CHAPTER FOUR
AN UNWELCOME AUDITION
Elizabeth
The first thingI noticed about Netherfield was the windows.
Not because they were particularly fine windows—though they were, tall and symmetrical and glinting in the morning light with the self-satisfied assurance of glass that knew its own value—but because I could not stop my treacherous eyes from finding the exact pane behind which a certain gentleman had stood watching me yesterday.
He had been judgmental or disapproving. I had been furious.
And this morning, as I approached my temporary residence halfway between guest and employee, because of course, I would be paid, I was still furious. At Mama for arranging this position, at Darcy for allowing himself to be cornered by his words, and at myself royally, for agreeing to spy on Bingley to protect Jane’s heart. If I had to ask myself, I had not the least bit of interest in provoking the haughty Mr. Darcy with my barbed tongue or my irritating presence, or my cat’s sharp claws ripping his pillow to shreds, or even the thought of pricking his puffed-up pride with a hatpin.
My presence here was under duress, and should Mr. Darcy cast so much as a disapproving glance in my direction, I would feel entirely justified in retreating to Longbourn, payment, pride, and feline companion intact.
Cinnamon yawned, not at all impressed by Netherfield’s imposing façade. She had been yawning since Longbourn, a rolling commentary on my inner turmoil that was pointedly unhelpful and distressingly accurate. Neither was I disappointed that no brooding face stared at me from any of the windows.
I feigned a yawn and turned away from the carriage window.
“We are not intimidated,” I assured her, which was a lie, but one must begin these ventures with conviction.
I came alone, as I desired, neither wanting nor demanding either parent or sisters to accompany me. Jane had offered weakly, and Mama had declared that I could manage on my own. Papa had kissed my forehead and said, “Come home the moment you wish to, Lizzy.” While Mary prayed, Kitty bit her fingernails, and Lydia looked envious, declaring that I would have the grandest time in the finest house.
The tired carriage plodded to a halt, drawn by the uneven pairing of Jane’s elderly mare and a sturdy cart horse.
My trunk and bandbox sat strapped to the back of the carriage. Mama had packed them—the cream-colored muslin on top because it was my best, two serviceable day dresses beneath, a shawl for evenings, and tucked away like contraband, a small tin of shortbread.In case the kitchen is hostile,she had said, pressing it into my hands that morning.A woman with biscuits is never entirely without allies.
I gathered Cinnamon against my chest and smoothed my skirt—the green muslin, because I had changed three times that morning and ended where I started, a sartorial defeat in itself.
The Netherfield front door opened before I had taken two steps, and a sturdy woman in a pressed apron and white cap steppedforward.
“Miss Bennet? I am Mrs. Nicholls. If you will follow me, I shall show you to?—”
“Mrs. Nicholls, I will attend to Miss Bennet.” Mr. Darcy appeared at the doorway, impeccably dressed in a dark blue coat that would have looked severe on a lesser figure but made him look dignified and again, solidly if not annoyingly handsome.
“Mr. Darcy.” I curtsied with the precise degree of deference the situation required and not a fraction more. “I was not aware that the master of the house answered his own door.”
“I am not the master of this house,” he replied, with what appeared to be reflexive honesty. “Bingley is the master. I am merely?—”
“A guest. Yes, you mentioned that yesterday,” I interjected, shifting Cinnamon to my other arm. “It appears we now share that status, though I suspect our invitations arrived through rather different channels.”
That lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead again—the one that refused to behave despite what I imagined was considerable effort on his valet’s part. I resented it for drawing my attention. He had the sort of profile that belonged on a coin or a cameo, with the unfortunate expression of a magistrate delivering a sentence he considered just but regrettable.
“Your trunk will be brought to your room. Mrs. Nicholls has prepared the blue chamber in the east wing. It boasts an agreeable prospect and excellent morning light. I trust the journey was not disagreeable?”
“The journey was three miles, Mr. Darcy. Even in Hertfordshire, we manage three miles without incident.”
“Assuredly,” he acknowledged, turning to lead the way into the house.
I followed, because the alternative was standing in the entrance hall holding a cat and debating the finer points of hospitality, and I had more significant battles to save my gunpowder for.
The corridor was paneled in dark oak and lined with portraits ofpeople who appeared to disapprove of everything. As a leased estate, I could not determine whose ancestors still clung to the walls. Cinnamon’s ears rotated like miniature weathervanes, tracking sounds I could not hear—servants moving behind walls and the distant clatter of the kitchen.
“I expect your accommodations are suitable,” Darcy expressed, without slowing. “A sitting room adjoins the bedchamber, and you will have access to the library from the main corridor. I shall ensure you are provided with a key.”
“And what of Cinnamon?” I asked. “I trust the household has been informed of the contractual terms regarding her residency?”
Darcy halted abruptly, turning to face me in a corridor illuminated by a single tall window. The quality of light did something quite vexing to his features—softening their sharp angles, warming the coldness of his dark eyes, and rendering him frustratingly more approachable.
