The Road to Pemberley (38 page)

“I am Mrs. Annesley, and this is Miss Darcy,” says my companion. I smile and curtsy to Michelle.

“How do you do, Michelle?” I say, hopeful that she will be different from the nine other boring and identical girls.

“I am well,
merci
,” she replies. She sits down and then asks, “Your maid...she is gone?”

“Yes,” I volunteer, which is unusual for me, as I ordinarily let others who would talk do so. “She left us a day ago.”

My good companion continues by asking the same questions of Michelle that she asked of the other nine girls. Michelle likes to talk, apparently, and mixes her French and English, but they are all words that I can understand. She talks of her cousins, who are farmers and soldiers, and of her uncle, who is a baker. She came to London when she was fifteen.

When she leaves, Mrs. Annesley asks me whom I liked best of the ten, and I smile a little. “Oh, I liked Michelle the best,” I reply, uncertain of her own opinion. “She seemed the most straightforward.”

“That is just what I thought, too,” she replies, sitting down with her needlework.

“You did?” I ask, a little surprised. “You think Michelle is the best choice?”

“Oh, I think she is the most straightforward,” she clarifies. “Strictly speaking, I think perhaps Mary is the most prudent choice. She is the most skilled of all the girls.”

“Oh.”

She smiles up at me for a moment. “This is a choice you must make on your own, Miss Darcy. All of the girls are qualified; my sister would not have sent them to interview for a position with the Darcy family if it were not so. It is
you
the girl must work for;
you
who must manage her. If you liked Michelle best, then why not choose her? Have a little faith in your own ability to judge character, my dear.”

My heart plummets into my stomach, and my expression falls with it. “That is not something that I can do,” I say, shaking my head.

Mrs. Annesley puts her work in her lap and gives me a curious look. “Is there something you wish to talk about, Miss Darcy?”

“No,” I reply loudly, rising. “No, not at all.” I rush to the door and turn to look at her. “I am going to retire now. Good night.”

She stops me at the door with a hand on my upper arm. “Miss Darcy, please turn around.”

I do as she asks, to find her looking at me with kindness in her eyes. “Yes?”

“It is three o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Darcy.”

I look away and want to cry. “Yes,” I say. “Of course. I meant...I just want to rest a while.”

Mrs. Annesley takes my chin in her hand and turns my head so that she can look at me. “If you ever
do
want to talk,” she offers gently, “I hope you feel you can talk to me.” She pauses to let the offer settle between us for a moment.

I look back at her, incredibly uncomfortable. “Thank you,” I say quietly. She smiles at me and I turn toward my rooms.

The next morning, I am forced to make a choice—I cannot continue to try to instruct Silent Greta, as she clearly wishes neither to learn English, nor to be a lady's maid. Reminding myself that if Michelle ultimately does not succeed, she can be quickly replaced with no harm done, I write to Mrs. Annesley's sister to request that Michelle come to work for me.

She joins us three days later, and shopping ensues. I confess I do
love
to shop and have a bit of an obsession with bonnets. I must have
something
pretty to cover my awful hair, after all. I almost cannot wait to be married, so that I can wear a cap to cover it all the time.

Michelle is fitted for a wardrobe suitable for a lady's maid, which she almost does not accept. It takes quite a bit from both Mrs. Annesley and I to convince her that it is all quite proper and perfectly all right, and then her thanks are profuse. When we return from Mildred Townsend's shop one afternoon, in the hall we meet my brother, who greets me and kisses my cheek. “Shall we have tea together?” he asks me. “I will leave in the morning for Hertfordshire.”

I smile. “Of course,” I reply, and hand him Mrs. Townsend's bill. “For Michelle,” I explain. “Oh, and one for me.”

He takes the paper and glances at Michelle, who turns crimson. After looking at it, he looks up at her again. “Do not fret about this,” he says to Michelle. “Georgiana, you are to be congratulated. I did not think it could be done.”

