30. The Measure of a Mother
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE MEASURE OF A MOTHER
Countess Apethorpe’s lady’s maid arrived forty minutes before her mistress, sweeping into the entry hall with her nose elevated as though she detected something offensive in the very air of Pemberley.
Her eyes were narrowed, her expression pinched—the sort of face that suggested she had been sucking lemons since infancy.
She introduced herself as Miss Pargeter and proceeded to inspect the blue drawing room with the thoroughness of a woman expecting to discover an infestation of moths lurking beneath the cushions.
“The Countess cannot abide feathers,” she announced, lifting a pillow and peering at its seams with distaste. “If there are feathers in these cushions, they must be removed immediately, lest she endure a dreadful bout of sneezing and coughing.”
“The cushions are stuffed with horsehair,” Mrs. Reynolds replied, her tone admirably neutral. “As they have been for three generations.”
Miss Pargeter sniffed, unconvinced, and lifted each cushion in turn, examining the seams and running her fingers along the upholstery as though testing for hidden flaws.
“The Countess is excessively sensitive to biting insects.” She peered beneath the settee with the air of a general surveying enemy territory.
“Fleas, bedbugs, any manner of vermin. She comes out in hives that last for weeks. If there are dogs in this household, they must be kept well away from any room the Countess might enter.”
“We have one dog,” Elizabeth said. “A basset hound puppy, but he is confined to the boot room.”
“See that he remains there.” Miss Pargeter straightened, brushing imaginary contamination from her gloves. “The Countess was once forced to leave a house party at Lord Evershot’s because his hounds were permitted indoors. She did not speak to Lady Evershot for three seasons afterward.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Mrs. Reynolds. Harley, who had already escaped his confinement once that week, was being guarded by the hall boy with strict instructions—though Elizabeth had little faith in the boy’s ability to contain that particular force of nature.
“The dog will not be a problem,” she said, with rather more confidence than she felt.
Miss Pargeter sniffed again—it seemed her primary mode of communication—and moved to the fireplace. She held her hand toward the grate, frowned as though the flames had personally insulted her, and turned to Elizabeth with the air of a woman addressing a particularly slow child.
“The fire is too high. The Countess suffers terribly from the heat. She will require the room at a moderate temperature—neither too warm nor too cool. And the curtains must be adjusted. Direct sunlight gives her headaches of such intensity that she cannot function.”
Elizabeth watched Mrs. Reynolds’s jaw tighten and felt a surge of sympathy for her housekeeper. “I shall have a footman attend to the fire immediately.”
“See that you do.” Miss Pargeter’s gaze swept the room once more before addressing Mrs. Reynolds directly, as though Elizabeth were merely an intermediary of no real importance.
“And the tea service—the Countess takes her tea weak, with lemon, never milk. She does not care for rich cakes. Plain biscuits only, nothing with cream or excessive sugar. Her digestion is delicate.”
“We had prepared lemon cakes and almond biscuits,” Mrs. Reynolds said, her voice carefully measured.
“Almond biscuits will do as long as any nut remnants are picked off. Remove the lemon cakes. The Countess finds them cloying.”
Elizabeth’s fingers curled into her sweaty palms. She had spent the morning conferring with Mrs. Reynolds about those lemon cakes—had specifically requested them because she had read that they were all the fashion in London.
And now this starched vulture dismissed them as though Elizabeth had proposed serving burnt toast.
“The cakes and biscuits will be replaced,” she said, not bothering to sand the edge from her tone. “Is there anything else the Countess requires? Shall we strip the walls of their paintings? Tuck in the fringes of the rugs? Or perhaps banish every piece of furniture with four legs and paws?”
Miss Pargeter’s eyes narrowed. She was not accustomed, Elizabeth suspected, to being addressed with anything other than deference from those beneath her station. “I am merely conveying the Countess’s requirements, Mrs.—”
“Darcy.” Elizabeth met her gaze without flinching. “Mistress of this house.”
“Of course, Mrs. Darcy. I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” The lie rolled smoothly from Elizabeth’s tongue, practiced and polished.
“Mrs. Reynolds will ensure that everything is prepared to the Countess’s satisfaction.
In the meantime, perhaps you would like to wait in the servants’ hall?
