Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
AN UNWELCOME AUDITION
Elizabeth
The first thing I noticed about Netherfield was the windows.
Not because they were particularly fine windows—though they were, tall and symmetrical and glinting in the morning light with the self-satisfied assurance of glass that knew its own value—but because I could not stop my treacherous eyes from finding the exact pane behind which a certain gentleman had stood watching me yesterday.
He had been judgmental or disapproving. I had been furious.
And this morning, as I approached my temporary residence halfway between guest and employee, because of course, I would be paid, I was still furious.
At Mama for arranging this position, at Darcy for allowing himself to be cornered by his words, and at myself royally, for agreeing to spy on Bingley to protect Jane’s heart.
If I had to ask myself, I had not the least bit of interest in provoking the haughty Mr. Darcy with my barbed tongue or my irritating presence, or my cat’s sharp claws ripping his pillow to shreds, or even the thought of pricking his puffed-up pride with a hatpin.
My presence here was under duress, and should Mr. Darcy cast so much as a disapproving glance in my direction, I would feel entirely justified in retreating to Longbourn, payment, pride, and feline companion intact.
Cinnamon yawned, not at all impressed by Netherfield’s imposing facade. She had been yawning since Longbourn, a rolling commentary on my inner turmoil that was pointedly unhelpful and distressingly accurate. Neither was I disappointed that no brooding face stared at me from any of the windows.
I feigned a yawn and turned away from the carriage window.
“We are not intimidated,” I assured her, which was a lie, but one must begin these ventures with conviction.
I came alone, as I desired, neither wanting nor demanding either parent or sisters to accompany me.
Jane had offered weakly, and Mama had declared that I could manage on my own.
Papa had kissed my forehead and said, “Come home the moment you wish to, Lizzy.” While Mary prayed, Kitty bit her fingernails, and Lydia looked envious, declaring that I would have the grandest time in the finest house.
The tired carriage plodded to a halt, drawn by the uneven pairing of Jane’s elderly mare and a sturdy cart horse.
My trunk and bandbox sat strapped to the back of the carriage.
Mama had packed them—the cream-colored muslin on top because it was my best, two serviceable day dresses beneath, a shawl for evenings, and tucked away like contraband, a small tin of shortbread.
In case the kitchen is hostile, she had said, pressing it into my hands that morning.
A woman with biscuits is never entirely without allies.
I gathered Cinnamon against my chest and smoothed my skirt—the green muslin, because I had changed three times that morning and ended where I started, a sartorial defeat in itself.
The Netherfield front door opened before I had taken two steps, and a sturdy woman in a pressed apron and white cap stepped forward.
“Miss Bennet? I am Mrs. Nicholls. If you will follow me, I shall show you to—”
“Mrs. Nicholls, I will attend to Miss Bennet.” Mr. Darcy appeared at the doorway, impeccably dressed in a dark blue coat that would have looked severe on a lesser figure but made him look dignified and again, solidly if not annoyingly handsome.
“Mr. Darcy.” I curtsied with the precise degree of deference the situation required and not a fraction more. “I was not aware that the master of the house answered his own door.”
“I am not the master of this house,” he replied, with what appeared to be reflexive honesty. “Bingley is the master. I am merely—”
“A guest. Yes, you mentioned that yesterday,” I interjected, shifting Cinnamon to my other arm. “It appears we now share that status, though I suspect our invitations arrived through rather different channels.”
That lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead again—the one that refused to behave despite what I imagined was considerable effort on his valet’s part.
I resented it for drawing my attention. He had the sort of profile that belonged on a coin or a cameo, with the unfortunate expression of a magistrate delivering a sentence he considered just but regrettable.
“Your trunk will be brought to your room. Mrs. Nicholls has prepared the blue chamber in the east wing. It boasts an agreeable prospect and excellent morning light. I trust the journey was not disagreeable?”
“The journey was three miles, Mr. Darcy. Even in Hertfordshire, we manage three miles without incident.”
“Assuredly,” he acknowledged, turning to lead the way into the house.
I followed, because the alternative was standing in the entrance hall holding a cat and debating the finer points of hospitality, and I had more significant battles to save my gunpowder for.
The corridor was paneled in dark oak and lined with portraits of people who appeared to disapprove of everything.
As a leased estate, I could not determine whose ancestors still clung to the walls.
