“There are agencies in London where servants can be hired,” he said. He reached out, his fingers hovering over her hands where they held the basket. “These hands are for stitching and playing the pianoforte, not for turning red and callused with kitchen chores.”
“These hands have had more than their fill of stitching lately, thank you, and gathering eggs certainly won’t harm them. Not unless the hens take particular exception to me.”
“How could they possibly contrive that?” he asked.
Elizabeth cleared her throat, the feeling that she couldn’t quite breathe well enough returning. “We won’t have to find out if you can arrange for servants to be sent here from London,” she said. “What will it take?”
“Money,” he said, dropping his hand. “And Miss de Bourgh has plenty. I can have servants hired. I have an agent in London who can see to it. The most important thing is to handle the stock and get the planting done, and London servants won’t help with that.”
He looked over his shoulder at the stable and Elizabeth realized he was about to return to his task. She would miss her chance to apologize. She’d hoped for the conversation to somehow come around to it more smoothly, but she would have to do her best regardless.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said before he could take his leave. “I want to apologize for misjudging you so badly. I was a fool to believe Mr. Wickham.”
His face took on such a grim cast that she wished she hadn’t spoken. “Many others have been fooled by him, including my father.”
“The clues were there, if I’d only looked for them. Really, I feel a terrible fool and I treated you unjustly in that regard.”
“Only in that regard?” he said, his eyes narrowing. She opened her mouth to speak but he held up his hand, staying her. “No, you are correct. In some regards I am at fault. You have two apologies due from me,” he said. “The first is for my trying to enter your room when I returned to Rosings. In the past, I have had the use of that room.”
“That makes it perfectly understandable and it was clearly an accident,” Elizabeth said, unable to suppress a blush this time. “Your apology is accepted.”
“Thank you for understanding,” he said.
“I do, and I recommend we don’t speak of it again,” Elizabeth said. “What, may I ask, is the second apology for?” She could think of two grievances she harbored against him, not one.
“The second is for insulting your family when I proposed to you and in my letter. There was no need for that. I was unthinking when I proposed and bitter and angry when I wrote the letter.”
So he still felt no remorse for separating Jane from the man she loved. Elizabeth endeavored to be civil. He was apologizing, after all. “Your anger was understandable, since I was rude. The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself.”
He nodded, looking relieved. Elizabeth was pleased he’d thought to apologize for his insults, but in spite of her reply, she wasn’t completely satisfied on that score. He’d apologized for voicing his insults, but hadn’t said that he didn’t still believe them. Nor did he seem to care one whit about Bingley and Jane.
Nevertheless, she felt more sympathetic toward him than she ever had before. She supposed that seeing a different side of Mr. Darcy had something to do with it. She saw a man who was willing to shed his privileged identity when work needed to be done. Before this morning, she would never have imagined Mr. Darcy would condescend to work in a stable.
Once again, Elizabeth took in his state of half-dress, without his coat. His dark hair was in disarray and exertion had brought life to his visage. He was no longer cold, aloof and reserved, but rather vital and animated. She looked down at her own bedraggled appearance, acutely conscious of her flyaway hair, the basket she held between them and her utilitarian clothing.
Desirous of looking anywhere but back into Mr. Darcy’s intense gaze, Elizabeth scanned the roadway. It took her a moment to realize she saw a rider coming toward them. As he drew nearer, she recognized someone she’d seen in church. He was perhaps twenty-five and had fair hair and cheerful blue eyes. It soon became apparent that he was headed toward them. He brought his horse to a halt nearby and swung down from the saddle with practiced ease.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, bowing.
“Mr. Whitaker,” Mr. Darcy said, returning the greeting. “Miss Bennet, may I introduce Mr. Whitaker?”
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Whitaker said, bowing to her with a friendly and, she thought she imagined, appreciative smile.
Elizabeth made a slight curtsy, doing the best she could not to cover her hem in farmyard dust. “Mr. Whitaker.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Whitaker said, though he was still looking at her. “I’ve heard about your problems with your servants.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “News travels quickly here, I see.”
