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Miss Ashworth, a plain young woman in a dove-gray evening dress, conversed quietly with Miss Lucas, leaving Colonel Fitzwilliam to glower and scrape his soup spoon unnecessarily.

“But Brother, surely you consider the fates of these souls who are bought and sold like animals, and you must agree that the suffering cannot be allowed to continue.”

Darcy set his spoon down with a small, definitive clink against the porcelain. “The slave trade was abolished by Parliament five years ago, Georgiana, and while the broader moral questions are grave ones, they are scarcely appropriate topics for the soup course. Let us change the subject.”

Ashworth tugged at his collar. “Respectfully, Sir, the gospel is not merely a comfortable drawing-room address. It must be lived where the need is greatest. Christ asks us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, and⁠—”

“And we should be poor Christians indeed if we built our houses on sinking sand rather than solid rock,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “I am curious, Mr. Ashworth, what is the current state of the parish? Have buildings been constructed? Are we speaking of sturdy stone walls or temporary dwellings that would be blown away by the hurricanes you hope to avoid by sailing so soon?”

Miss Amelia Ashworth beamed proudly at her brother. “My brother is too modest to say it, Mrs. Darcy, but the parish he has been offered in Barbados has no schoolhouse and no infirmary. The previous rector left behind little more than a leaking roof and a congregation scattered across three plantations. James intends to build what is needed, from the ground.”

“A considerable undertaking,” Richard observed from the middle of the table, his tone carefully neutral. He lifted his wineglass. “For a young man without independent means.”

Charlotte, seated across from Mrs. Annesley, caught Richard’s eye with a look that conveyed, in a single breath, both gentle reproof and the suggestion that he drink his wine rather than use it as a weapon.

“The Church Missionary Society provides support for the establishment of new parishes,” Ashworth said, and Darcy noted that the young man addressed Richard without flinching. “I should not undertake such a venture without proper provision, Colonel. The welfare of any family I might one day have would be my first concern, above even the mission.”

At the word ‘family,’ every eye turned to Georgiana, whose color deepened, and she suddenly became absorbed in her soup.

“Ah, yes. A family,” Elizabeth murmured, her eyes glittering. “The cornerstone of every excellent sermon and every disastrously underfunded enterprise. How reassuring to know that your future wife and children will be provided for by the Church Missionary Society and a great deal of pious optimism.”

Mr. Ashworth flushed to the roots of his dark hair, his fork clattering softly against his plate. “I assure you, Mrs. Darcy, my intentions are neither reckless nor—that is, I speak of a distant future, when a man has earned his standing.”

“I concur heartily with your reckoning.” Elizabeth reached for her water glass with studied casualness. “I imagine it would take numerous years of toil to establish a secure foundation to protect and provide for a godly wife and family.”

Mr. Ashworth seemed at a loss as he glanced to his sister for support, but she, too, quailed and studied the white soup as if searching for a stray fly.

“Speaking of foundations and secure buildings,” Charlotte observed, her tone serenely conversational as she adjusted her fork, “one cannot help but admire the exquisite Neoclassical plasterwork in this room. Those particular rosettes—with their crisp acanthus leaves and trailing ivy—speak to an era of elegance far more enduring than most human grand designs. One feels quite safe beneath a ceiling so solidly anchored in good taste.”

“The… ceiling, yes,” Mr. Ashworth repeated faintly, clutching desperately at the lifeline. “Quite classical, I am sure.”

The conversation veered to the more fashionable Greek Revival motifs, and Richard added great detail about the renovations his parents had commissioned at their London townhouse. Darcy refused to consider how Bexley had repapered all the walls at Darcy House and likely installed the most flamboyant French gilt mirrors, velvet-draped divans designed less for sitting than for reclining in a scandalous state of moral collapse, and Pompeian frescoes that made even the most permissive peer raise an eyebrow over his claret.

Darcy’s attention drifted to Mrs. Annesley, who navigated her fish with such languor that he began to wonder whether she might nod off before the next course.

“Mrs. Annesley,” Darcy said, pitching his voice to carry beneath the general conversation, “I wonder if you might enlighten me on a matter of some concern.”

The companion startled slightly, her fork pausing over her fish. “Sir?”

“My aunt, Lady Matlock, has been in communication with you, I understand. Regarding Georgiana’s situation.”

Mrs. Annesley’s cheeks colored. “Her ladyship has written to me, yes. She wished to be kept informed of Miss Darcy’s welfare.”

“And what have you told her?”

The companion’s gaze dropped to her plate. “I have… I have provided such information as her ladyship requested. The nature of Miss Darcy’s correspondence. The frequency of her walks. The… the visitors she has received.”

“I see.” Darcy’s voice remained even, though his wineglass shook. “And did my aunt provide you with any particular instructions regarding those visitors?”

“She expressed concern.” Mrs. Annesley’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. “She felt that Miss Darcy’s attachments should be… monitored. Guided. She spoke of returning Miss Darcy to London, where her ladyship might supervise her more directly.”

“Did she indeed?”

“I meant no harm, sir.” The companion’s eyes were bright with distress. “I have served your sister faithfully. I would never⁠—”

“We will speak further on this matter,” Darcy said quietly. “Tomorrow. In private.”

Mrs. Annesley nodded, her appetite clearly fled, and returned her attention to the fish she was no longer eating.