Cinnamon’s ears rotated like miniature weathervanes, tracking sounds I could not hear—servants moving behind walls and the distant clatter of the kitchen.
“I expect your accommodations are suitable,” Darcy expressed, without slowing. “A sitting room adjoins the bedchamber, and you will have access to the library from the main corridor. I shall ensure you are provided with a key.”
“And what of Cinnamon?” I asked. “I trust the household has been informed of the contractual terms regarding her residency?”
Darcy halted abruptly, turning to face me in a corridor illuminated by a single tall window. The quality of light did something quite vexing to his features—softening their sharp angles, warming the coldness of his dark eyes, and rendering him frustratingly more approachable.
“The household has been informed that Miss Bennet’s feline companion is to enjoy unrestricted movement within the premises. Mrs. Nicholls has made the necessary arrangements.”
“Cinnamon’s demands are but few. A sunlit perch by the window, sustenance at regular intervals, and the freedom to pass judgment upon every member of the household without fear of reprisal. She is remarkably undemanding for a creature possessed of such decided opinions.”
His mouth twitched. I chose not to assess whether the twitch constituted amusement or indigestion, as such distinctions would only serve to complicate an already trying morning.
“Georgiana is eager to make your acquaintance,” he stated, resuming our progress down the corridor.
“Is she indeed?” I did not disguise my skepticism. A seventeen-year-old girl informed that her brother had engaged a companion—a stranger from an unfamiliar family who would now reside with them—was unlikely to be eager about anything save perhaps articulating her objections.
His hesitation told me everything his words did not.
“She has been made aware of the arrangement,” he said, which, I must admit, was a masterpiece of diplomatic non-disclosure.
The drawing room at Netherfield was designed, I suspected, to make visitors feel exactly as insignificant as its occupants wished them to feel.
It was large enough to host a modest ball, furnished with a tasteful extravagance that said we can afford to be restrained, and currently occupied by a collection of people who looked as though they had been arranged for a portrait nobody had commissioned, though notably absent was Miss Darcy or any figure resembling a Darcy in female form.
Caroline Bingley held court from a settee near the hearth, dressed in peach silk that made her pale skin approach the pallor of Dover chalk.
Beside her, Mrs. Hurst occupied a chair with the boneless languor of affected gentility, finding consciousness mildly taxing.
Mr. Hurst was installed on a sofa where he appeared to be simultaneously present and asleep—a feat of social acrobatics I found almost admirable.
Mr. Bingley sprang from his seat with all the eagerness of a spaniel. “Miss Elizabeth! Welcome, welcome. We are delighted to have you join us, are we not, Caroline? And who is this?” His gaze landed on Cinnamon. “Your cat, is it? What a fine creature.”
He was all smiles with a warmth I could not distinguish from theatrical or overwrought. “And is your family well? Your sister?”
I executed a curtsy while simultaneously lowering Cinnamon to the floor. Bingley extended a hand toward her, cooing, “Oh, aren’t you a pretty thing. May I?”
Cinnamon regarded his proffered fingers with the polite disinterest of royalty confronted with an unsolicited pamphlet.
“She requires time to warm to new acquaintances,” I explained, a trait Cinnamon and I shared, if I were to be entirely honest.
Mr. Bingley withdrew, his countenance betraying but a hint of disappointment. I observed this reaction with interest, noting it as sincere rather than affected—a small yet significant distinction.
“Miss Eliza.” Caroline rose with the fluid grace of a woman who had perfected the art of standing beautifully.
“How charming that you’ve arrived. We have been looking forward to having you.
Georgiana, in particular. She has been in want of companionship, and I dare say your…
lively spirits will be quite the novelty for her. ”
Her gaze performed a meticulous inventory of my person—from gown to bonnet, gloves to cat, lingering pointedly on what I knew to be my impertinent smirk.
“How kind,” I replied. “I shall endeavour to be as lively as circumstances permit.”
Mrs. Hurst barely turned her head—the maximum exertion she appeared willing to invest in a new acquaintance—subjected me to a disingenuous assessment. “What a charming dress. Is that Meryton muslin?”
Unable to resist the bait, I responded with mock seriousness, “It is Longbourn muslin, Mrs. Hurst. We cultivate it in our garden, nestled between the cabbages and gooseberries.”