I am sure our housekeeper can provide refreshment; perhaps an enticing platter of lemon cake might suffice. ”
It was a dismissal, politely framed but unmistakable in its intent. Miss Pargeter’s lips thinned to a white line, but she inclined her head and turned toward the door—only to collide with Elizabeth’s lady’s maid, Clarice, who had entered at precisely the wrong moment.
A hairpin fell—tortoise-shell and expensive-looking—and Clarice stooped to retrieve it before Miss Pargeter had even registered its loss.
The two women stared at each other for barely a heartbeat, but the tension that passed between them was unmistakable.
Miss Pargeter’s face went rigid, her composure cracking in a way Elizabeth had not thought possible.
And Clarice, who was usually so deferential, so careful—glared back with an expression of utter, undisguised dislike before sanding her face back to its usual smoothness.
She offered the hairpin to Miss Pargeter with impeccable courtesy. “Your pin, madam.”
Miss Pargeter snatched it without thanks, her fingers closing around it as though she suspected theft.
Her eyes cut to Elizabeth—a sharp, assessing glance that seemed to carry accusation, though of what, Elizabeth could not fathom—and then she swept from the room without another word, her skirts rustling with offended dignity.
“Well,” Georgiana said from the corner where she had been lurking, “she was charming.”
Elizabeth turned to her lady’s maid, who had gone pale—not the pallor of embarrassment, but something deeper, something that spoke of old wounds. “Clarice, do you know that woman?”
“I have encountered her before, madam.” Clarice’s voice was perfectly steady, but her hands trembled slightly at her sides. “In a previous position. We did not part on good terms.”
Elizabeth wished to press further—every instinct screamed that there was more to this story—but Mrs. Reynolds appeared in the doorway, her expression harried.
“Ma’am, if I may—the tea service requires adjustment, and Cook wishes to know whether she should prepare additional biscuits. The lemon cakes were to be the centerpiece, and without them . . .”
“Plain biscuits,” Elizabeth said, forcing her attention back to the immediate crisis. “Whatever will satisfy the Countess’s delicate digestion. And have Jamison check the fire—apparently we are in danger of roasting our guests alive.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds departed briskly, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Elizabeth turned to the glass above the mantel, regarding her reflection with a critical eye.
Her hair was staging its usual rebellion, that curl near her left temple making a fresh bid for liberty, and her color was far too high for comfort.
She looked, she thought, less like a hostess and more like a woman arming herself for battle.
“The hairpin, Clarice. If you would.”
Her lady’s maid crossed to her, pin in hand, and began the work of subduing Elizabeth’s unruly curl.
Her fingers were deft, practiced, but Elizabeth watched her in the glass, searching for some crack in that careful composure.
Clarice’s face revealed nothing, though Elizabeth could not shake the memory of Miss Pargeter’s disdain—and the way Clarice had matched it.
“There, madam.” Clarice stepped back, her work complete. “Will there be anything else?”
Elizabeth wanted to ask—wanted to know what had transpired between them, whether Clarice had worked for the Apethorpes and been dismissed, what could possibly inspire such naked hostility between servants.
But the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel outside announced the arrival of their guests, and there was no time for questions and answers.
She and Georgiana moved toward the entrance hall to greet their callers, Elizabeth smoothing her skirts and composing her features into the mask of gracious hospitality that society demanded.
The Earl and Countess of Apethorpe descended from their carriage with the measured dignity of their station.
Lord Apethorpe was tall and spare, his silver hair swept back from a face that had likely been handsome in youth and had settled into distinguished severity.
His wife was smaller, darker, her features arranged in an expression of careful neutrality—the face of a woman who had long ago learned to betray nothing.
“Mrs. Darcy.” The Countess extended her hand as Elizabeth approached, her voice cool and measured. “How good of you to receive us on such short notice. I hope we have not inconvenienced you.”
“Not at all, Lady Apethorpe. We are delighted to welcome you to Pemberley. May I present Miss Georgiana Darcy?”
Georgiana curtsied, murmuring the appropriate phrases with the polish that her finishing school’s instruction had instilled.
Elizabeth noted the way the Countess’s gaze lingered on her sister-in-law, a nod of approval barely perceptible.
Georgiana’s manners had evidently passed muster, and the Countess recognized the refinement she valued.
The Earl merely inclined his head, his eyes wandering to the portrait gallery as though seeking something—or someone—in the faces that lined the walls.