CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BOUNDARY LINE
Elizabeth
I woke late,and I knew it before my feet touched the floor. The angle of light through the curtains had that warm, settled quality of mid-morning rather than the thin apology of early dawn, and Cinnamon was not on the bed.
With no time to spare chasing a cat granted free rein of the estate, I hastily splashed water on my face, dressed, and pinned my hair with more speed than artistry. I descended the stairs at a pace that would have earned stern reprimands from every governess I had never been able to afford. Miss Darcy could be waiting for me in either the breakfast room or, likely at this hour, the music room, seated at the pianoforte, expecting her companion to turn her pages.
Blessedly, the music room held no strains of Haydn or any other Baroque composer, and the breakfast room was…
Not quite empty, as Mr. Darcy occupied one of the place settings.
My arrival—neck swiveling and breathless from my hasty descent—was far from my most dignified entrance.
Darcy, however, barely glanced up from his newspaper, hiscoffee cup poised elegantly in one hand. His coat was dark blue, his cravat freshly tied, even the errant curl pressed in place; his posture suggested a man for whom mornings had been designed specifically, and the rest of us were merely welcome to participate.
“Miss Bennet.” He rose. Because good breeding operated whether he wished to or not—a Darcy had to appear faultless.
“Morning, Mr. Darcy.” I curtsied as I surveyed the vacant table, the pushed-in chairs, and the silence where Bingley’s cheerful morning commentary should have been. “Where is Miss Darcy?”
“Riding.” He set down his cup. “She went with Miss Bingley and Charles. They departed an hour ago. Caroline suggested the exercise, and the weather is fine.”
Riding. An hour ago—Caroline and Bingley and Georgiana—across the autumn fields while I slept like a woman with nothing to contribute and nowhere to be. The exclusion was not cruel, exactly, but it stung, nevertheless. No one had thought fit to knock on my door or send a note.
“I see.” I crossed to the sideboard with what I hoped was an air of unconcern and reached for the coffeepot.
“Allow me.” He was there before I had lifted it—rising from his chair, crossing the distance, and pouring with an attentiveness that I had not requested and could not quite resent because the coffee was hot and my need was urgent. “Mrs. Nicholls mentioned your fire went out overnight. I have spoken to the housemaid about banking it properly. The east wing is poorly insulated.”
“Thank you. The room was comfortable.”
“A room without a fire in October is not comfortable, Miss Bennet; it is endured.” He set the pot down with the satisfied efficiency of a man who had identified a deficiency in his operations and corrected it. “I have also instructed her to leave additional blankets. You will find them in the press.”
As he placed the cup before me, I couldn’t help but notice our fingers did not touch. This observation, entirely unnecessary, occupied my thoughts with disproportionatesignificance, recalling how those same hands had gripped a wine glass and consumed a Shrewsbury cake the previous evening with the reluctance of a man swallowing a concession.
Indeed, the evidence rested on a plate near his newspaper, which still held the golden crumbs and a scatter of caraway seeds. A second cake sat untouched, as if he had taken two from the kitchen and eaten one in the privacy of an empty breakfast room.
I did not remark on the discrepancy between a public “commendable” and a private second helping, because the observation, once made, could not be unmade, and I was not prepared to admit what it meant that Fitzwilliam Darcy secretly enjoyed my Shrewsbury cakes.
I sat down with as much dignity as I could recover, and I saw the cat hair. A generous dusting of orange hairs across his dark-blue trousers, right above the knees, where Cinnamon preferred to rest. My cat—my constant companion—the one who would not abandon me for Lydia’s balls of yarn, Kitty’s ribbon collection, Jane’s stockings, and Mary’s sheet music had betrayed me for a gentleman’s attentions.
I said nothing, because noting it would present him a victory, that a man who would have had me removed might have been prevailed to keep my cat.
“Miss Bennet.” He returned from the sideboard with a plate—a poached egg and a slice of ham, toast and marmalade—and set it in front of me. “Since we find ourselves with a private moment, I should like to discuss Georgiana’s programme.”
No doubt, he would instruct me on proper “programme” activities. I suppose next he’d be asking my opinion on the color of his cravat, to which I’d recommend orange to match Cinnamon’s hair on his trousers.
“By all means.” I spread marmalade on my toast with deliberate calm and let him proceed, because a man delivering his expectations without interruption will reveal more than a man being challenged.
“Her music is advanced. I should like practice to continue at nofewer than two hours daily. The masters in London will assess her progress when we return, and I do not wish her to fall behind. Italian and French, she reads both with competence, but her conversational fluency wants reinforcement. Needlework. Deportment. And naturally…” he paused, as though the list had run ahead of his certainty “…her correspondence with our aunt Lady Catherine should be maintained.”
“And her reading?”
“I have provided an appropriate selection. Histories, sermons, and essays of moral philosophy. The library here is adequate for the purpose.”
“You have curated her reading.”
His brow lifted a fraction. “I have ensured she has access to material suited to her improvement.”
