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At that point, I was as red as my cousin’s cavalry coat, and I very carefully said, “I now remember what I said after that, and I owe you a thousand apologies, though they be insufficient. Did that slight lay the foundation for your dislike?”
She stared at the ground. “Do not concern yourself, sir. You simply echoed what my former mother said every day, so it was not news to me. It made it easy to believe all the things Wickham said about you—probably half lies—but easy enough to believe. Consider it forgotten.”
I replied in some alarm, “Do not excuse my abhorrent behaviour, Mrs Elizabeth! I deserve whatever censure you care to deal out, and more besides. Did you truly dislike me in Hertfordshire?”
She could not meet my eyes but at last nodded.
“I did. I still do.”
Once again, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. “I am afraid that is yet another of the many things I must apologise for. It was rude, unkind, and most assuredly untrue. I did not even look at you, and it was not long before I believed you among the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”
“Little good it did me!” she muttered with a frown but shook it off. “In the end, it really matters not, but I accept your apology and will not bring it up again.”
At that moment, I thought I had a lot more apologising to do but hoped to simply not step in any more holes for a few minutes.
Wanting to change the subject, I asked as carefully as I could, “What is on the menu for supper?”
She seemed satisfied to dispense with the past. “Rosemary chicken and potatoes.”
Shuffling my feet a bit, I sheepishly said, “If that was a genuine offer for supper and not just an excuse to be rid of me, I accept with gratitude. If you prefer to wait, I will agree to that as well. I am at your disposal.”
Elizabeth examined my countenance for a moment, not showing any hint of what she was thinking.
Finally, she simply nodded.
A moment later, I was startled out of my wits when she abruptly dropped so fast I could scarcely see the movement. The next thing I knew, she was back with a chicken grasped in her hand. She expertly wrung its neck, then took a few steps to a chopping block. Within moments, she had a knife in her hand I had seen not the slightest hint of, and the chicken’s head was off and tossed over the fence to the pig along with a few more inedible bits. A minute later, she expertly gutted it, throwing the entrails into a stone bowl. She started plucking it while I stood frozen in shock.
A few minutes later, she pointed to a kitchen garden and spoke with the barest hint of impertinence. “Since you are a gentleman farmer, perhaps you can dig up three potatoes. The spade is by the fence; the rosemary is in the far corner.”
Happy to have something to do outside of her glare, I set to work. I did not feel this was the exact time to tell her I was no stranger to the spade and more than an idle landowner.
When I returned, she was finished with the chicken.
In my usual unwise fashion, I asked, “Why does the cook not do that?”
She looked back with no expression whatsoever. “I have no cook. You must trust me not to poison you.”
I was perplexed but once again tried to engage her in a bit of teasing. “Are you likely to poison me?”
“Not likely.” She shrugged. “The knife is more reliable.”
I could not tell if she was teasing or simply giving a rational evaluation of killing methods, and decided the subject was best closed. I had to remember she told me straight out not ten minutes earlier that she never liked me. I thought I would perfectly well kill to get just one of her teasing smiles directed at me, or really at anybody. However, I had to rein in my ambition. A baby did not run on its first day out of the cradle, particularly when it crawled into the fire beforehand. For the moment, I was as satisfied with my position as I had any right to be. After all, she had only told me to leave her sight forever a half dozen times thus far that day.
Still, I did think that I could not tread upon eggs forever. “May I ask why there is no cook? This is a good living.”
She answered simply, as if discussing the contents of her workbasket. “I have no servants at all. I did before Collins became ill, but I discharged them all with parting payments and good references.”
“If it is not prying too much, will you tell me why?”
She seemed more annoyed at the need to explain herself than with the lack of servants.
“Because my father did not make Collins settle a farthing on me. When he dies, I will have only what I have saved and the pittance he saved before marriage, so I will have to enter service of some kind. Each shilling I save might be the shilling that keeps me from starving, or buys medicine or coach fare to leave if things become difficult. That is why I refuse to pay someone to do something I can perfectly well do myself. I thought I had two years to save some reserves. Now, there is a chance I will be effectively mistress of Longbourn, but the chances are just as good I will be dead, or trying to keep two baby girls from starving instead of just myself.”
She paused.
“I have one companion, Mrs Hewes. She worked downstairs at Rosings for thirty years, but when she could not do her work any more, she was cast out with no pension. She is teaching me how to cook and clean efficiently, and I give her a roof over her head and bread on her table. We are content.”
She looked at me again with her usual stone face. I thought she probably expected some censure from me or at least disappointment. I naturally did not feel inclined to oblige her.
