“Is there no one in your family who can come to your aid?” he asked in a low voice. “You are here all alone and—”
“Hardly alone,” I quipped. “If I were to unlatch that door for five minutes, Mrs. Edmonton would be encamped in our parlor for the whole of the afternoon.”
Mr. Darcy did not look amused by my jest. Instead, he looked upon me even more intently. “Winters here are not easy.”
“My word, sir! Are you suggesting I should not have the charge of Mrs. Jennings? That I am not capable of managing such a small house and providing for the comfort of one tiny lady whose needs are so few?”
“I did not mean to imply that you are incapable.”
Unbelievably, he still had a strong hold over both my hands on the tray handles as we spoke, which, in that cramped passageway, rendered him far too close for such a conference. I threw back my head so as to achieve enough distance to stare at him properly.
“Well?” I cried hotly.
“I meant only that you—um,anyone—should have more support. Is there no one to assist you?”
“Ah,” I said grimly. “You have judged my family once again, and we have failed to make your mark, is it?”
“What?”
“Do not pretend you do not understand me, sir,” I said, extricating my hands by force from underneath his own. “You believe we Bennets are a shoddy bunch.” And then in an effort to put an end to the business, I said, “The tea will get cold.”
We proceeded to enjoy our tea in an atmosphere of affront on both sides. The room seemed to close in around me as we sat with a gentleman—now mute with aggravation—who did not have the sense to get up and leave. I made a great show of the inconsequential utterances common to settling an elderly lady with refreshments.
“Are you warm, Auntie? Do be careful in case your tea is too hot, though on second thought,” I said, darting an accusatory look at Mr. Darcy, “I would not be surprised if it is barely warm.”
We were then entertained by Mrs. Edmonton’s determined knocking and a crash of some sort from the kitchen, both of which Mr. Darcy and I studiously ignored, but Mrs. Jennings could not.
“What was that?” she asked, startled. And then, as was the case when she suffered even a tiny shock, she became sadly flustered. “Forgive me,” she said tremulously, looking uncertainly at us. “I did not know we had company.”
She looked at me as though I were a total stranger and at Mr. Darcy even more so. Perhaps it was his dark coat or his habitually closed expression, but something in his countenance then sparked a memory.
“Oh yes, I remember,” she said, one hand going to her forehead. “The doctor…” Her voice trailed off, and the teacup in her other hand began to rattle in the saucer. I took the cup from her, and she reached for her handkerchief. “What were you saying about my husband, Mr. Carlton?”
I knew what came next. Apparently, this Mr. Carlton had come down the stairs from the sickroom and brusquely announced Mr. Jennings had died from his condition and that it was all for the best or some such dreadful platitude.
“Auntie, this is Mr. Darcy, come to pay a duty call. He is the master of Pemberley, you remember? He satisfies his Christian obligation to widows and orphans by stopping to visit from time to time.”
“Widows?” she asked, still teary.
My stupid tongue!
“And orphans, do not forget the orphans,” I replied with a merry chuckle. “I might just serve as a token orphan, you know, for my mother isthatput out with me for not having Mr. Collins. She did not even send me a letter at Christmas.”
Mr. Darcy, visibly alarmed, sat forward as all this took place; he seemed to be on the verge of standing up. I hoped he intended to make his excuses and leave, but I had no time to attend to parting civilities. Grapeshot was once again required if my great-aunt were to be salvaged from a bout of outright weeping.
“Christmas?” Mrs. Jennings was asking as she swiped at a few tears.
I spoke at the pace and animation of the fool in a puppet show. “Yes, Christmas! Do you remember? We had the most delicious pudding sent from Pemberley. It was shining under a blanket of apricot glaze, and so tender! My own pudding was fit for a doorstop, but I sent it home with Penny and Doreen. And the goose. We had a tough little goose that I cut up and mixed with the eggs in the morning. Though,” I added thoughtfully, “perhaps I need practice with eggs. But take heart, Auntie. Mrs. Smith, who cooks for us, returns in the morning—at least I hope she does—so that we shall not have to have porridge again for breakfast.”
“No, I do not like porridge overmuch,” she said, “though it is said to be…What is it said to be?”
“Glue, if I make it,” I quipped, standing abruptly. “Auntie, come dear. I believe you should rest now. Good day, Mr. Darcy. I thank you for coming, sir, and do be mindful that Mrs. Edmonton is lying in wait for you when you step out.”
Chapter Twelve
What a horrible, horrible visit!
I hoped this time I had disgusted Mr. Darcy sufficiently that he would refrain from paying us any further duty calls.
