We were never to dirty our hands over pork jelly, meet the sandman at the back door, haggle at a market, face down a debt collector, or outwit a sly shopkeeper. We were to sew trifles and look pretty, manage a tea tray, dance all the steps of popular dances, and provide our company with lively conversation or musical entertainment. It seemed this failure of initiation constituted her last line of defense for her brood, as though preventing us from becoming skilled at lower occupations would spare us the need to resort to them.
We knew precious little about what went on below stairs, nor were we sufficiently educated to be governesses. And apart from being a housekeeper or a governess, the only marginally acceptable occupation for the unmarried and impoverished daughter of a gentleman was that of wife. My sisters and I had been educated sufficiently for one, andonlyone, purpose—that of marrying a gentleman of means.
Had she done us a disservice? Or had my mother in fact put a stake in the ground and made a declaration to the world that over her dead body would Mrs. Bennet’s daughters be relegated to the meanness of work. I would never know, for she acted on instinct alone and would fail to understand me if I questioned her philosophy.
I own that the dreariness of the landscape caused my reflections to tend toward the overly dramatic, or maybe I was more my mother’s daughter than I thought. Either way, we were perhaps luckier than some in that we had the cushion of her brother and sister upon whom she had no qualms of relying should we be orphaned.
But fate is unpredictable, and anyone can suffer misfortune. Our protection was thin indeed if we were to batten ourselves on the generosity of our uncles as our last resort. Uncle Philips earned a mere competence sufficient for his station in life. And though Uncle Gardiner was prosperous, I had to wonder whether he would always be so. Trade was notoriously fickle, and he had children of his own to support. Meanwhile, I was grateful for his generosity, having just last week received a little money from London after I wrote to my aunt that I had been forced to spend more than I would on account of a few “trifling misunderstandings” at the shops.
Other than that one small confession, my letters to London had been composed of happy news. Never in life would I admit to Aunt Gardiner a tenth of what I encountered in a village she thought of as ideal. Nor would I tell her of Mrs. Jennings’s mental deterioration, for if I had stated the case plainly, she would have come to Lambton for such a duration and at such a time of year as to be pure folly.
No, I would prove to myself that I indeed was, to use my father’s words, “made of sterner stuff.” I would see the thing through without crying for help.
Chapter Seven
I approached the great house with more confidence on my second visit. By my calculations, and based on the scant information gleaned from Stevenson’s, Mr. Darcy might not yet be in residence at Pemberley. The possibility of encountering him was an unpleasant prospect easily dismissed, for even if he were at home, what gentleman lurked about anywhere near his front door? None! Particularly a gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s ilk who disliked strangers so much.
I had seen Mrs. Reynolds once already and was assured by her own invitation that she would see me again. I would be ushered to her office, conduct my business, and wearily walk home just as I had the last time I had come this far.
Mr. Brown again opened the door to me, and as any butler, underbutler, or head footman of such an establishment would, he had seen me coming with sufficient time to dredge up some recollection of me or, failing that, to look at his guest book.
“Good morning,” he said. “Are you here to see Mrs. Reynolds, miss? Roberts, please let Mrs. Reynolds know that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is here.”
I acknowledged this even as the underling struck off down the hall, but by the familiarity with which I had been greeted, I suspected that, the next time I came to the front door, I would politely be told where I could find the service entrance. God willing, this was the last time I would have to apply to Pemberley’s housekeeper so that I would be spared the indignity and, in consequence, avoid making some irate claim about being agentleman’s daughter.As bad as that might have been, no sooner had this thought crossed my mind than, immediately upon passing over the threshold, something even worse—something more truly awkward—then occurred.
“Miss Bennet!” exclaimed Mr. Darcy, almost at the volume of a shout. He stopped mid-step as he came down the grand staircase and stared at me, incredulous.
Thankfully, my own gasp of surprise was drowned out by the volume of his exclamation, and I managed a dignified curtsey. “Mr. Darcy,” I said coolly.
He came down the steps quickly and bowed, and before I could think what to say, he had extended his hand toward the double doors that opened instantly at his gesture. Glancing once in uncertainty at the underbutler and in a state of complete bewilderment, I went gingerly into the opulent salon to which I had been directed by none other than the master of Pemberley.What could he possibly wish to say to me?I wondered helplessly, looking down in utter mortification at the state of my dress.
Mr. Darcy was notoriously unforthcoming even at the best of times. He struck me just then, however, as a man who had been rendered speechless by my sudden arrival.
I looked around me in obvious confusion until he finally gestured toward a chair.
“Will you not sit? A tea tray will be—”
“Tea?” I asked dazedly. “I-I—forgive me, sir. I believe there has been a mistake.”
“Do make yourself comfortable in that chair,” he said abruptly, pointing to an elegant seat covered in gold brocade.
“I had better not,” I said, taking a fortifying breath and deciding that only bluntness would end this miserable meeting. “As you see, sir, I am covered in mud.” I made a reluctant gesture toward my petticoats, and added in a fading voice, “But this is not the first time you have seen me thus.”
“Do not regard it. Did you walk? Do sit. I insist.”
He spoke hastily and a bit breathlessly, which might have struck me as odd were it not for the fact that my own statements had sounded equally embarrassed.
I perched on the edge of the chair, and I was on the verge of an explanation for my visit when he once again deterred me.
“Your family,” he said, with a slight frown of concentration. He looked up and asked more urgently, “Are they well?”
Fortunately, from where I sat, angled toward the doorway, I saw Mrs. Reynolds come into the room just as he spoke, which spared me the requirement of answering.
I stood, causing Mr. Darcy to come abruptly to his feet.
“Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds,” I said, my voice warm with relief. “I thank you for seeing me again, ma’am.”
I then turned toward Mr. Darcy—too eagerly perhaps—and spoke as if overjoyed to say farewell. “Good day, sir. I believe Mrs. Reynolds and I should have our conference in her office as I have need of her advice.”
