Page 50 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

Caroline's gaze dropped, deliberately, to Elizabeth's bare shoulders. "Where is your blue shawl this evening?"

"In the retiring room."

"A pity. The colour suits you so well." And with that she left, well before the next set began, in a manner Elizabeth could not account for.

Elizabeth watched her cross the ballroom with a growing sense of unease she could not quite name. Caroline spoke to Louisa. Then to her own maid, stationed near the door. Nothing about the exchange was improper, precisely. Nothing about it looked natural, either.

Sarah stood beyond the doorway, helping an elderly lady settle her wrap about her shoulders. She caught Elizabeth's eye and glanced pointedly towards the retiring room. There was real fear on her face. Not the ordinary anxiety of a servant with too much to do, but something closer to dread.

Elizabeth excused herself from Jane and slipped away. Sarah followed a moment later, keeping up the appearance of ordinary service the whole way.

The retiring room held cloaks and shawls and gloves in disorderly heaps, two matrons resting their feet between dances, and Kitty hunting through the pile for a ribbon she swore she had left there. Elizabeth waited, with what patience she could muster, until Kitty gave up and left.

Sarah opened the press where the Bennet wraps had been placed.

The blue shawl was gone.

"Who took it?" Elizabeth asked, though some part of her had already guessed.

"I believe it was Miss Bingley, miss."

"Why?"

Sarah glanced at the two matrons still resting nearby. "Not here, miss."

They stepped out into the lit passage, leaving the door open behind them.

"Miss Bingley meant to use it in the east saloon, miss — to make Mr. Darcy and her brother believe you had arranged a private meeting. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley know."

Elizabeth stared at her, the words taking a moment to land.

"When did you hear this?"

"This morning, miss. They hoped Miss Bingley might abandon it on her own."

"Nobody told me."

Sarah's face drained of all its colour at once. "I asked that they wait, miss, unless she actually took the shawl. I thought — I thought you might stay home rather than spoil Mr. Bingley's ball for him. That was not mine to decide. I am sorry. I am truly sorry, miss."

Elizabeth's face went hot with something that was not entirely anger. Her eyes stung. Her hands stilled at her sides. Not fists, quite, but close enough that she noticed the difference. Sarah had protected her by deciding for her, the exact same fault Darcy had confessed to after the pavilion, and for one furious moment Elizabeth wanted to say something she would regret.

Then she looked at the maid's hands. They were clenched in her apron until the knuckles whitened, one thumb pressed hard against the other. Sarah had risked Miss Bingley's temper, and very possibly her whole position in this house, and she had confessed it all before the plan could run its course. She is more frightened for me than for herself, and I very nearly missed it.

"No," Elizabeth said, gentler now. "It was not your decision to make."

"No, miss."

"You should have told me this morning, all the same."

"Yes, miss."

"We will discuss that properly later. What happens now?"

Sarah looked up, and relief nearly buckled her knees on the spot. "Mr. McKeever will carry any message straight to Mr. Darcy, miss. He is to fetch Mr. Bingley before Mr. Darcy goes anywhere at all. You must stay in the ballroom, miss, where everyone can see you."

"I must?"

"Please, miss. If Miss Bingley is wearing your shawl, she means people to believe you expected Mr. Darcy there yourself. Your being seen downstairs the whole time disproves it entirely."