Chapter 18 #2
Encouraged, Elizabeth moved to the tray and uncovered the bowl with a small flourish. “I snuck a bit of honey into the porridge,” she whispered. “Do not tell Mrs. Wells. She thinks her porridge can stand on its own.”
She poured the tea, then added as casually as she could, “And I made the bread this morning. Only my third attempt, so if it is terrible, do not blame the kitchen.” She held the chair out for her invitingly.
Georgiana glanced toward the plate as if contemplating scaling the alps, then slowly, hesitantly, pulled back the bed covers.
Elizabeth helped her with her dressing gown and guided her gently to the chair.
Georgiana took up her spoon and cautiously tasted the porridge.
Elizabeth turned away to make the bed, but she kept talking—about the stubborn nature of rising dough, about the weather, about how Mrs. Wells had muttered all morning that the new scullery girl had arms like boiled turnips.
When she turned back, the bowl was nearly empty. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from clapping her hands in excitement. She could not stop the grin from appearing on her face as she left Georgiana’s room with the nearly-empty tray.
The air was warm with steam and the scent of stew for dinner, and Mrs. Wells looked up as she entered.
“Well?” the cook barked. “Left it all again?”
Elizabeth lifted the tray with a grin. “No, ma’am. She ate nearly all the porridge. Even a bit of the bread.”
Mrs. Wells gaped. “What did you do? Threaten her?”
“Of course not!” Elizabeth laughed. “We only talked.”
Mrs. Reynolds emerged from the hall just in time to hear this and fixed Elizabeth with a sharp look.
“Talked?”
“I may have… shared a few stories. About my sisters. My cousin. Bread.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “You are her maid, not her friend.”
Elizabeth straightened. “I understand. But it was not my intent to cross a line… only to comfort someone who seems very much alone.”
Mrs. Reynolds was silent for a moment. Then, in a gruff voice, she said, “I ought to scold you for being too familiar.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But it is the first full breakfast she has eaten in months.” Her tone softened, just slightly. “So, I will not.”
Mrs. Wells harrumphed. “Just do not expect her to eat my stew for dinner. I doubt your conversation is enough to manage that miracle.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly as she gathered her apron to begin the next task. “You never know,” she murmured. “Small miracles may happen, even here.”
∞∞∞
Like a dam breaking, once Georgiana began to speak, it was as though nothing could contain her.
At first, it was only a few questions—soft, hesitant things asked as Elizabeth poured tea or fluffed pillows. Within days, she was peppering Elizabeth with inquiries: about her family, her childhood, the weather in Hertfordshire, the cost of London ribbons, the taste of strawberries in June.
It was not idle curiosity; it was thirst—a deep, aching thirst, and Elizabeth’s words were water in a parched land.
Each morning, Elizabeth would arrive with the breakfast tray, and each morning Georgiana would be waiting—not always smiling, not yet—but awake, expectant.
She allowed Elizabeth to help with her hair, even asked her once if the braid was neat enough, or if it looked foolish. Elizabeth assured her it was beautiful.
Little by little, the days changed.
The first milestone came quietly: Georgiana asked if she might wear a morning gown rather than her nightdress. Elizabeth did not cry, but she had to blink rapidly as she helped her lace it up.
The next day, she asked for the curtains to be drawn. “Just a little,” she said. “I do not wish to see the whole world. Only the tree outside.”
Another day, she accepted a book from the library. “Something I have read before,” she requested. “Evelina. So I am not startled by the ending.”
Elizabeth brought it to her, and Georgiana smiled at the first page like it was an old friend.
And then, one chilly afternoon, Georgiana surprised them all.
“I should like to go downstairs,” she said, not looking at Elizabeth as she said it. “To the sitting room. Only for a short while.”
Elizabeth helped her dress and put her house slippers on, then offered her arm to assist. Georgiana clutched it tightly the entire way down the stairs. Her steps were slow, and her breath caught more than once, but she did not turn back.
She lasted only fifteen minutes in the drawing room before she wilted against the cushions, worn out by the effort. But when Elizabeth suggested they return upstairs, Georgiana said, “Not yet,” and stayed for five minutes more.
It was the beginning of her return, and the entire household could feel the shift. The few housemaids in residence even smiled kindly at Elizabeth when they passed in the halls.
Elizabeth still scrubbed and laundered and swept. Her hands were raw more often than not, and her back ached by midday. But her heart was lighter. Darcy’s quiet glances in the evenings grew warmer. There was a rhythm now to their lives. A shared purpose.
And Elizabeth was grateful for the work. Keeping busy meant she could forget just how much she missed her family. Poor Jane—I do hope the plan she and Mrs. Collins came up with is proceeding smoothly.
So, when Mrs. Reynolds asked Elizabeth to help carry coal buckets to the upper bedrooms one morning, Elizabeth nodded and began rolling up her sleeves.
