Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
AN IMPROPER ACCOMPLISHMENT
Elizabeth
Rubbing my eyes at first light, I could not say my first night at Netherfield was refreshing, or that anything about the arrangement struck me as sensible. Bingley was the most friendly, Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were hostile, and Darcy was Darcy.
As for his sister? I could not expect her compliance.
Her family’s arrogance, as though we common folk should beg pardon for breathing the same air without a letter of introduction from the Archbishop, was clearly inbred.
The poor child has known only the attitudes of her ancestors, and with her haughty brother as her model, their social consequence served as the only solid ground beneath her feet.
What I had not anticipated was Cinnamon’s wholesale defection.
I had pictured her curled on my lap as I perused the pages of a dusty book, but no sooner had I set her down to reach for a book than she vanished behind a shelf. No amount of searching or calling her could entice her return—not when she had likely scented a mouse.
I hoped she had eaten her fill, for the tray Mrs. Nicholls sent up to my bedchamber—I having declined dinner with my merciless auditioners—was too meager for sharing, no doubt Caroline’s orders to the Cook to keep the companion lean.
Still, it was preferable to enduring three courses of Caroline’s inquisition veiled as hospitality.
Hence, I was not eager to face the morning room, though I supposed I ought to make an effort with little Miss Georgiana, if only to justify the stipend her brother was paying to keep his conscience unbruised.
I dressed in the serviceable grey and searched for my cat through the sitting room, the window seat, the top of the wardrobe, and the small cupboard where Mrs. Nicholls had stored my trunk.
Nothing. Not even a tuft of orange hair on the counterpane, which was frankly unsettling, because Cinnamon shed on surfaces the way social climbers distributed calling cards.
I was not worried. Cats explore. The contract guaranteed her free movement, and Netherfield, whatever its faults, was not the sort of house that harbored cat-eating predators. Probably.
“If you have gone after a mouse,” I informed the empty room, “I require proof. I want the mouse. Caroline Bingley does not strike me as a woman who would tolerate unauthorized mousing, and hence, I shall need evidence to justify your nocturnal wanderings.”
Cinnamon reappeared as I descended the back staircase. She wound between my ankles on the landing with the confidence of a creature who had surveyed the entire house overnight and found it acceptable, if somewhat lacking in mackerel.
“Where have you been?” I scooped her up and examined her.
No mouse. No feathers. Her whiskers were clean, her paws were warm, and she smelled faintly of—leather?
“You have been exploring. Did you find the kitchens? The cellars? Miss Bingley’s rooms?
” I lowered my voice. “Did you sit on anything expensive? Please tell me you sat on something expensive.”
Cinnamon yawned, which I chose to interpret as confirmation.
“You are keeping secrets, and I do not appreciate secrets from members of my household, even the furred ones.”
I set her down outside the breakfast room with firm instructions. “You are not to wander into private rooms, and you are absolutely not to charm anyone in this house who does not deserve charming.”
She flicked her tail and walked in the direction she had come from, which settled the question of whether she intended to comply with my standing orders.
I ate breakfast alone, which suited me. The Bingleys likely were still abed. As for Mr. Darcy—I did not know Darcy’s breakfast habits, nor did I care. A man’s relationship with his toast was his own affair and none of mine.
The sideboard held eggs, cold ham, toast, and a small pot of marmalade that made me think of home.
I refused to think about the way Darcy had looked at his sister yesterday when she laughed, for acknowledging that such a look would require adjusting my theory that the man was composed entirely of pride, social taxonomy, and an irritating lock of hair.
With breakfast concluded, I set out to locate my charge. Mama’s words echoed in my mind: Do not be what they expect. Be what the girl needs.
My sisters and I had mother’s constant instructions and reminders to improve ourselves, lest the entail leave us in the hedgerows.
While Darcy’s sister need not fear the hedgerows, she also did not need an army of wardens observing her studies, music, manners, and reporting to her brother.
Nor did she require a horde of flatterers and sycophants bent on currying favor with her titled aunts and protective brother.
I wondered if the girl had any friends—outside of Miss Bingley’s social-climbing ambitions.
What she needed was the unexpected, and if she believed she understood Elizabeth Bennet, and that her cuts would make me retreat, she had calculated most incorrectly.