“Of what do you speak?” I ask, confused.

“You now own bonnets enough to cover every head in England.” He kisses my cheek again and heads to the library.

I smile after him and look at Michelle. She smiles back at me, a little more at ease, and follows me up the stairs to my rooms. A
few moments later, the footman knocks on the door to deliver the bandbox containing the newest addition to my collection. I thank him and hand it to Michelle to be put away.

“I do not yet know where to put it,” she says, a little embarrassed.

“Oh—in my dressing room. I will be right in to show you where.”

I follow her after a moment and find her staring into an open closet. My bonnets are all inside—some forty-five of them—all arranged neatly in order of season, and then type, and then color, from the darkest blue to the brightest yellow. Looking over her shoulder, I spot my favorite one—it is light pink with little roses made of ribbons and the loveliest ivory lace trimming it.

“You can put it next to this one,” I say, tapping the shelf.

Michelle turns to me with an awestricken face. She shakes her head. “
Mon dieu!
” she exclaims. It is all she can muster...there are
quite
a few bonnets, I suppose.

My brother goes on for another quarter page, in his smooth handwriting, about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He has never mentioned any of his new female acquaintances to me in his writing. I had assumed this was because he had
made
no new acquaintances—he is not an easy person to speak with. And when he is with Mr. Bingley, his sister Caroline—who has quite made up her mind to marry Fitzwilliam—tends to circle round my brother like a vulture when there are other young unmarried females in the room. I used to think her kind, before I realized the motive behind her attention. Now I do not know what to think, and try to avoid her as much as possible. Most of the time it is easy, because she is dressed all in beads, feathers, and swooshing silk, and can be seen and heard a mile away. Mrs. Reynolds calls her a peacock when she thinks no one is listening.

I ponder this Miss Bennet and wonder what she looks like. I assume she is at least tolerable, because there is no mention of her looks anywhere in the letter.

I have gotten another letter today, from my cousin Anne de Bourgh—the daughter of my mother's sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Anne is only about five feet tall and wears saffron shades of yellow (but does not look good in them). She has hair so dark it is almost black, skin the color of spoiled milk, and eyes that are small and gray. I was afraid of her as a child and have always thought her looks putrid. However, she is as warm-hearted as a person who has been raised to think chiefly of herself can be. She writes brief but constant letters to me, and when I visit Rosings she does her utmost to sit with me, which can be difficult at times, as she is always being shown to her rooms to rest.

This letter is no different than most that I receive from her. The lovely thing about them is that she never bothers with opening pleasantries, and she writes just the same as she speaks—bluntly.

Anne's kindness is not perfect—she has had almost as many abigails in two years as I have bonnets, dismissing all of them either because of age or attitude. I do think her more sincere than curious about Nicole's future employment, however. She may be just as demanding and blunt, but she is more gentle and generous than her mother. I do not mean to say that Lady Catherine is not charitable, rather, that her charity is limited.

I believe Anne when she says that I am the only person to whom she writes. I try to make my replies cheerful and interesting, but I am sure I fail miserably most times.

Sighing, I put down her letter. Each time she writes she speaks of the same things—first her mother, and then herself, and then, if she is permitted to write so long, of other goings-on in the world with which she is acquainted. It is a very rare occasion indeed when I receive a letter from her that does
not
bore me to tears. However, it is a nice challenge for me to come up with things to write about. I have the same difficulty thinking of things to speak of in company.

I leave the letters on my writing table and wander to the music room. My fingers dance across the keys involuntarily as I sit down. I wonder on the young lady mentioned in my brother's letter—Miss
Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire. Given that my brother clearly likes her, I am predisposed to approving of her. Second of five daughters, living in an estate entailed away from such children... she would not be so very self-important or imposing, as Miss Bingley is. I wonder if she has any fortune to speak of, or whether she has any noble family. I should like nothing more than to have a sister to love—a friend of my own gender and near my age.