CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOT IN THE PROGRAMME
Elizabeth
Cinnamon spentthe night on my pillow.
I note this without comment, except to say that after two nights unaccounted for—and presumably spent decorating Darcy’s trousers—her return was either a gesture of loyalty or a calculation based on pillow softness, and I have learned not to inquire too closely into a cat’s motivations.
I set her out into the garden before entering the breakfast room, on the grounds that introducing a cat into Caroline Bingley’s orbit while she was in pain, confined to a chaise lounge, and in possession of a captive audience would constitute a form of cruelty I was not yet prepared to commit.
Caroline presided in the breakfast room, wearing a scowl deep enough to drain both the eastern and western fields. A breakfast tray perched precariously across her lap, and she directed the footman to and from the sideboard as if moving a game piece. Darcy and Bingley had ridden out early, and both Georgiana and Mrs. Hurst studied their eggs as if ascertaining the secrets of the universe.
“The pain is quite extraordinary this morning,” Caroline announced loudly as I entered. “I barely slept. Louisa, did I not say the compress had gone warm? A warm compress is worse than no compress at all.”
“You did say so,” Mrs. Hurst muttered without inflection.
“And the draught Mr. Jones prescribed has left me with a headache. I am expected to endure an injured ankle and a headache. The injustice is unspeakable.”
Over her teacup, Georgiana caught my eye. Brief and similar to Jane’s expression when she wished me to extricate her from a situation.
Caroline caught the exchange, as Caroline catches everything she is not supposed to notice, and produced a sigh of theatrical depth.
“Dear Georgie. If only Mrs. Nicholls could prevail upon the footmen to move the pianoforte. A touch of music would work wonders for my suffering.”
“Or,” Mrs. Hurst offered, “you might be moved to the music room after breakfast. You could spend the morning encouraging Miss Darcy’s musical accomplishments.”
The widening of Georgiana’s eyes spoke volumes of her distress at this prospect. Recognizing the need for intervention, I set down my teacup with deliberate calm.
“As it happens, Georgiana and I have educational plans today. Yesterday saw us observing the intricacies of water flow and field topography. Today, we embark on an expedition of botanical discovery and plant identification.”
Caroline’s scowl cut new furrows across her brow. “Plant identification? Surely you do not imagine that constitutes an accomplishment of any merit. What gentleman ever troubled himself with the botanical knowledge of his intended? It is hardly the sort of attainment that advances a young woman’s prospects.”
“How fortunate, then,” I said, spreading my butter with deliberate care, “that a young woman’s prospects should hinge entirely on the whims and narrow interests of gentlemen. Perhaps we should alldevote ourselves solely to giggling, fainting, and mastering the art of vapid conversation. Surely those are far more valuable pursuits than any knowledge that might broaden one’s mind or prove useful in the real world.”
Mrs. Hurst concealed what might have been a smile behind her coffee. Georgiana’s mouth twitched—a small thing, easily missed, but I caught it.
“I cannot fathom the workings of your mind, Miss Elizabeth.” Caroline’s voice took on a plaintive tone, tinged with exasperation. “Some of us are suffering acute physical distress and do not have the luxury of gallivanting about the countryside. Though I suppose it is rather the thing for a companion to abandon her post whenever the notion strikes her.”
The word companion landed with the weight she intended. I met her gaze pleasantly.
“Had I not gallivanted yesterday, you might have spent the night in the sheep dung. Bingley’s gig broke a wheel, and he would not have reached you before nightfall.” I finished my toast. “In any case, Miss Darcy’s education ought not to suffer because your ankle has proved itself so delicate.”
Georgiana rose from the table, eyes bright. “I should very much like a botanical education. My brother often peruses agricultural pamphlets, and I find myself curious about the topics that so captivate gentlemen’s attention.”
She offered this with such composed innocence that I nearly applauded outright. I held out my hand instead. She took it, and together we walked out of the breakfast room at a pace that suggested we had somewhere important to be, which we did. Perhaps my role as companion to her improvement programme included nurturing this budding talent for verbal fencing.
We collected sun bonnets and newly cleaned boots, raided Mrs. Jolliffe for baskets and shears. She added a wedge of cheese, a bread roll, and a flask of grape juice, outfitting Georgianawith matching provisions and the approving nod of a woman who recognizes a sensible enterprise.
We departed through the kitchen door—not the front, where Caroline had no doubt been moved to set a watch for Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s return. Georgiana, too, seemed relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Caroline’s cologne-tinged compresses.
“We have never left through the kitchen before,” she observed.
“At Longbourn, the kitchen door isthedoor. The front entrance is for visitors, and we are never visitors in our own house.”
The morning opened before us. Together, we swung our wicker baskets, and then, when I commenced skipping, Georgiana skipped after me, the two of us prancing like young goats. The kitchen garden was still heavy with late herbs—thyme gone woody, rosemary sharp enough to scent the air without being touched, and the last sage leaves broad and silvery with morning dew. I picked and clipped as we walked.
“What is this one?” Georgiana held up a sprig I had dropped.
