Page 6 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
At this, my hairpin clattered to the floor, startling Cinnamon from my lap. She shot me a reproachful look as she retreated beneath the tablecloths.
“I would rather not think about Mr. Darcy,” I said, spreading butter on my toast. “I have made it my morning’s project to excise him from my consciousness entirely. The effort requires concentration, and interruptions are not helpful.”
Papa’s newspaper did not move, but the quality of silence behind it changed—the stillness of a man who has heard something he dislikes and is deciding whether ignoring it might make it disappear.
“Ooh,” said Lydia, sitting up with the sudden attention of someone who has scented drama. “Mama, what about Mr. Darcy?”
“He mentioned, at the assembly, that he required a companion for his sister.” Mama’s voice was pleasant, and thus dangerous. “He offered Lizzy a position, and I believe she should take it.”
“He offered me an insult and several cuts. There is a distinction.”
“Is there?” Mama’s voice was mild, or seemingly so. “He looked at your mind and saw value in it. How many men in that room did the same?”
Papa’s newspaper descended like a drawbridge, and he peered at Mama over his spectacles.
“Surely you cannot be in earnest,” he said.
“I am always in earnest about my daughters’ futures, Mr. Bennet. A habit I developed when I realized no one else in this house intended to be.”
“You are proposing that our daughter—a gentleman’s daughter—enter service. In the household of a man who insulted her not twelve hours ago.”
“I am proposing that our daughter secure a position that pays two hundred pounds per annum in a household with London connections and excellent society, and proximity to one ofthe finest estates in England.” Mama settled her hands around her teacup. “But by all means, continue to dwell on the insult. I am certain wounded pride will keep us all very warm when Mr. Collins inherits Longbourn, and we find ourselves turned out at his pleasure.”
Mama always used the dreaded entail like a cudgel over an egg. The legal technicality meant five daughters could not inherit their ancestral home, and when our father passed, Longbourn would go to a distant cousin.
“What?” Lydia’s fork clattered against her plate. “Lizzy, a paid companion? Fetching and carrying for some rich man’s sister? Mama, how shall I ever show my face? What will everyone say?”
“They will say that Elizabeth Bennet is earning money in a respectable household, which is considerably more than they can say about you at present.” Mama did not raise her voice. She never needed to. “And if their opinion troubles you more than our family’s security, then I have failed as your mother in ways I had not previously imagined.”
Lydia subsided, looking stung. Even Kitty, who had been preparing to echo her younger sister’s outrage, closed her mouth.
“It would not be the worst position,” Mary ventured, drawing every eye in the room. “If we are to marry well, we must understand the management of large households. Miss Darcy is wealthy and well-connected. A companion is not a servant—it is a respectable position that carries income and society. One might separate the offense from the opportunity.”
“Thank you, Mary,” Mama said, with a warmth that suggested she had not expected reinforcement from this quarter.
Mary looked so pleased by this that I felt a twinge of guilt for what I was about to say.
“Then perhaps Mary should apply for the position. Mr. Darcy had not insultedher.He might even appreciate her scriptural improvements.”
“Mr. Darcy did not notice our Mary,” Mama replied, with gentle finality. “He noticed you, Lizzy. A manwho looked at your mind—not your face or your figure, mind you—and saw value in it is not entirely without perception. He used it poorly, I grant you, and I told him as much to his face. But the perception itself is rare.”
“He saw a servant.”
“He saw a sharp mind, and it perplexed him enough to make that statement.”
Papa’s newspaper slapped the table. “Fanny. This is beneath us. I will not have my daughter working as a domestic in some arrogant fool’s household because you have calculated the profit margin.”
“The profit margin,” Mama said, in the voice that had made five daughters sit up straight since childhood, “is two hundred pounds a year against an entail that could leave us homeless if you are struck by a carriage. I am sorry if mathematics offends your sensibilities, Mr. Bennet, but I was raised to add, and the numbers do not lie.”
Papa’s jaw worked, and he polished his spectacles with the indifference of a man retreating from a battle he has already lost and pretending it had never been fought. “Do as you like, Mrs. Bennet. You will, regardless.”
“I usually do. It saves considerable time.”
I set down my toast because I could not eat and be furious simultaneously, and fury was winning. “Mama. Even if I were willing, which I am not, he did not offer me a position. He made a remark to Sir William in my hearing, meant as an insult, not an invitation.”
“Then we shall turn the insult into an invitation.” She poured herself a second cup of tea, with the calmness of a woman who has already worked out the chess moves and is simply waiting for the board to catch up. “I will speak with my brother Philips this afternoon. He will draw up terms, and we will present them at Netherfield as a formal response to a suggestion made in public. Mr. Darcy said the words, Lizzy. Let him own them.”
The sheer audacity stole my breath for the second time in twelve hours. “You want to ambush him.”
