A knock came at the door. A housemaid curtsied when Elizabeth opened.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Bennet. Luncheon will be served in one hour in the dining room.”
“Thank you. I shall take my meal in the servants’ hall, if you would be so kind as to direct me.”
The maid blinked. “The master has requested you attend all meals with the family, miss.”
Elizabeth kept her face perfectly still. This was another skill seven years had given her—the ability to absorb a blow without flinching, catalogue its implications, and postpone the flinching for a more private moment.
“How kind. Thank you.”
The maid curtsied again and departed. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed—the beautiful, crisp, impossible bed—and pressed her palms to her knees.
With the family.
She was not family, not a guest. She was staff. Skilled staff, educated staff, but staff nonetheless, and every servant in this house would know it. The cook would know it when she prepared another plate for the dining room. The footman would know it when he pulled out her chair. Barton would certainly know it, and he did not strike her as a man who overlooked irregularities in the natural order of things.
Dining with the Darcys would mark her. It would place her in a territory that had no map—above the servants’ hall but below the family, belonging to neither, answerable to both. The staff would see favouritism. Any visiting acquaintance would see impropriety.
She could refuse. She could go to Mr Darcy and explain, politely, practically, that the arrangement would cause difficulty below stairs and that she would prefer—
On her first day. She could not contradict her employer’s expressed wishes on her first day.
She stood. She smoothed her dress again, which did not need smoothing, but her hands required occupation. She checked the looking glass and breathed. Then she opened the door and made her way downstairs.
Elizabeth’s first thought was that the dining room was too large for three people.
The mahogany table that could seat fourteen stretched down the centre, polished to a shine. The silver gleamed and the china was edged in blue and gold. A small arrangement of early spring flowers—snowdrops and hellebore—adorned a crystal vase at the centre. This, apparently, was a housewhere fresh flowers appeared even when no guests were expected.
Elizabeth’s dress was the dullest thing in the room and she felt it in her bones.
A young woman rose from her chair when Elizabeth entered. She was tall, with loosely pinned fair hair and an open, intelligent face. She wore a gown of pale green muslin that suited her complexion.
“Miss Bennet.” She crossed the room with a stride that was half her brother’s length and twice his warmth. “I am Georgiana Darcy. My brother has spoken of you, and I am so very glad you are here.”
Elizabeth took the hand. “You are too kind, Miss Darcy.”
“Not at all.” She glanced at her brother, who had entered behind Elizabeth and was settling into the chair at the head of the table. “Do sit down, Miss Bennet. The soup will go cold, and Cook takes it as a personal affront.”
Elizabeth sat and a footman placed a bowl before her—white soup, fragrant, and steaming. She had not eaten white soup in years. She picked up the spoon and ate carefully, not too fast, not too eagerly.
Mr Darcy ate quietly. He asked Elizabeth, once, whether the room was satisfactory, and when she confirmed that it was, he nodded and returned his attention to his plate. He was yielding the conversation to his sister with the same deliberate restraint Elizabeth had observed in the nursery—a man who could command any room choosing instead to step aside.
Miss Darcy filled the space with her easy grace. She was raised in good society and was genuinely curious about theworld beyond it. She asked about Elizabeth’s interests. Had she much opportunity for reading? Elizabeth confessed that her sister Mary was the true reader of the family and had sent her off this morning armed with Shakespeare and a threat. Georgiana laughed and declared that Mary sounded formidable.
Did she play? Elizabeth hesitated. She had played, once, but not recently. The hesitation must have shown, because Georgiana moved on without pressing, steering towards safer ground with a lightness of touch that spoke of either excellent training or excellent instincts. Possibly both.
She mentioned her wedding preparations—Lord Lofton, June, the mountain of fabric swatches currently laid out in the drawing room. She rolled her eyes with such theatrical exasperation that Elizabeth’s mouth betrayed her with an unguarded smile. Georgiana caught it and beamed, as though she had been panning for gold all through dinner and had finally found a flake.
The meal continued. Georgiana asked about Anne—had she behaved, had she interrogated Elizabeth, had Muffin been introduced? Elizabeth relayed the potato verdict and Georgiana pressed her napkin to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Mr Darcy studied his wine, having suddenly discovered something fascinating in the depths of his glass.
By the time the muffins were cleared—the actual muffins, not the wooden horse—Elizabeth had answered questions about walking, about Hertfordshire, about her opinion of London in spring. She had offered little in return, and Georgiana had not pushed. The conversation had been warm without being intrusive, and Elizabeth recognised theskill in it—the art of making a guarded person feel welcome without demanding they lower their guard.
She excused herself after the meal. She had duties to attend to, a nursery to organise, a small tyrant to satisfy. She rose, and Georgiana rose with her.
“I am glad you are here, Miss Bennet.” She took Elizabeth’s hand and pressed it. “Truly.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She thanked her and turned for the stairs.