asked what was on the other side. A servants’ passage, long forgotten, connecting to the east wing corridor behind a floor-length painting. Elizabeth had used it half a dozen times since, always alone. She had stopped thinking of it as a secret. It was simply the quick way to get to the east wing.
Mrs Reynolds obviously had not known it existed.
“I,” Elizabeth said. And could not think of a single thing to follow it with.
“I did not know that was there, ma’am,” Mrs Reynolds said.
“I found it by accident,” Elizabeth said. “The catch is behind the shelf. I was reaching for a book and the panel shifted.”
It was a poor lie and they both knew it. Elizabeth could see Mrs Reynolds weighing the explanation against everything else she had observed in the weeks since Elizabeth’s arrival, and finding it wanting.
“Shall we?” Elizabeth said, gesturing toward the passage, because she could not undo what Mrs Reynolds had just seen, and she might as well make use of the shortcut.
Mrs Reynolds hesitated only a moment. Then she stepped through the bookcase after Elizabeth. They walked the narrow passage together in silence, emerged through the painting into the east wing corridor, went to inspect Anne’s rooms as though nothing unusual had happened at all.
The fire was fine, the curtains were fine, and Lady Catherine’s complaints were satisfied, or at least exhausted, which amounted to the same thing.
They took the long way back. The main staircase, the gallery, the proper route. Neither of them suggested the passage.
It was not until they had reached the housekeeper’s sitting room, and Mrs Reynolds had poured tea for both of them, and the door was closed, that Mrs Reynolds spoke.
“You did not find that door by accident, Mrs Darcy.”
Elizabeth set down her cup.
“I have been housekeeper of this house for thirty years,” Mrs Reynolds said. “I did not know that passage existed. Lady Anne never mentioned it, nor the old master, nor anyone. And you have been here two months and you use it as though you have known about it your whole life.”
Elizabeth said nothing, because there was nothing she could say that would make sense.
“I do not understand how you know what you know,” Mrs Reynolds said. “I am not asking you to explain it. Not today. But I want you to know that I see it, ma’am. I have seen it since your first week here. You know things about this house that you should not know, and the hidden door is only the latest.” She paused. “I have my own sense of this house. I have had it for thirty years. Feelings. Impressions. The east corridor makes my skin prickle when I walk through it after dark, and I could no more tell you why than I could explain any of it. I do not understand what you are doing. But I believe your reasons are good ones, that you love the master and Miss Darcy, that you have their best interests, and Pemberley’s, at heart. And I should like to help you, if I can.”
“There is something you could help me with,” Elizabeth said, after a careful pause. “I should like to continue learning about the tenant families. Specifically, the Wilsons, who have the large farm by the mill.”
