Unbelievably, the gentleman stepped out onto the road. “Here,” he said, taking first one and then the other basket from my benumbed fingers. He handed them to the liveried footman, turned back to me, and extended his hand in a wordless gesture suggesting he intended to take me up in his coach.
“There is no—” I began, only to find myself once again subjected to his firm grip and maneuvered into a carriage.
I let out a small huff under my breath. No one likes to be the victim of so much assistance. A person thus treated begins to believe herself to be pitiful!
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” I said distantly when he joined me.
“It is cold to be walking.”
I tried not to roll my eyes and, with some effort, refrained from pointing out that some of us do not have a choice in the matter.
In response to my silence, Mr. Darcy also subsided into a period of introspection until the moment the wheels began to slow, signaling an end to our brief sequestration.
“Shall I see you in church on Christmas Day?”
“I doubt we shall go, sir.”
“Is Mrs. Jennings feeling poorly?”
I looked him directly in the eyes. “She does not keep a carriage, and my great-aunt is far too frail to walk that far.”
He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “I am sorry to hear it. I had thought that perhaps I might make you known to my sister.”
“I am sorry not to make her acquaintance,” I said, taken aback. We had come to a full stop, and the footman opened the door.
“Might we perhaps come for you? Unless she does not wish to—”
“I am sure Mrs. Jennings would like to go to church, but perhaps another time when the prospect is not so sudden.”I could not explain that her fragile memory required extensive preparation for anything new lest she become disoriented or even frightened.
“Of course,” he said, stepping down and leading me up the steps to the door.
I do not know why I then felt a touch of remorse for my coldness. Perhaps it was some change in his posture or his reluctance to release my hand even after he had helped me down the steps of his carriage.
I relented and turned to face him. “If you and Miss Darcy would like to call on Mrs. Jennings, I believe she would be grateful for a visit. Our days are unvarying, and we have no company save the scandalmonger next door.” I smiled at the gentleman apologetically as I said this since the renewal of our acquaintance under these circumstances constituted an act of pure condescension on his part.
He glanced at the house, and I wondered whether I had suggested more than he could stomach, but he then said, “Might we call tomorrow?”
Chapter Nine
Apparently, my willingness to stand up to Mrs. Smith’s bullying caused a renewed sense of dedication in the servants who remained. Smith shrank into near invisibility, but he did haul the day’s water and help Penny sand the kitchen floor as well as relate, through Doreen, that we had sufficient firewood and coal to see us through the second week of January.
Penny was rendered more in awe of me than was reasonable, however, and I spoke kindly to her as often as possible. And Doreen, though never truly energetic, seemed more inclined to do her work. We were a beehive of activity in the morning, for I had announced the previous afternoon that we would have important company that day, and we had better not embarrass Mrs. Jennings.
Satisfied that the parlor would be presentable for company, and in my apron and poorest dress, now relegated to serve as my costume for domestic toil, I began the business of making pease soup.
Anyone witnessing me engaged in the art of cooking would think I was performing a surgery. With my hair piled up and restrained by a wide strip of linen, my brow wrinkled in concentration, and mumbling aloud as I worked, I wielded my cleaver and ladle. The broth began to steam and let out a tempting aroma, which encouraged my devotion to its development. I sieved out the chicken bones, added the dried peas, carrots, bay leaves, and thinly sliced cabbage, and I had just set the lid and moved the pot to the spot on the stove that was favorable for a gentle simmer, when the door to the kitchen burst open.
Doreen, looking mildly harassed, stood before me and said, “Miss, the gentleman and lady have come.”
“What? My lord—the time! But it is not yet eleven! My goodness!” I exclaimed, fumbling with the knot of my apron strings when I came to a full stop.
“Mr. Darcy!”
“Forgive me,” he said at the kitchen door, bowing awkwardly over the large hamper he carried. “I thought this too heavy for you to manage.” He came farther into the kitchen and put his offering on the table.
“Oh!” I exclaimed stupidly. By then I had at least managed to remove my apron, which did little more than reveal my ugliest brown wool dress. And my hair! I reached for the linen strip, only to find that a large tendril of hair had escaped. I brushed it aside, gathered the precious little dignity I had left, and said, “You are very welcome, sir. Is Miss Darcy with you?”
His sister stood in the parlor, looking uncomfortable and extremely elegant in green velvet with a matching, fur-lined pelisse. Mr. Darcy, a man disinclined to apply finesse of any kind, then performed a stilted introduction, which made the actual clumsiness of our meeting ten times worse.