But a soft voice from the stairs interrupted them.
“Mrs. Reynolds?”
The housekeeper and Elizabeth turned in unison, gaping at their mistress, who had never before come downstairs into the servants’ area on her own accord.
“Yes, Mrs. Wickham?” Mrs. Reynolds instantly moved to the young girls’ side. “How might I be of assistance?”
“I should like Beth to remain with me today. In the sitting room. If… if she is willing.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and the new scullery maid gasped, though she was quickly hushed by Mrs. Wells. Mrs. Reynolds looked as though someone had suggested feeding the silver to the pigs.
“Beth is a maid, Mrs. Wickham, employed in the scullery,” she said slowly. “It would not be appropriate for her to act as your companion.”
“But my father was a gentleman,” Georgiana said, chin lifting slightly. “And hers was as well.”
The words landed like a dropped tray.
Mrs. Reynolds turned to Elizabeth with eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is this true? You are the daughter of a gentleman?” The skepticism in her voice was clear.
Elizabeth curtsied. “Yes, ma’am. My father was a country gentleman. But I am no longer in that station. I serve where I am needed, and I do not object to the work.”
That seemed to soothe the worst of Mrs. Reynolds’ concerns, though her brow remained furrowed.
“Even so, the household runs short-handed,” the housekeeper told Elizabeth. “I cannot spare your time for idle chatter.”
Georgiana blinked quickly. “It is not idle to me. Please, Mrs. Reynolds. There is… there is no one else to talk to. Am… am I not the mistress of this house?”
This last sentence was spoken quickly, and Georgiana immediately shrank back, as if expecting a blow to come from in response to her defiance.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Reynolds looked from one to the other—at Georgiana’s pale, imploring face and Elizabeth’s respectful calm—and sighed.
“Perhaps,” she said at last, “we might strike a compromise, Mrs. Wickham. I truly meant it when I said that rely on Beth to keep this house running. She does more work than three of the other maids put together.”
Georgiana’s shoulders sank with relief.
“Beth may sit with you for an hour each morning after helping you dress for the day. After that, she will return to her duties. I cannot afford to lose her entirely.”
A ghost of a smile bloomed on Georgiana’s face. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. That is more than fair.”
Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
The older woman gave them one final look—half suspicious, half resigned—then turned and walked back down the corridor.
Elizabeth glanced at Georgiana, who was still standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Shall we?” she asked gently.
Georgiana took her arm. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Please.”
And together, they stepped into the drawing room. The fire was low, but Elizabeth stoked it. When she turned back, Georgiana was already seated, hands folded in her lap.
“Well, now, Mrs. Wickham—what would you like to discuss?”
The girl slumped in her chair slightly. “I… I am not sure. I have not… that is, I have never…”
Georgiana’s words trailed off, her hands twisting together in her lap. She stared at them as if they might somehow finish the thought for her.
Elizabeth sat across from her—not too close, not too far. “That is quite alright,” she said lightly. “We may talk about anything—or nothing at all. I am content just to sit with you.”
A long pause followed. Then, tentatively: “You have spoken of your sisters before. What… what was it like, having so many people of the family living in the house?”
Elizabeth’s heart squeezed. She smiled, soft and genuine. “It is like having built-in friends… and sometimes built-in enemies. A house full of secrets and noise and hair ribbons gone missing. A battlefield one moment and a sanctuary the next.”
Georgiana blinked. “I think I would have liked that. Will you… will you tell me about them?”
Elizabeth smiled—then blinked, startled by the sudden sting behind her eyes.
“I do not mind,” she said, her voice quieter than before. “Though I ought to warn you—my sisters are all dreadfully silly. Except when they are not.”
And then she began to talk of her sisters.
Of Jane’s gentleness, and her way of listening without ever judging.
Of Mary’s solemn lectures and the way she always misquoted scripture.
Of Kitty’s eagerness to laugh—even when no one else was laughing.
Of Lydia’s noise, her wildness, her chaos—and her joy.
She told of rainy afternoons squeezed five in a row on the settee, of arguments over bonnets and gowns and lace, of whispered jokes at the dinner table. Of long walks and shared secrets and slammed doors. Of growing up in a house always half-broken and half-full.
And then, without warning, her voice caught. She turned slightly away, dashing a tear quickly from her cheek.
“I am sorry,” Georgiana whispered.
“No—do not be.” Elizabeth smiled through the blur. “I would rather remember them—even all their maddening imperfections—than forget they existed at all.”
A long silence settled between them.
Then Georgiana said, “I think they must have been wonderful.”
Elizabeth let out a quiet breath. “They were. They are.”
And Georgiana reached, very gently, for her hand.
It was not healing. Not yet.
But it was hope.
And in that moment, it was enough.