Page 19 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
“Cake,” she repeated, as if not sure she had heard me correctly.
“Yes, I wonder if you might accompany me to the kitchen.”
She turned a page and set her fingers on the keys. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve already breakfasted.”
“I’m not asking you to eat.” My body angled to block the sunlight from the window, compelling her to look up at me. “I intend to bake, and it is a more pleasant occupation with company.”
“You wish me to accompany you.”
“Why, naturally, you are my companion, after all.” I blinked innocently at her.
Cinnamon had reappeared, in that mysteriousway cats have, and jumped onto the pianoforte bench, purring beside Georgiana, who pretended not to notice her.
“Companions do not bake,” Georgiana said.
“I have news for you, we most certainly do bake. My grandmother Clark’s father was the Yeoman of the Bake-House to King George II’s Royal Household.”
“Suppliers to the crown?” Curiosity undercut the snobbery in her tone.
“Indeed. The old King was fond of their creations—or so my grandmother claimed. And she was not a woman given to embellishment, unlike certain Hertfordshire mothers I could name.”
The corner of Georgiana’s mouth twitched. She suppressed it immediately, but I had seen it, and we both knew I had seen it, and the knowledge sat between us like a card played and not yet answered.
“I fail to see,” she said, recovering her composure with the speed of a girl who had been born to the highest circles, “what baking has to do with the duties of a companion. Surely your role is to instruct me in accomplishments, improve my conversation, and supervise my studies?—”
“Your brother engaged me, and my methods are unorthodox.” I pushed away from the doorframe and held out my hand—not a command, but an invitation. “Come. It will take an hour. You may hate it. But I promise you this: it will not be boring. It might even be fun.”
“What does fun have to do with being a lady?”
I considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. Georgiana had likely left fun behind in the nursery along with dollhouses, nursery rhymes, and her mother’s teasing tickles.
“Everything, Miss Darcy. A lady without fun is rather a pale imitation of our jolly Queen Bess. Why, I believe she was fond of a bit of sport and a lively dance between her royal duties. Surely, we can spare an hour for a bowl of flour and a hot oven.”
“I promised my brother I would be civil,” she said, rising from thebench with the air of a woman agreeing to an expedition she expected to regret. “I did not promise to enjoy myself.”
“An excellent start. Cinnamon, stay here. You are not permitted in the kitchen. The last time you entered a kitchen, you put your face in a cream jug, and I had to explain to Cook why the syllabub tasted of cat.”
Cinnamon, whose interest in cream was as legendary as her disregard for prohibitions, jumped from the bench and padded after us with the supreme indifference of a cat who had heard the instruction, processed it, and summarily disregarded it.
“Your cat does not obey you,” Georgiana observed as we descended toward the kitchen stairs.
“My cat does not obey anyone. It is one of her finer qualities.”
The Netherfield kitchen was warm, stone-flagged, and presided over by a cook named Mrs. Jolliffe, a stout woman with floury forearms and a too-tight apron likely procured when she was but a maiden.
“Miss Bennet.” She assessed me with the eye of a cook evaluating an unfamiliar ingredient. “Mrs. Nicholls mentioned you might visit.”
“Yes, I was wondering if we might beg the use of your oven and a corner of your worktable. Miss Darcy has agreed to help me make Shrewsbury cakes.”
The cook’s expression softened as she nodded at Georgiana and her finely-tailored morning dress. She had clearly not expected a lady of such high standing to appear at the kitchen door.
The kitchen maid, a rosy-cheeked girl rolling pastry nearby, looked up. “Shrewsbury cakes? My mum makes those from the old Clark recipe. Old John Clark baked for the king’s father.”
“Then we are connected by butter and flour.” I felt the small, warm bloom of it—a pride that drawing rooms would dismiss but kitchens would honor. “John Clark’s daughter was mygrandmother. The recipe has survived four generations and one very determined cat who believes all butter belongs to her.”
The kitchen maid’s eyes went round. “The Clarks were suppliers to the crown.”
I did not look at Georgiana, as I did not need to. The silence behind me had changed from contemptuous tolerance to something considerably more attentive.
