Page 65 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
I cracked an egg. The yolk broke clean.
A girl who throws sporting equipment and shouts at gentlemen—charming in a village child.
I measured the ginger—too much, deliberately, because the sting of too much ginger was a form of protest that Caroline Bingley would never taste.
A companion who cannot be permanently removed.
I kneaded the way Mama kneaded when Papa was being impossible. The dough resisted, then softened, then began to take shape beneath my hands, and the shaping was the first thing I had controlled all evening.
Mrs. Jolliffe looked up from her mending. “Harder,” she said. “Whatever she said to you, put it in the dough.”
Taking her words to heart, I pressed harder. The dough yielded, smooth and elastic, and the motion was satisfying in a way that conversation never was, because dough did not argue, dough did not suggest that your methods were insufficient, and dough did not sneeze.
I cut the biscuits with a glass, forming neat, uniform circles that I lined up on the baking sheet with the discipline of a woman who, having lost control of one room, was determined to maintain it in another.
The kitchen door creaked open, and I stubbornly kept my eyes on my task, though I couldn’t help but notice Cinnamon scampering to her chosen human’s side.
“The kitchen appears to be occupied,” Darcy observed from the doorway.
“Kitchens generally are, Mr. Darcy.” I pressed the glass into the dough. Another circle. Another biscuit. “If you require something, Mrs. Nicholls keeps the good port in the butler’s pantry, second shelf.”
“I didn’t come for the port.” His steady footsteps crossed toward me, suggesting he came for me, a thought toodisconcerting given my current state.
I placed the baking sheet in the oven and closed the door. “Biscuits will be ready in a quarter of an hour.”
Mrs. Jolliffe gathered her mending, gave Darcy a look that contained the entire history of her opinions about gentlemen who visited kitchens after dark, and departed through the scullery door.
