Mr Darcy’s expression did not change.
“One hundred,” he said.
Elizabeth’s cup halted midway to her lips. She set it down again, very carefully, because her hands had developed an opinion about one hundred pounds per annum and were expressing it through trembling.
“Mr Darcy. That is...” She paused, recalibrated, and chose her next words. She could not afford to say the wrong ones. “That is a very generous figure.”
“It is a fair figure,” he countered, as though he routinely paid double what anyone asked and considered it unremarkable. “The position requires immediate filling. My daughter has been without a governess for a fortnight, and she is... “ A flicker of fondness crossed his face, or maybe exasperation. “She has opinions, Miss Elizabeth. Strong ones. The longer she goes without structured occupation, the more creative those opinions become. I should like to engage someone before she terrorises the household entirely.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile.
“One hundred pounds,” he continued, “with room and board. Your own room, near the nursery. Laundry, candles, and coal provided. A half-day each week—you may choose which day—to visit your family.” He tickedeach item off. She wondered briefly if he had composed this list in his head sometime between the registry stairs and the tea shop door. “You will have full use of the library, either in my London house or Pemberley.”
He said this last part as though it were a minor addendum. It was not, and they both knew it.
“We reside currently at my London townhouse,” he went on, “but we will remove to Pemberley for the summer. Travel expenses will be covered, naturally.”
Elizabeth looked at him, bewildered. She did the arithmetic rapidly: one hundred pounds would cover the rent on the Somers Town house, keep her mother and sisters fed, clothe them decently, and leave money for the small necessities that made the difference between surviving and living. Mary and Kitty could stop taking in washing. Jane could stop pretending she was not exhausted. Her mother could stop rationing candles. And Lydia, well, she hoped for the best for Lydia.
One hundred pounds was not a salary. It was a godsend.
“I only have one condition,” he said, his eyes firmly on the carriage passing on the street.
There it is.She braced herself.
“You begin today.”
She blinked. “Today?”
“Today. Or tomorrow morning, if you require time to make arrangements with your family.” He picked up his cup for the first time since it had been poured, took a sip, and set it down. “But I should very much prefer today.”
Elizabeth studied him. He sat across from her, nervous, as though he were uncertain she would accept, as though she had the luxury of refusing anything, let alone this.
But she would not let him see that. She would accept his offer, and she would do so with dignity. As if she had chosen it, not been rescued by it.
“Tomorrow morning, Mr Darcy.” She met his eyes. “I shall need to inform my family and pack my things. Such as they are.”
His face relaxed visibly. She saw relief, perhaps—quick, unguarded, gone almost in a second.
“Tomorrow morning then. I shall send a carriage to collect you. Pray, what is the direction?”
“Somers Town. Number fourteen, The Polygon.”
If the address told him anything about the depth of her family’s circumstances, he gave no sign of it. He merely nodded.
“Eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock.”
They looked at each other across the remains of the tea. The toast sat untouched between them—Elizabeth had not eaten it, because eating a man’s food while negotiating your wages was a concession of something, although she was not yet sure of what.
Mr Darcy rose. He extended his hand—not to shake, but palm up, open, the way a gentleman offers a hand to a lady stepping into a carriage or across a threshold.
She took it. His fingers closed around hers, brief and warm, and then released.
“Until tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Until tomorrow, Mr Darcy.”