“My property abuts Rosings to the south,” Mr. Whitaker said. “Some of Rosings former servants passed through last night.” He turned to Mr. Darcy. “I have two experienced farm workers you could borrow for two weeks, if you wish.”
“That would be greatly appreciated,” Mr. Darcy said, though he’d returned to his usual withdrawn self, his face no longer open or his tone easy. “We’ll pay them double, but tell them they must return to you. We need people to look after the stock.”
“One of the maids was raised on a farm and could help with the milking,” Elizabeth said. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Whitaker both turned to her in surprise. “I asked last night when I returned from the parsonage,” she said, amused at their reaction. Did they feel that once greetings had been exchanged and her person admired there was no further place for her in the conversation, or did they assume she knew nothing of how a farm worked? She’d been raised on a farm and knew the importance of milking.
“That would help, thank you,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Milking and feeding are the two most important things to see you’re getting done,” Mr. Whitaker said.
“I think we have them about in hand, though Miss Bennet finding a maid to help with the milking will make things easier. It will free up a farmhand for planting. It’s the planting I’m concerned about,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Aye, you won’t have any feed to give them, or you and the rest of Rosings, if the planting doesn’t get done. Weather’s holding well, too,” Mr. Whitaker said. “Would be a shame not to get seed in the ground before the next bout of rain hits.”
“Any notion of how long it will hold off?” Mr. Darcy said, frowning.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Elizabeth said. “I need to take these to the kitchen or breakfast will be sparse.” As much as she enjoyed sparing with Mr. Darcy on various issues, she’d heard farmers make predictions about the weather all of her life, and never known any to be particularly accurate or very interesting.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said, bowing to her.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Whitaker echoed.
Elizabeth made her way back across the yard. The morning was so fair, she briefly regretted making her excuses. It would be worth listening to men speak earnestly about the weather to stay out of doors. She knew there was much to do indoors, though, so she hurried inside to help with breakfast.
A warm, light-filled kitchen smelling of bacon and bread greeted her. Elizabeth stopped, taking in the well-ordered chaos. Sarah was still there, along with two maids Elizabeth recognized from the parsonage, Charlotte’s sister Maria, and Charlotte herself. She looked over from where she stood skimming cream, offering Elizabeth a smile.
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth exclaimed, stepping into the kitchen. “I am so pleased to find you here. You have my unending gratitude.”
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Charlotte said. “I’m not sure you’ll agree after I’ve made you work all morning, but it can’t be helped. I can’t remain here all day so I intend to set you on the right path for breakfast, luncheon and dinner.”
Elizabeth laughed, an enthusiasm which carried her
through the morning. Charlotte hadn’t been exaggerating when she said they would work, but Elizabeth found the work enjoyable. She could finally see the appeal it held for her friend. There was a certain feeling of empowerment that went with learning how to actually do things. Simmering sauces and slicing bread was a good deal more fun than spending endless hours stitching seams into black garments. At least in the kitchen one moved about.
She worked through breakfast, eating several slices of fresh buttered bread, and they moved on to setting luncheon and dinner into motion. Elizabeth had never before appreciated how much work went into the meals that came from a gentrified kitchen each day, though she was aware Charlotte had them preparing a simpler fare than was typical. She finished her tasks for the morning with a heightened respect for cooks everywhere.
“I must return to the parsonage,” Charlotte said as the cleared up. “Sarah, will you be able to see to lunch?”
“Yes ma’am,” Sarah said from where she was scrubbing cookware.