I found Miss Darcy in the music room—not the drawing room where the pianoforte had suffered Cinnamon’s furry assault, but a smaller room on the first floor that contained a truly magnificent pianoforte.
She played a Haydn sonata with technical precision, educated by the finest masters, with impeccable notes, yet producing less feeling than a well-tuned clock.
She stopped when she saw me, and her expression performed its now-familiar inventory: assessment, dismissal, and a frozen grimace.
“Miss Darcy, good morning.” I leaned in the doorway, because entering without invitation was presumptuous, and I was learning that with Georgiana, the difference between presumption and patience was the difference between a closing door and one left, however reluctantly, ajar. “I have a proposal.”
“If it involves the pianoforte, I have already practiced for two hours this morning, and I do not require instruction from someone whose cat provides the more memorable performance.”
I liked her for that. I should not have—it was rude, and aimed with the incisiveness of a girl who had grown up watching her brother dismantle people at dinner parties—but it was funny, and I respected wit, even when it was pointed at me.
“I’m not suggesting the pianoforte… but cake.”
She blinked, not deigning to stare at me, her eyes still focused on the music.
“Cake,” she repeated, as if not sure she had heard me correctly.
“Yes, I wonder if you might accompany me to the kitchen.”
She turned a page and set her fingers on the keys. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve already breakfasted.”
“I’m not asking you to eat.” My body angled to block the sunlight from the window, compelling her to look up at me. “I intend to bake, and it is a more pleasant occupation with company.”
“You wish me to accompany you.”
“Why, naturally, you are my companion, after all.” I blinked innocently at her.
Cinnamon had reappeared, in that mysterious way cats have, and jumped onto the pianoforte bench, purring beside Georgiana, who pretended not to notice her.
“Companions do not bake,” Georgiana said.
“I have news for you, we most certainly do bake. My grandmother Clark’s father was the Yeoman of the Bake-House to King George II’s Royal Household.”
“Suppliers to the crown?” Curiosity undercut the snobbery in her tone.
“Indeed. The old King was fond of their creations—or so my grandmother claimed. And she was not a woman given to embellishment, unlike certain Hertfordshire mothers I could name.”
The corner of Georgiana’s mouth twitched. She suppressed it immediately, but I had seen it, and we both knew I had seen it, and the knowledge sat between us like a card played and not yet answered.
“I fail to see,” she said, recovering her composure with the speed of a girl who had been born to the highest circles, “what baking has to do with the duties of a companion. Surely your role is to instruct me in accomplishments, improve my conversation, and supervise my studies—”
“Your brother engaged me, and my methods are unorthodox.” I pushed away from the doorframe and held out my hand—not a command, but an invitation. “Come. It will take an hour. You may hate it. But I promise you this: it will not be boring. It might even be fun.”
“What does fun have to do with being a lady?”
I considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. Georgiana had likely left fun behind in the nursery along with dollhouses, nursery rhymes, and her mother’s teasing tickles.
“Everything, Miss Darcy. A lady without fun is rather a pale imitation of our jolly Queen Bess. Why, I believe she was fond of a bit of sport and a lively dance between her royal duties. Surely, we can spare an hour for a bowl of flour and a hot oven.”
“I promised my brother I would be civil,” she said, rising from the bench with the air of a woman agreeing to an expedition she expected to regret. “I did not promise to enjoy myself.”
“An excellent start. Cinnamon, stay here. You are not permitted in the kitchen. The last time you entered a kitchen, you put your face in a cream jug, and I had to explain to Cook why the syllabub tasted of cat.”
Cinnamon, whose interest in cream was as legendary as her disregard for prohibitions, jumped from the bench and padded after us with the supreme indifference of a cat who had heard the instruction, processed it, and summarily disregarded it.
“Your cat does not obey you,” Georgiana observed as we descended toward the kitchen stairs.
“My cat does not obey anyone. It is one of her finer qualities.”
The Netherfield kitchen was warm, stone-flagged, and presided over by a cook named Mrs. Jolliffe, a stout woman with floury forearms and a too-tight apron likely procured when she was but a maiden.
“Miss Bennet.” She assessed me with the eye of a cook evaluating an unfamiliar ingredient. “Mrs. Nicholls mentioned you might visit.”