The gentleman’s failure or inability to gloss over my lack of preparedness for callers by begging pardon for his premature arrival left me with only one choice: to behave as though I were not at all embarrassed by being caught out.
I spoke in a bright, uninterrupted babble of disconnected thoughts, a style I sometimes resorted to when on the back foot. My father had characterized this as my attempt to fluster the enemy with a hail of friendly grapeshot, and indeed, Mr. Darcy and his sister both stood before me with looks of befuddled amazement.
“I am delighted to meet you, Miss Darcy. But how lovely for us you have come! Forgive me for the state of my dress just now, but I was trying my hand at cooking, which I have never done, and I lost track of the time. Mrs. Reynolds suggested I might manage a soup because our cook left us unexpectedly for the week—but never mind. I believe I might enjoy cooking, which is quite surprising to me, but a pastime that would horrify my mother should she ever find out what I have been up to. Might you excuse me while I fetch Mrs. Jennings? She will be so happy to welcome you both, but—where are my manners? Goodness, I am all at sea! Please make yourselves comfortable, and Doreen”—I called out to the maid gawking at us from the hall—“tell Penny to put the kettle on the hob and help me with the tea.”
I finished with a tremendous smile that I hoped lessened their feelings of dismay, and in truth, by that time, I could not help but be amused by the extreme awkwardness of our meeting. Miss Darcy returned a tentative smile to me, and I dashed away.
Once upstairs, I struggled out of my horrid brown dress and into my only decent gown with a front closure. I let my hair down, pinned back my curls with two combs and a ribbon, ran to Mrs. Jennings’s room, helped her into her shoes, fixed her cap and shawl, and after a large gulp of air, I took her down the stairs.
“Auntie,” I said, “this is Mr. Darcy.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy!” she said, clapping her hands together in glee. “How good to see you again, sir. And Mrs. Darcy,” she added, beaming at the gentleman’s sister. “You look so well in green. But when did you return from London, ma’am?”
“Auntie, this is—” I began.
But Mr. Darcy stepped forward and, with surprising gentleness, took her hand. “I am glad to see you again, Mrs. Jennings,” he said, leading her to a chair. “When was the last time we met?”
“Just after Michaelmas, sir. Do you not recall? Dear Mrs. Darcy brought me a basket. Mr. Jennings was not well…”
Oh dear! Talk of Mr. Jennings always resulted in teary confusion as to why he would not come home.
“A basket?” I cried happily, glancing apologetically at my company. “And what did dear Mrs. Darcy bring you?”
“Tsk-tsk, Hannah. Do you not recall? You were with me when she came. You came all the way from Yorkshire when you heard John was poorly.” Once again, her face seemed about to crumple.
“Did I? Well!” I turned urgently to the young lady in search of some other topic. “How long will you stay in the country, Miss Darcy? Do you go to London for the Season?”
Miss Darcy then struck me as fatally shy. She blushed fiery red and, with downcast eyes, replied they would go to town for the most pressing part of the Season. I could get no help with the conversation from that quarter, so I glanced pleadingly at her brother.
He seemed to understand what I asked of him, but unfortunately, he chose the one topic I wished to avoid.
“What was Mr. Jennings’s principal business, ma’am?”
“He wrote pamphlets for pleasure later in life, and took his pension from a brokerage in Manchester. He had many connections with the mine owners here, but principally, he represented the interests of Lord Carlson,” I hastily explained. I was on the edge of being forced to make excuses for Mrs. Jennings then as she began to worry her handkerchief, but we were rescued by the sound of the knocker.
Our guests looked questioningly at me as I sat rooted in my chair. After a half-second of mortified disbelief, I began to chuckle and shake my head.
“Miss Darcy, I am afraid you will be held captive in this room for half an hour at least.”
I stood up. “Pardon me while I retrieve the tea tray, and pay no mind to the door. On no account give way to the impulse to open it, sir,” I added, “lest you make the error of becoming acquainted with our neighbor.”
Once I stood safely behind the closed kitchen door, I rested my back against it, covered my face in my hands, and suffered a moment of silent, slightly hysterical laughter that comingled with tears of mortification.
“Are you well, miss?” Penny whispered.
I straightened and brushed down my skirts. “Never better,” I said briskly while swiping at my eyes, and we set about readying the tea.
Mr. Darcy came quickly into the hall to relieve me of the tray before I had fully entered the room, and as I went about the ritual of refreshments, I spoke with deliberate composure lest I break into a fit of demented giggles.
“Mrs. Edmonton will knock again shortly and again in ten minutes. Thereafter, you will have a spell of a quarter of an hour in which to make your escape before she comes out again. You must be wondering at my rudeness, but she is only here to satisfy her curiosity, and she stays for such prolonged visits that poor Mrs. Jennings must thereafter lie down to recuperate.”
Even as I finished speaking, the doorknocker sounded again. This caused Miss Darcy to peek at me and to offer me a shy grin, which I answered with an encouraging smile. Still, she was unequal to helping along the conversation, and her brother, no less tongue-tied, paid meticulous attention to his cup and saucer.
What an exhausting pair, I reflected despairingly as I searched for something to say that would not bring the ghost of Mr. Jennings into the room.
“What do you hear from Mr. Bingley, sir?” I asked.
“He is in London just now with his sisters,” he replied, looking askance at the rug.
