Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MERELY COMPETENT
Elizabeth
My limbs had that delicious feeling of pleasant exhaustion earned from a day of sunshine, outdoors, battledore, and the satisfaction of victory.
And I might as well admit it now, for the record, that I had scored every point while Mrs. Hurst stood like a statue with a paddle.
That moment when I smashed the shuttlecock into Mr. Darcy’s chest, forcing him to step back, should be enshrined in Bennet battledore history.
And so, the Netherfield contingent, minus Mary and Jane, who had gone home to Longbourn, retired to the drawing room after a satisfying dinner.
Georgiana, her cheeks still flushed from the sun and the sport, sat at the piano while Mr. Hurst settled on the long sofa, eyes already closing.
Mrs. Hurst, with her pinched face, squinted at her embroidery, and Darcy read a book at the wingback chair by the fire.
Since I was Georgiana’s companion, I headed for the piano bench to turn pages, but Caroline intercepted me with a proprietary hand on the music stand.
“Miss Eliza, you must be exhausted from the day’s activities. Have you had a chance to read that lurid novel you chose during your midnight library ramble?”
I took the hint, assuming she wished to turn the pages, and retreated to a side table where I had placed the copy of Belinda.
Bingley entered the drawing room with a deck of cards and that eager look of a sporting man ready for the whist table, but Caroline steered him toward the pianoforte.
“Charles, do make yourself useful and turn the pages for Miss Darcy. You cannot possibly play cards when there is music to be appreciated.”
Bingley, amiable as a Sunday, took his position beside the pianoforte and turned pages, not very well, since Georgiana missed notes and glared at him, motioning with her head for him to turn back when he had turned too early and jutting her elbow for him to turn when his gaze strayed to Jane.
I settled into the window seat with Belinda, my legs tucked beneath me in a manner that would have given Caroline palpitations had she been watching, which she was not, because her attention was fixed on the tableau she had arranged: Bingley at the music stand, Georgiana performing, and naturally, Caroline presiding.
A domestic scene—almost a family scene, if one squinted properly.
The sonata concluded, and Caroline applauded with three precise claps.
“Beautifully played, dearest. Though your tempo wandered in the development section—did you feel it? The allegro became rather hurried toward the resolution. Fatigue, I expect. A full day in the sun will do that to one’s performance.”
“I was not fatigued,” Georgiana said.
“Nonsense, of course you were. The color in your cheeks at luncheon was most alarming. Louisa, did you not remark upon it?”
“The color was quite high,” Mrs. Hurst confirmed, without looking up from her embroidery.
“Tomorrow we must be more judicious with your schedule,” Caroline continued, seating herself beside Georgiana on the bench and turning back to the beginning of the sonata.
“I only mention it because your audience tomorrow will include only people of local taste. Local taste can be forgiving, but the habits you establish here will follow you to London. Country manners are not London manners, and the season is a few months away.”
I tripped over a sentence, rereading it twice. Had Caroline truly insinuated that we, the supposed provincial audience, were of such little consequence as to be a mere rehearsal for Georgiana’s London debut?
“Miss Eliza.” Caroline turned to me. “I wonder, what has your programme of improvement encompassed this week? I ask only because Mr. Darcy entrusted you with his sister’s refinement, and the dinner tomorrow will be her first introduction to a large country family where she must make an excellent impression. ”
“Miss Darcy’s improvement has been considerable,” I replied, while calmly turning a page in my book. “Her confidence in society has grown, her conversation is livelier, and her musical preparation is quite advanced.”
“Oh, I do not doubt the liveliness. I observed it this afternoon.” Caroline’s smile hid darts.
“She was so very spirited on the lawn. Calling out Mr. Bingley in front of the entire company, throwing her battledore paddle beneath the bench in a fit of pique. Such high spirits are charming in a village child, but rather conspicuous in a girl of her position.”
I closed the novel around my finger to hold my place, because what I wished to close around my finger was Caroline’s neck, but one does not strangle one’s hostess in a drawing room, and certainly not with witnesses.
“Georgiana expressed frustration at a sporting injustice,” I explained. “Mr. Bingley was directing every shot toward my sister. I believe Georgiana had grounds for complaint.”
