Chapter Eight
Extraordinary!That was the only word that came to mind as I sat in benumbed comfort on the carriage ride back to Mrs. Jennings’s house.
He must have enquired! In the interim between my arrival and my departure, Mr. Darcy must have asked the servants what they knew of me!
Mrs. Reynolds had most likely told the butler of my first visit, perhaps only for the sake of relating I had her permission to call again. In any case, the fact that the gentleman knew which house I visited struck me as…well, it was extraordinary! No possible explanation came to mind except that he perhaps prided himself on such meticulous attention to detail that he knew of everyone’s movements and whereabouts. But, no—he never cared one jot about who was where in Hertfordshire.
I shook off my confusion and opened the book Mrs. Reynolds had lent to me. Hmm, pease soup. The ingredients were all homely enough. No references to obscure mushrooms or French sauces. I knew we had cabbages and carrots stored in the root cellar under the kitchen, and though the potatoes were mealy, I could make use of them with some judicious paring.
Did we have dried peas?I was not sure, so as we passed through Lambton, I knocked on the roof with my umbrella.
“I need to run an errand if you would leave me here,” I said when the footman opened the door.
The groom jumped down off the box and went to the team, so I smiled and said, “There is no need to wait for me.”
“We are to see you to your door, miss,” the footman said with unblinking sincerity.
“Oh, but—” I could see there was no talking them out of their duty, so I changed tack. “I shall only be a moment, but might you collect me outside the butcher’s shop?”
I returned in less than a quarter hour with a parcel of dried peas and a few other ingredients for my soup, and in a moment of supreme gratification, I caught a glimpse of awe on Mrs. Edmonton’s face as the most elegant carriage in the neighborhood passed by her front window and deposited me at Mrs. Jennings’s door.
“On no account open the door if anyone knocks, Doreen,” I said, quickly taking off my coat and securing the latch. Sure enough, not two minutes later, we heard Mrs. Edmonton’s determined efforts to be admitted. After three consecutive attempts, the lady gave up, and I then went to Mrs. Jennings’s room to see how she fared.
***
I strove mightily to put from my mind the entire episode with Mr. Darcy. I was aided in this by Mrs. Smith’s threat of defection and my strategy to make her regret her maneuver to rule me.
“Good day,” I said breezily as I entered the kitchen the following morning. She stood over a pot of porridge while Doreen, Penny, and Smith sat at the table. “Do sit,” I told them as they began to straggle to their feet. Meanwhile, the cook stood with her back to the room, one fist thrust into her ample side, her elbow jutting out in opposition to me.
“Good morning to you too, Mrs. Smith,” I called out in my sunniest voice. “I believe your week’s leave begins tomorrow. I hope you enjoy good weather during your furlough. Does Mr. Smith plan on a leave as well, or shall we see him as usual?”
By the stiffness of her back, I knew my first volley had hit the forward mast, so to speak. I pressed ahead before she could answer me.
“Smith, if you are not coming to work for a spell, see to the firewood, will you? Do we have coal to see us through Christmas Day? Oh, and if Penny is to haul all the water while you are gone, you might at least help her sand the floors today to make up for it.”
Smith darted a glance at the cook, lowered his eyes and mumbled something to the effect that he had no plans to take a leave.
“Oh?” I replied. “Forgive me. I had thought—but never mind. No doubt you will stay here if Mrs. Smith is not at home? You can bunk in the kitchen and Penny can sleep—well, we shall shift things around as neat as you please, shall we not, Doreen? Do let me know about the stores of firewood and coal though, and be a dear and help Penny.”
“I dunna suppose Ineedto go,” Mrs. Smith said warily, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned to face me fully.
“Of course you must take your leave!” I cried. “Here—I have put your wages in this envelope so you do not have to wait for the end of the month. I would not begrudge you the time you were promised and havelooked forward to all year.” This lament had been a feature of her original announcement, and I delighted in throwing her words back at her. “No doubt you will visit family, just as Mrs. Burke has done. But I should not be disrupting the breakfast. I believe that porridge is about to boil out of its pot. Perhaps the stove is too hot?”
She whirled around to rescue her porridge, and I fired my last volley with fearsome accuracy. “I shall go to the butcher first thing after breakfast and bring home the goose I bespoke yesterday. That way, you can truss it up and put it on the spit for Mrs. Jennings’s dinner. I am sure you are anxious to go, so you need not stay. Penny and I shall tend to the roasting and warm up yesterday’s pudding as well.”
***
I believe it was Doreen who, after her first taste of goose and a large slice of pudding, had hinted that Mrs. Smith had left the house in a state of dejection, having been denied a taste of such a luxurious bird. The maid spoke with more animation than usual—maybe even a touch of glee—assuring me that both she and Penny had watched carefully and made note of every step required in trussing and roasting the bird. This subterfuge had been at the heart of my sly plan involving the goose as I had no intention of feeding Mrs. Jennings a stew on Christmas Day. I began to hope that, among the three of us and with help from the book lent to me by Mrs. Reynolds, we might have a reasonable Christmas dinner even without a cook.
I had walked a great many miles in the weeks since my arrival; I had sometimes slept fitfully on account of the discomfort of my legs—and more importantly, the discomfort of my situation—and I had no time for leisure whatsoever. That night, however, full of triumph, pudding, and goose fat, I fell into a sound, dreamless sleep. Yet, it is a perverse fact that an exhausted person who sleeps well will wake up to a case of even worse exhaustion, and so it was for me.
Christmas being three days away, however, meant this was no time for rest. I went out early for my errands, and two hours later—my arms weighted on both sides by the baskets I carried—I trudged up the high street back to Mrs. Jennings’s house.
A carriage pulled alongside me, but I paid it no mind, walking along in a daze and vaguely wondering whether the rain would turn to snow later that afternoon. Strangely, I heard my name spoken in the unmistakable low and sober—
“Mr. Darcy!” I gasped.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
