Page 105 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
“A pity that Lizzy spends so much time there. Derbyshire is so far north.” Mama Bennet’s attention turned toward Thomas. “More butter, young man. The Bakewell requires generosity.”
“Mrs. Bennet, the ratio is precise.”
“My grandfather baked for King George, and King George was not known for his restraint. More butter.”
“Your grandfather was my great-grandfather, and his notes are precise concerning the ratio.” Thomas’s tone was respectful but firm, and Georgiana bit back a laugh.
He held his opinions and owned his choices. Having the same spirited wit as Elizabeth, he enjoyed trading barbs with Mama Bennet.
The Bakewell pudding was Elizabeth’s idea, and a brilliant one—Derbyshire’s own pastry, the pride of Pemberley’s county, being constructed in a Hertfordshire kitchen by a man whose great-grandfather had baked for the Crown. If anything could speak to Fitzwilliam in a language he understood, it was this: the food of his childhood, made by hands that had inherited the craft, offered without pretension or strategy in a kitchen where the only programme was feeding the people one loved.
The sound of carriage wheels reached them through the open window, and Cinnamon’s ears swiveled toward the door.
“They’re here!” Lydia’s voice carried from the front hall. “Lizzy is enormous! Mr. Darcy is helping her down from the carriage, and she is swatting his hand away!”
Thomas threw her a wink, knowing the special place Elizabeth had in her heart, and that Lydia would race to the entrance and win, throwing her arms around her sister before Georgiana could so much as put on her gloves. She set down her tea, delicately lest the thin cup should crack.
She should go to the entrance hall and greet them properly. She should have a speech prepared, a careful introduction, and the right framing for a moment she had been rehearsing for weeks. But she hesitated, not because Thomas was not worthy or that she did not value him—only that she needed her brother to see him the way she did.
So she waited, picking cat hair from her skirt. Thomas did not perform. He was in his natural element, bantering with Mama Bennet, winking at her, and teasing her sisters while up to his elbows in pastry and dough. He was creating a Bakewell pudding, and he would be caught in the act of being himself—the man she loved.
Elizabeth appeared first in the kitchen doorway. Her rounded belly had grown in the three months since Georgiana had last been to Pemberley.
“Mama,” Elizabeth said, kissing Mrs. Bennet’s cheek. “The biscuits smell extraordinary.”
“They are extraordinary, as are all Clark family creations.” Mrs. Bennet adjusted her apron. “Bring your husband in. The tea is getting cold.”
Elizabeth glanced at Georgiana, and the glance said:Ready?
Georgiana’s nod was braver than she felt.
“Darling,” Elizabeth called over her shoulder, light, casual, and miraculous, because eight months ago the notion that Elizabeth Bennet would call Fitzwilliam Darcydarlingin a kitchen doorwaywould have struck Georgiana as likely as Cinnamon learning to fetch. “Come and see the biscuits, the baker, and the cat.”
Fitzwilliam Darcy walked into the Netherfield kitchen.
He had to duck slightly under the doorframe because Netherfield’s kitchen had been built for servants and not for the master of Pemberley, which made him less formidable and more approachable.
He greeted Mama Bennet first, then Jane, and only after the formal niceties did he turn to Georgiana with a smile reserved for her. “Sister, you look well. Hertfordshire agrees with you.”
“Very much, Brother.” She took his arm. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
She saw the confusion as Darcy looked at Mrs. Jolliffe first, and then the kitchen maids, Cinnamon, and then Jane, until his gaze traveled down the work table and stopped at the new baker.
Thomas stood still, lifting his dough-caked hands and unable to run them through his hair, which was a habit when he was discomfited. To his credit, he met Darcy’s gaze firmly, his brown, steady eyes carrying no agenda beyond hard, honest work and a love for a woman who might have overestimated her brother’s capacity for change.
“Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana said, stepping forward, “this is Mr. Thomas Clark. He is the head baker at Carlton House for the Prince Regent.” Her voice was steady because this was her choice and the bravest thing she’d done since the stream crossing. “He is the man I wish to marry.”
The kitchen went silent. Mrs. Jolliffe’s spoon stopped moving. Jane’s egg-beating halted, and Mama Bennet set down her rolling pin.
“Mr. Clark,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Mr. Darcy.” Thomas held his gaze without flinching, which was, Georgiana thought, the single most important thing a man could do when meeting Fitzwilliam Darcy for the first time—hold still and be seen. “Your sister has told me a great deal about you, sir.”
“And my sister has told me nothing about you.”
Thomas looked down at his flour-covered hands, then back up. “Then perhaps you should try the biscuits first, sir. A man’s pastry is a more honest introduction than anything his sweetheart might say in his favor.”
Mama Bennet resumed her rolling pin. “The boy bakes with Clark hands, Mr. Darcy. You can tell a great deal about a baker’s character by his puff pastry.”