“The grounds are not in question, Miss Eliza. The expression of them is. A lady may feel frustration. She does not shriek it across a lawn. And the tree-climbing, the apple-throwing, the hiking over muddy streams, the stile-climbing—these are wonderful country amusements for country children, and I do not criticize them. But dear Georgiana’s season is approaching.
She will be presented to the ton. The expectations in London are rather different from the low standards of Hertfordshire.
I wonder whether the programme of improvement, as currently directed, is preparing her for the world she must actually enter. ”
I heard it. The precise moment when the sound changed—where the girl who had boldly called out Bingley’s strategic incompetence retreated behind the girl who agreed with everything, and the retreat was as audible as a door closing, shutting away the vibrant personality I had begun to nurture.
The warmth drained from her playing, leaving it technically correct but emotionally vacant.
“Surely,” Mrs. Hurst said, threading her needle while preparing her next remark, “the question is not what Miss Bennet intended but what Mr. Darcy expected. He engaged a companion, not a governess, mind you, but a companion to refine his sister’s manners for society.
And what the companion has produced, if one may observe, is a girl who throws sporting equipment and shouts at gentlemen during lawn games.
” She paused, letting her words settle. “Though I suppose there is precedent. Miss Bennet herself was dismissed on her first morning, was she not? And returned to dinner as though nothing had occurred. Such resilience is admirable in a certain kind of person, although questionable for a lady.”
“Such resilience,” Caroline said, and the word was honey poured over a blade. “One cannot help but admire a woman who, having been dismissed from her post, simply… reappeared. It speaks to a tenacity that is—well, let us call it uncommon.”
“Let us call it what it is,” Mrs. Hurst said, her needle pausing mid-stitch.
“A companion who refuses to be dismissed is a companion who cannot be controlled. And a companion who cannot be controlled is not a companion at all, but a house guest whose host has misplaced the ability to close the door.”
The room went silent as the piano stopped abruptly. Both Georgiana and Charles looked over at me, no doubt expecting a witty retort.
I glanced at Darcy, not for rescue, but deference. After all, they attacked his decision to retain me for his sister.
He set down his book and fixed each of Bingley’s sisters with a pointed look. “Miss Bennet’s position in this household was established by contract, with my explicit approval. The terms of her engagement are not a subject for drawing room entertainment.”
“I meant no offense, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst simpered. “I merely observed—”
“Miss Bennet’s programme for my sister has my full confidence.”
Caroline received this with a smile that concealed whatever recalculation was happening behind her eyes. “We are all of us concerned for dear Georgiana’s progress.”
“Miss Darcy’s progress,” Darcy said, with a glance at his sister that softened his expression by a degree visible only to those of us who had been observing his expressions with unauthorized attention, “is considerable, and it is proceeding under competent supervision.”
Competent sounded too much like tolerable.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” I said, and the formality tasted like chalk. Mrs. Hurst, no doubt offended by the rebuke, rose and opened the drawing room door, taking her embroidery with her.
Cinnamon arrived through the doorway the way cats did, through even the tiniest of openings.
She padded across the carpet, ignoring me entirely, past Bingley and the sleeping Mr. Hurst, did not even deign Caroline a sniff or a hiss, and jumped onto the arm of Darcy’s wingback chair.
She had chosen her human and saw no reason to apologize for her choice.
Caroline’s sneeze was immediate, violent, and magnificent—accompanied by a watering of eyes that no amount of social engineering could conceal. She pressed her handkerchief to her face, and the second sneeze followed the first with the inevitability of cannon fire.
“That creature!” Her voice emerged, strangled between the third and fourth detonations. “Charles, I have borne this infestation since the day she arrived. My eyes stream. My throat closes, and I cannot draw breath in my brother’s home.”
Bingley, ever the peacemaker, attempted to intervene. “Caroline, perhaps if you moved to the far side of the room.”
“Charles.” Caroline’s voice, between coughs, took on the raw edge of a woman who has reached her limit. “This is your house, Charles. You are the master of Netherfield Park.” She fixed Bingley with a look that was equal parts suffering and command. “It is the cat, or it is me.”