“I can keep helping,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte gave her a little shake of her head. “I’m sure Sarah will be quite able to cope, now that everything is set in motion. The roast we put in will likely last for days, and the vegetables can be served again before the remainder are turned into soup.” She smiled about the kitchen, turning her gaze on the two kitchen maids she’d brought with her. “Come back as soon as you’ve finished helping Sarah with lunch. Walk me out, please, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth nodded, untying the apron she’d donned earlier at Charlotte’s insistence. She hung it where she’d found it and turned toward the doorway leading to the front hall, but Charlotte crossed to the kitchen door and let herself out. Elizabeth followed her into the sunshine, enjoying the warmth of it on her face. Charlotte walked a few paces away from the kitchen, then turned to Elizabeth with serious eyes.
“What we did today was necessary and irreproachable,” Charlotte said.
“Of course it was,” Elizabeth said, surprised by her friend’s choice of topic.
“And will also be the end of you helping in the kitchen.”
“Was I truly that poor of a cook?” Elizabeth asked, amused.
“You are to be no sort of cook at all, Lizzy,” Charlotte said, frowning. “You don’t see the risk here, do you? You must maintain the dignity of your station. Your place in this household will afford you the chance to meet any number of eligible gentlemen. They can’t see you as hired help, nor can you permit the staff to. You’ll never make a good match if you’re known to practice labor.”
Elizabeth let out a sigh, wishing that a young lady’s energies didn’t have to be devoted to that all-important match that would move her from her father’s household into the security of being a wedded woman. “I enjoyed cooking.”
“I only want to see you settled as advantageously as you can be,” Charlotte said. “Promise me you won’t do any more menial tasks?”
After spending the morning learning what went into preparing edible food, Elizabeth wasn’t sure cooking qualified as menial, but she nodded. While she didn’t long for matrimony, Elizabeth knew it would be her lot in life and she’d need to make the best of that. A man like Mr. Darcy wouldn’t wed a miss with water-reddened hands and flour in her hair. Yet if she didn’t do it, who would? “I can’t. Things need to be done.”
“Only for a week then, and never for more than half a day. After a week, you will become a lady again.”
“That is reasonable.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said. “I’ll walk myself home. Go enjoy the luncheon you labored over.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Elizabeth said. She hoped Charlotte knew she meant the advice as well as the practical skills. Charlotte was an older sister in ways Jane never could be. Too trusting and naive, Jane often seemed younger than she was. Elizabeth was the one who fell into the role of protector.
They exchanged a quick hug and parted ways. Elizabeth returned through the kitchen, smiling at the still working maids. Seeing she wasn’t needed, she hurried to her room to reorder her appearance and then went down to dine with Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson, who were waiting for her. Elizabeth took in the three lonely place settings with no spot laid for Mr. Darcy at the foot of the table, but made sure her pleasant expression didn’t waver. It would have been a more interesting meal if Mr. Darcy would have joined them.
As it was, it was not a stimulating meal. The food was perfectly acceptable but limited by the skills and resources at hand. What little conversation there was revolved around Anne’s wardrobe. Elizabeth found herself hardly able to attend to what was said and contributing little.
“They tell me you worked in the kitchen all morning,” Anne said. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes?” Elizabeth blinked, realizing Anne had been speaking to her. She ran her mind over what had just been said. “That is, yes, I was. I also gathered eggs.”
“It must have been exhausting,” Anne said. “I can understand why you’d be tired now.”
Elizabeth shrugged, grateful Anne had interpreted her quiet as fatigue. “It was an unfamiliar way to spend a morning.”
“Do you think you’re well enough to help me with some letters?” Anne asked.
“Undoubtedly,” Elizabeth replied. Glancing at Anne’s plate, Elizabeth could see she hadn’t eaten much. She toyed with a piece of bread, breaking it into little pieces. Elizabeth supposed the food wasn’t really up to Anne’s standards.
As soon as the interminable meal was over, they retired to Anne’s favorite study, where she directed Elizabeth to the writing desk. Giving Elizabeth only a vague sense of content, Anne went over what letters should be written. Elizabeth at first assumed she would write them for Anne to sign, but Anne asked her to start each letter by saying she was writing on behalf of Miss de Bourgh and to sign her own name. She then left Elizabeth to it, sitting on the sofa to read while Mrs. Jenkinson sewed nearby.
