These and other such demonstrations of his inflated self-opinion were terribly tempting to pick apart, but I squashed them immediately upon their arrival in my mind.
I missed Jane too much to think of her, even peripherally, when thinking of Mr. Darcy. I missed everyone too much. I even missed my mother, and I did not want to fall into the sulks. Besides, the balance of power in the kitchen was still undecided.
Mrs. Smith returned three days later than expected—bold as a tinker’s mistress—and went about her business as though nothing had ever been amiss.
“Will you go to the butcher this morning?” she asked, standing at the stove with her back to me once again.
“I shall go Wednesday as usual,” I replied, and seeing her take a breath to argue, I then added, “but we have fresh cream and potatoes if you will make a soup. That would go nicely with the last of the smoked trout Mrs. Jennings has from Christmas.”
The cook did not like my new tone of authority. The following day, she challenged me in a more frontal manner. “I see there are peas in the larder, miss.”
You would have thought she had caught me kissing the vicar by the accusatory tone she chose to use. I answered with impressive indifference.
“Indeed,” I said, taking the tins of tea and cinnamon biscuits from the cupboard. “We had two pots of a pease soup while you were gone. Mrs. Jennings is not averse to a low diet for supper. We have the bone of a ham packed in salt if you would like it for your stock when you use the rest of the peas. When I go to the butcher next week, remind me to get meat for a stew. I made a decent stew, if I do say so myself, but perhaps you might like to try to outdo me, hmm?”
I then took the tins up to my room and hid them in my hatbox. This was how little I trusted Mrs. Smith. I sincerely wished she were half as smart as she imagined herself to be, for if that had been the case, she would have seen how easily she could trounce me by simply out-cooking me. What I would not do for a delicate ragout studded with mushrooms!
Lightly amused by this silly intrigue, I went downstairs and sat with Auntie, who was knitting another shawl of great proportion. This one, I planned to give to Penny. We settled by the window for the sake of the light, and for once the day was fine. I would have walked out, but I walked too much to wish to go for mere pleasure. Besides, it was unpleasantly cold. I could tell because the horses on the gig that approached were steaming from their nostrils.
But wait! The gig came to a stop at our house!
I watched warily as a woman stepped down and handed the reins to the youngster who had been standing on the back. She then came directly to Mrs. Jennings’s door and introduced herself.
I retrieved my hoard from my hatbox, and we served India tea and cinnamon biscuits to Lady Sarah Pembridge, the squire’s wife.
She was a sturdy woman of perhaps forty years. She wore black so naturally, I assumed it was her preference because it made her presence all that much more formidable. Perhaps my impression in that regard was strengthened by a frank and practical countenance that exhibited none of the telltale signs of grief. By her complexion, I gathered Lady Pembridge was what some ladies derisively referred to as a country horsewoman. I had no doubt whatsoever that she rode to hounds, shot shoulder to shoulder with the men during pheasant season, and could whip a team of four. This was not a lady much in need of a parasol unless it was for the purpose of poking a drunk if he was unlucky enough to be in her way.
“So, you are the lady Darcy told me about,” she said, sweeping her commanding gaze over me. I felt measured, weighed, stamped, and shelved, and I wondered how high—or low—I had been placed. “And Mrs. Jennings. I am pleased to meet you. You inherited the Frye house, I understand?”
“Did I?” Mrs. Jennings asked me in a whisper.
“You did, Auntie. This is the house that Aunt Gardiner grew up in while you were away in Derby.”
Lady Pembridge did not stay long. Nor did she ask intrusive questions of either Mrs. Jennings or me. Instead, we talked of what day of the week I went to the butcher and the baker, whether I bought sundries from Stevenson’s or Yorke’s, which coal monger we preferred, and whether the vicar’s wife had visited me.
To her last question, I answered, “I have not met Mrs. Wilkes just yet.”
“You have no company at all, according to Darcy.”
“We receive daily visits from Mrs. Edmonton,” I replied lightly.
“Who? The brothel owner?” she asked.
“Dear Lord. Is that who she is?”
“Was. She has set herself up to be respectable now but has made no inroads in that regard.”
“I am surprised she is not now knocking on the door to try to discover who is visiting me,” I said with a defeated smile. “I believe I have made us equally unpalatable company by allowing the acquaintance.”
“Never mind,” the squire’s wife said, rising from her chair. “My rule is never to be squeamish about any person I encounter. I meet everyone standing, and if they are not to my liking, I walk away. My reputation has always been independent of whom I meet.”
“Yes ma’am,” I replied in the subdued manner of a schoolgirl told to stand up straight.
Lady Pembridge was a singular acquaintance, and I held her in the category of unknown, having never before met a woman who was powerful in her own right. This was not a lady who leaned on her husband’s consequence—she had her own supply—but I suspected she would be hard to warm to.
Mrs. Jennings was also tepid in her response to “that lady.” Auntie had no references to call upon with regard to such a formidable woman, and as such, she could not assign even a false identity to her.
***