Darcy’s hand stopped in the middle of petting Cinnamon. And Bingley looked at Darcy, stricken by the necessity of defending a female in his family, and I couldn’t help noting, in the interest of Jane, whether such a pleasant man could put out a cat.
Darcy opened his mouth, whether to defend the contract or Caroline, I could not tell, because I didn’t let him speak.
“Miss Bingley is correct.” I rose with the smooth, controlled movement of a woman who will act rather than be acted upon.
Crossing to Darcy’s chair, I gently lifted Cinnamon from her perch.
She protested with a small mew, but I gathered her against my chest and addressed the room.
“Miss Bingley’s comfort in her brother’s home should not be compromised by my cat.
I shall remove Cinnamon from the common rooms. You need not trouble yourself, Mr. Bingley. ”
“Miss Bennet—” Darcy began.
“Mr. Darcy.” Our eyes met briefly; the exchange contained everything I could not say aloud in a room full of people. “I thank you for your defense of my position. It was generous, and it was noted. But this is a separate matter, and I am capable of resolving it myself.”
Georgiana stared at me with the wide, uncertain eyes of a girl watching the only adult who has ever encouraged her to be loud, prepare to leave the room.
“The sonata sounds beautiful, Miss Darcy,” I assured her. “You will no doubt shine at tomorrow’s dinner.”
Even as I spoke, I saw Caroline’s hand find Georgiana’s shoulder—a gentle touch, an anchoring touch, the gesture of a woman reclaiming territory. “Play the adagio, dearest. So much prettier than the allegro, and it suits your temperament so much better.”
With Cinnamon in one arm, I walked out of the drawing room with whatever dignity remained to me after being described as merely competent by the man who had called my first name across a dark library and asked me to dance.
Mrs. Jolliffe was banking the kitchen fire when I came through the servants’ door. She took one look at my face and said one word.
“Biscuits.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
She reached for the flour without further discussion and set out the sugar, eggs, and butter.
“Shrewsbury or ginger?” she asked.
“Ginger,” I replied. Because ginger required more exertion—the pressing, kneading, and vigorous motions that released my inner turmoil.
I set Cinnamon on the warm flagstones near the hearth, where she settled with the philosophical acceptance of a cat who has been displaced from the drawing room but has found something nearly as good.
I rolled up my sleeves and began working the butter into the flour, and the working was not gentle, because gentleness was not what the evening had left me with.
Country manners are not London manners.
I cracked an egg. The yolk broke clean.
A girl who throws sporting equipment and shouts at gentlemen—charming in a village child.
I measured the ginger—too much, deliberately, because the sting of too much ginger was a form of protest that Caroline Bingley would never taste.
A companion who cannot be permanently removed.
I kneaded the way Mama kneaded when Papa was being impossible. The dough resisted, then softened, then began to take shape beneath my hands, and the shaping was the first thing I had controlled all evening.
Mrs. Jolliffe looked up from her mending. “Harder,” she said. “Whatever she said to you, put it in the dough.”
Taking her words to heart, I pressed harder. The dough yielded, smooth and elastic, and the motion was satisfying in a way that conversation never was, because dough did not argue, dough did not suggest that your methods were insufficient, and dough did not sneeze.
I cut the biscuits with a glass, forming neat, uniform circles that I lined up on the baking sheet with the discipline of a woman who, having lost control of one room, was determined to maintain it in another.
The kitchen door creaked open, and I stubbornly kept my eyes on my task, though I couldn’t help but notice Cinnamon scampering to her chosen human’s side.
“The kitchen appears to be occupied,” Darcy observed from the doorway.
“Kitchens generally are, Mr. Darcy.” I pressed the glass into the dough. Another circle. Another biscuit. “If you require something, Mrs. Nicholls keeps the good port in the butler’s pantry, second shelf.”
“I didn’t come for the port.” His steady footsteps crossed toward me, suggesting he came for me, a thought too disconcerting given my current state.
I placed the baking sheet in the oven and closed the door. “Biscuits will be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
Mrs. Jolliffe gathered her mending, gave Darcy a look that contained the entire history of her opinions about gentlemen who visited kitchens after dark, and departed through the scullery door.