The door opened before she knocked.
The butler was tall, silver-haired, and had a face that suggested he had been born disapproving and had only refined the skill since. His eyes travelled from her bonnet to her hem in one efficient sweep—a full inventory conducted in under two seconds. Elizabeth had been assessed by shopkeepers, creditors, and one particularly ruthless pawnbroker in the last seven years, but none of them had managed it with such economy.
“Miss Bennet, I presume.” His tone implied that presuming was the most he was prepared to do until further evidence was presented.
“You presume correctly.”
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter.
The entrance hall was marble, polished to a shine that made her shoes look like an insult. There were cut flowers on a side table—hothouse roses.
Mr Darcy stood at the foot of the staircase.
He was in a dark blue coat, impeccably fitted, his hands clasped behind his back. His cravat was precise, and he was entirely composed, save for the shadows beneath his eyes,faint but unmistakable. She wondered briefly about it, but there were more pressing matters than Mr Darcy’s sleeping habits.
“Miss Bennet.” He inclined his head. “Welcome to Darcy House. I trust the journey was comfortable?”
“Perfectly, thank you.” Elizabeth noticed the use of her surname at once. Proper, of course. She had not come as a guest.
He introduced the butler—Barton—who acknowledged her with a nod so minimal it barely qualified as movement. Then he introduced Mrs Hatfield, the housekeeper, who appeared quietly from a side corridor. Her curtsy was perfectly polite, her smile genuine, and her eyes missed nothing. Elizabeth recognised a sharp mind behind the pleasant manner and resolved to stay on the right side of it.
“Shall I show you to your room, Miss Bennet?” Mrs Hatfield offered. “You will want to settle in before—”
“That is very kind, but the room will not go anywhere, Mrs Hatfield.” Elizabeth turned to Mr Darcy. “I am anxious to meet this little menace you described, Mr Darcy.”
His mouth did something she was not prepared for. It curved—not the stiff, controlled expression she remembered from Hertfordshire, but a full, crooked, entirely disarming smile.
“Brace yourself, Miss Bennet. You are forewarned.”
Dimples.
Mr Darcy had dimples. Two of them, bracketing that impossible smile, and creasing his cheeks in a way that made him appear ten years younger. Also, entirelyunlike the man who had stood across a ballroom and declared her merely tolerable. She had known him for years. Not once—not a single time—had she seen dimples.
Had he developed them in maturity, the way one develops wisdom teeth? Was that a common occurrence among gentlemen of five-and-thirty? And why, in the name of all that was sensible, was she devoting mental energy to Mr Darcy’s facial architecture? Especially when she was climbing an unfamiliar grand staircase and the banister was her only ally against a humiliating descent?
She gripped the polished wood and tried to concentrate on her footing. She ascended with dignity, not tripping, and absolutely not thinking about dimples.
Mr Darcy opened the nursery door and stood aside to let her pass.
The room was bright, south-facing, with a rug that was worn in all the right places—the places where a child had played, crawled, and dragged things across the floor without anyone telling her to stop. A rocking horse stood in one corner. Bookshelves lined the far wall, low enough for small hands to reach. It was a room that had been designed for a child rather than imposed upon one. Elizabeth registered this the way she registered everything—quietly, precisely, and with a small ache she did not have time to examine.
A young woman rose from the table and curtsied. She was freckled and bright-eyed. Elizabeth was introduced to Alice, and realised that the girl had been managing beyond her capacity and doing her valiant best. She liked her immediately.
The child did not rise.
Miss Anne Darcy sat at the table with a piece of chalk in her fist and a drawing before her. She studied Elizabeth the way a cat studied a new piece of furniture—with absolute stillness, unblinking assessment, and no inclination whatsoever to be impressed until sufficient evidence had been provided.
She was small, blonde, and blue-eyed, with a stubborn chin and curls that had escaped their ribbon. She bore not the slightest resemblance to her father. Nor, Elizabeth noted with a flicker of surprise, to her mother. Elizabeth had met Anne de Bourgh at Rosings. She had been red-haired, green-eyed, and frail as a pressed flower. This child was none of those things. She was pink-cheeked, sturdy, energetic, and had opinions she fully intended to share.
“Anne,” Mr Darcy said, “this is Miss Bennet. She is your new governess.”
Her gaze did not waver. She was taking her time. She would not be rushed, and Elizabeth respected this enormously.
Elizabeth stood at the edge of the table and inclined her head with the same formality she would have offered a duchess.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Darcy.”
The effect was immediate. Anne’s chin lifted a fraction, barely perceptible. She had been addressed as a person. Not a pet, not a project, not a darling-sweetheart-little-one. A person, with a surname and a title, and the dignity of it registered on her face with the solemnity of a six-year-old who had just been taken seriously for the first time by a stranger.