Elizabeth was nearly done with the final letter, finding her back stiff from the task, when a harried looking maid hurried in. “A Mrs. Allen, ma’am,” the maid said, not even remaining long enough for the plump woman to enter the room.
Mrs. Allen gazed after the retreating servant with a bemused look before crossing the room and dipping a curtsy to Anne. “Anne, it’s lovely to see you, though I am sorry for the circumstances.”
Elizabeth paused in her work to study Anne’s cousin. From Anne’s description of her, Elizabeth had expected Mrs. Allen to be both lazy and heavy. She was a little plump, but not seriously so. Her eyes held a liveliness Elizabeth usually associated with intelligence.
“Penny,” Anne said. She lowered her book, but didn’t close it. “It’s so good of you to come. I’m afraid things aren’t progressing as I could have hoped.” Anne gestured limply toward where Elizabeth sat at the desk, across the room. “You recall my companion, Mrs. Jenkinson and that is my friend Miss Bennet, who has kindly agreed to stay with me until the situation I find myself in is sorted. Elizabeth, this is my cousin, Mrs. Penelope Allen.”
Mrs. Jenkinson and Mrs. Allen exchanged nods of greeting. Elizabeth set aside her pen. She stood and curtsied, a gesture Mrs. Allen returned. Elizabeth crossed the room to join them as Mrs. Allen turned back to Anne.
“What situation is that, cousin?” Mrs. Allen asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve all but ruined Rosings in a matter of days,” Anne said, sounding miserable.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “That is an exceptionally untrue statement,” she said. “You have done no such thing, Miss de Bourgh. I’ll own that we are having some difficulty with the staff, but nothing irreparable.” She turned to address Mrs. Allen. “Lady Catherine was exceedingly generous in her bequeaths. Many of the more experienced household and farm staff have taken the opportunity to retire, as is their right.”
“I see,” Mrs. Allen said. She looked about the room. “Where would you say the most pressing need is? Within the house, of course. I know nothing of farmi
ng.” She smiled, her hazel eyes twinkling.
Elizabeth felt she liked Mrs. Allen already. “The kitchen. The cook left and all of the kitchen maids save one. Linens and dusting can wait, but food simply cannot. The parson’s wife was good enough to spend the morning here helping with breakfast and luncheon, but she has her own household to manage. She set dinner in motion in so much as she could, before she left.”
“How fortuitous,” Mrs. Allen said. “For I am quite familiar with what goes on in a kitchen. I’ll go settle my things and get straight to assessing the likelihood of dinner.”
Elizabeth looked to Anne, but Miss de Bourgh was gazing distractedly at a spot over Mrs. Allen’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Elizabeth said, realizing Anne wouldn’t speak. “It would be very much appreciated.”
Mrs. Allen nodded, dropped a curtsy and hurried away. Elizabeth turned to Anne, noting her pallor. “Are you well?”
“I’m tired. I think I will go to my room,” Anne said. “Will you finish the letters and leave them on the desk? I’ll see that they are posted.”
“I will. Could we speak on what must be done to address the staffing issue before you retire?”
Anne frowned. “I’m sure you will do whatever needs to be done.”
“It really isn’t my place,” Elizabeth said. She couldn’t be making decisions about the running of Rosings. She was a guest and had no connection to the family at all. “Perhaps Mrs. Allen--”
Anne interrupted her with a shake of her head. “You’re the one who realized the mistake I was making with the servants. You’re the one I trust. You and Darcy. You both have my permission to make any decisions needed to repair the damage I’ve done.”
“It was an understandable error,” Elizabeth said. “You couldn’t have known how the servants would react.”
“You did,” Anne said, looking down. “I asked you to remain here to guide me away from grievous errors, and the first time I disagreed with you, I ignored you.” She raised stricken eyes to Elizabeth. “What if I am never prepared to manage Rosings?”
A Death at Rosings: A Pride & Prejudice Variation Page 8