“Bless you, Mrs. Cooper,” the father said. “It smells grand.”
It did.
She beamed at the praise and moved to the tradesmen, serving them and speaking with them for a moment.
When at last she reached Darcy’s table, the smile had vanished. She set down a bowl of with a decisive thump, some of it slopping onto the scarred wood.
“Your dinner, sir.” The words were correct, but the tone suggested she delivered poison rather than sustenance.
“I thank you.” Darcy kept his voice even. “Might I trouble you for some of the wine I see the others enjoying?”
“When we are able, sir. We are quite pressed this evening.”
Darcy followed her gaze. Several tables sat empty. “Yes, I can see that you are run off your feet.”
Mrs. Cooper gave a small, saintly nod and swept away. She returned almost at once, carrying a mug.
Not spiced wine. Weak ale, pale as dishwater, in a chipped vessel whose crack ran down the side like a reprimand. It smelled faintly of vinegar, as if it had once held something pickled.
Darcy stared at it. “The wine—”
“We are out,” Mrs. Cooper said, with serene finality.
Darcy couldseethe jug of spiced wine on the sideboard. He could smell the cinnamon. He could have pointed to the very evidence of its existence.
Mrs. Cooper met his gaze with an expression of composed innocence.
“How unfortunate,” Darcy said, because it was the only phrase available that did not involve calling the woman a liar and being summarily thrown into the night.
“Indeed, sir,” she replied, and her voice softened into something almost tender. “Shortages are a trial. But then, trials teach ushumility, do they not?”
Then she turned away, leaving Darcy with his ale and her implication. At the fire, the tradesmen burst into a low chuckle.
Darcy’s gaze flicked toward them.
The stout man smiled into his mug. “Manners maketh the man,” he said, as if quoting scripture. “Or at least, manners show whether he’s fit to be amongst decent people.”
“Hear, hear,” someone murmured, and the murmuring turned into agreement that rolled across the room like fog rolling in off the Thames.
The scullery maid emerged from the kitchen with a fresh loaf of bread, steam rising from the crust. She delivered it first to the tradesmen. She sliced generous portions for the family. One child received an end-piece with butter and let out a small squeal of delight that made several adults smile indulgently.
When she turned toward Darcy, her expression shifted into something carefully arranged: sympathetic concern, solemn as mourning.
Darcy decided he would not wait to be denied. “Might I have some bread?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly, sir.” The maid curtsied so low she wobbled. In righting herself, she struck the edge of the table. Darcy’s mug tipped over, spilling the contents.
“Begging your pardon, sir!” she cried. “How clumsy of me.”
Darcy looked down at his boots. The ale was no loss, but helikedthese boots. He drew a slow breath. It did not help. “It is of no consequence.”
“So gracious,” the maid breathed, eyes wide with feigned admiration. “A true gentleman. Soforbearing. I shall fetch your bread at once, sir. Though I fear it may not be as warm as what the others have. The oven is temperamental tonight. Like some gentlemen.”
When the bread arrived, it was warm. It was also burnt.
Darcy ate in silence, his mind working through the matter with the same methodical precision he applied to every other problem in his life.
Miss Bennet had orchestrated this. She must have. He had merely spoken the truth. If that truth had wounded her, he could hardly be blamed for it.