“My dear sister, I have never yet met a butler anywhere who does not sniff at everything.”
“Well, I cannot say why, but there was a peculiar quality to his sniffing. And he was slightly stiff in his manner.”
To this I laughed outright. “Oh—well. There you have it. Whoever heard of a butler who is stiff in his manner?”
She threw me a reproachful look but replied with good humor. “Mock me all you like. I knew he was lying, and for that you must take credit.”
“I suppose I would although you knew that I, too, was trying to conceal the truth. This does not bode well for me in future should I ever wish to keep you out of my concerns.”
“Yourconcerns?” she asked, but with such a lilt of teasing, I felt certain she had her suspicions about my interest in Mrs. Jennings’s visiting relation.
“In a moment you will have me crying for mercy. I am too tired to parry such thrusts. Perhaps you should tell me ofyourconcerns?”
Georgiana sobered instantly. “On my honor, I have none except the one thing I spoke of today.”
“Wickham will never intrude upon you again, love. That I promise,” I said with an earnest squeeze of her hand.
She smiled wistfully—disbelievingly—and we fell into our private reflections as we neared the high street in Lambton.
Once at Mrs. Jennings’s door, we were greeted by the maid who spoke in a low voice.
“Miss be upstairs, sir. Sick with the headache,” she said, and then dropping her voice to a near whisper, she added, “and Mrs. Jennings is terribly low on account of no one to sit with her.”
“Might we come in to cheer her?” Georgiana asked.
The maid was only too happy to let us in, and once she had shut the door behind us, she abandoned us to do whatever we pleased with Mrs. Jennings. Thankfully, Georgiana came prepared to be of use and went to the lady who was bent over a shawl she was working. At least Sam had set a good fire, and the candles I had sent had been put to use; otherwise, the room would have been too sad to tolerate sitting alone as she was. My sister, with her soft voice and willingness to talk of yarn, slowly encouraged Mrs. Jennings to engage with her.
“I am Miss Darcy, and this is my brother, Mr. Darcy,” she said occasionally, and after the third repetition, Mrs. Jennings’s recollection of my father resurrected itself.
“Mr. Darcy?” she asked tentatively.
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Jennings.”
“So good of you to visit us, sir. Maybe they will bring the tea things soon,” she said fretfully, and then, “There is a girl who helps me, but I do not know where she is just now.”
My sister, wishing to help me out of this floundering conversation, interrupted and asked after a figurine on the mantel of a girl from King George’s time.
“That is lovely. Did they indeed wear such enormous skirts then?”
The old lady brightened. “My first ball gown was made of ten yards of pink jacquard,” she said confidingly. “And Hannah had one of gold. We were once invited to a public ball at the squire’s.”
“Were you? How old were you and Hannah when you went?”
The minutiae of costumes and of the social excitement of bygone days consumed a quarter of an hour, after which Georgiana had fully established herself as good company in Mrs. Jennings’s unsteady opinion. They fell to talking of my sister’s kittens, and soon ended at the parlor table with Georgiana, who is an accomplished artist, sketching pictures of all her pets. This delighted Mrs. Jennings, and it was this scene that Miss Bennet witnessed as she came down the staircase.
She clung to the railing for support and stepped gingerly on the treads, which alone would have led me to believe she was not well. But it was her cheeks, drained of all color, and her eyes—large, over-bright, and underscored with shadows—that sent me to her aid.
“How good of you to visit, Miss Darcy, Mr. Darcy,” she said sweetly, darting a look of uncertainty at me before she went to my sister to welcome her fully. She dutifully looked at the drawings and smiled warmly at the pleasure they gave her great-aunt, but the strain of speaking soon began to show.
With a significant look at Georgiana, I made known my wish that she continue to entertain Mrs. Jennings while I helped Miss Bennet to sit in a quiet corner in the parlor.
When the tea things came, I felt compelled to spare her the exertion and offered to pour if she would only give me a hint of how to do it. With the gentle encouragement of one of her softest smiles, I managed to do the deed credibly. Miss Bennet’s state, however, continued to strike me as tenuous, and when she set her cup down with a tell-tale rattle, I came to stand close and spoke in a murmur of concern.
“You are truly ill.”
“I have fallen prey to a headache and nothing more, sir. Will you not sit? Thank you for bringing your sister to Mrs. Jennings. I am sure she had a lonely afternoon while I rested.”
I sat across from her and observed her closely, and it was then she raised her eyes to mine for the second time in our acquaintance. She was unbecomingly stubborn and often irate, not a lady to flaunt her feminine gifts or much inclined to shower me with expressions of gratitude. But she had wept openly in my presence and confided much to me in the intimacy of firelight. I had seen into her soul once already, and to the accompaniment of the most mundane sounds of a dreary little house, she allowed me to look deeply therein once again.
