“I can teach watercolours,” said a third, somewhat optimistically.
Mr Darcy startled enough to tear his eyes from Elizabeth’s face. He seemed as though he had just remembered that other people existed and was not entirely pleased about it. His dark eyes returned to hers, and she saw the decision form in his mind.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She nodded, half expecting, half dreading his next words. “Yes, Mr Darcy.”
“Might I invite you to the tea shop across the street? I have a proposition I should like to discuss.”
The other women fell silent. Elizabeth felt the weight of their stares on her—resentment, bewilderment, envy—and could not blame them for a single particle of it.
“You may, Mr Darcy,” she said. She picked up her reticule. It was small, mended twice, containing ahandkerchief, three pennies, and absolutely nothing else of value. She walked past him through the door.
He offered his arm at the top of the stairs. It was such an automatic gesture, the instinct of a gentleman bred into the bone, that Elizabeth doubted he was even aware he had done it. She took it, because refusing would have been absurd, and because her legs were not entirely to be trusted after the last ten minutes.
His arm was warm through the fabric of his coat. Her fingers rested on his sleeve and she could feel the muscle beneath, solid and steady.
They descended the stairs. Halfway down, she turned her head and found his eyes on her. Not on the steps, not on the banister, not on anything sensible. On her.
“You are staring, Mr Darcy.” She kept her voice light, which required more effort than she would have liked. “I am aware that I do not present the most agreeable sight nowadays, but it is not polite to stare. Do you not think?”
He laughed. It came out of him startled and rough, as though it had been stored somewhere unused for a long time and had forgotten how to behave. He looked almost as surprised by the sound as she was.
“No, I do not think, Miss Elizabeth. I am merely reacquainting myself with an old friend.” He met her eyes. “I think it is very polite indeed.”
A small smile spread along her lips. It was barely there, and it ached in muscles she had not used in months. “If you say so, Mr Darcy.”
They reached the street. Conduit Street was busy—carriages, pedestrians, a woman selling violets froma basket—and Elizabeth blinked in the sunlight as if she had just emerged from a cave. She had been inside that grey room for two hours. The world outside it seemed offensively bright.
A pack of street urchins came barrelling around the corner, all elbows and shrieks, chasing something—a dog, a rat, each other, it was impossible to tell. Mr Darcy stepped sideways, putting his body between Elizabeth and the oncoming trouble. His hand came to her elbow, steadying, and the urchins streamed past them.
He did not remove his hand immediately. He guided her across the street to the tea shop—a small, quiet establishment, frequented by clerks’ wives and ladies’ companions. He held the door and pulled out her chair at a table by the window. He ordered tea and a plate of toast and butter.
The tea arrived. Elizabeth wrapped her hands around the cup because the warmth was a small mercy, and small mercies were not to be wasted.
Mr Darcy did not touch his.
“We are both in a predicament, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “and I think we could help each other.” He laid his hands flat on the table, palms down, as though steadying himself. “I am in need of a governess. You are in need of a governess’s position. The mathematics, as I see them, are not complicated.”
Elizabeth set down her cup. “Pardon me, Mr Darcy. You are aware of my social and financial circumstances? If you found them lacking seven years ago, I assure you, these days both are in tatters.”
He did not flinch. She had expected him to—had half dreaded it, but it never came.
“I am aware, Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was quiet and level. “But it is of no consequence. You are a genteel-bred woman, with impeccable education, cleverness, and wit. These are qualities I should like to instil in my daughter.” He hesitated for a second. “She has no mother. She has had a procession of competent women who have taught what they could of her letters and deportment. They left at the earliest opportunity. She does not need another competent woman. She needs... “ He stopped, fascinated by his own gloved hands on the table. “She needs someone extraordinary.”
Elizabeth’s throat constricted. She picked up her cup, commanding her hands to stop shaking.
“You flatter me, Mr Darcy.”
“I am not in the habit of flattery, Miss Elizabeth. As I believe you once pointed out to me, at considerable volume.”
She laughed and shook her head. He had just referenced the worst night of their entire acquaintance with, if she was not mistaken, humour.Mr Darcy.She had not known he possessed any.
“Very well.” She set her cup down with a steadiness she did not feel. “Let us discuss terms.”
She straightened in her chair. If they were going to conduct business, she would do it properly. She had spent years learning that sentiment bought nothing, while practicality bought bread. She was not about to forget the lesson now, regardless of how unsettling it was to negotiate her own worth with a man she had once brutally rejected.
“Fifty pounds per annum,” she said. She did not blink nor look away. Fifty pounds was bold—outrageous, even, for a woman with no references and a surname that could clear a drawing room in seconds. But Elizabeth had learned something useful in the years since her fall: if you are going to gamble, gamble high. You will lose either way, so you might as well lose spectacularly.