Page 8 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

"The rain is easing. Jane may wish for air tomorrow, if she is strong enough."

Darcy followed her gaze. Water still ran from the eaves in dark ropes, though a pale strip of sky had appeared above the trees. "The south terrace dries quickly. The path beyond it does not."

"I will remember the distinction."

His attention dropped, before he could stop it, to the pinned hem of her borrowed gown. "You did not remember it this morning."

"This morning I valued speed above dry shoes."

"And now?"

"Now I have reached Jane. My standards may recover with her."

She moved as if to leave. Darcy wanted, quite badly, to stop her. Every sentence that occurred to him sounded like a command dressed up as a question.

"Miss Elizabeth."

She turned.

He could apologise for Meryton. The words were ready, had been ready for some time, he suspected. He had been ready for nothing else since she had walked through that door.

Caroline appeared behind her.

"There you are, Miss Eliza. Your sister has asked for you."

Elizabeth straightened at once, all her attention leaving the room in a single motion. "Jane is awake?"

"A moment ago."

She departed without another word, skirts already moving. Caroline remained, one hand resting on the door as though she owned it.

"How fortunate that I found her."

"Did Miss Bennet ask for her?"

Caroline's pause was slight, barely a beat, but Darcy caught it. "Mrs. Nicholls said she might."

Darcy walked past her into the corridor without softening it. "Then Mrs. Nicholls may tell Miss Elizabeth when it happens."

He went upstairs. McKeever waited in the dressing room with the embroidered cravat folded away and the plain one laid ready for morning, as though the whole exchange downstairs had somehow already reached him.

"Miss Elizabeth liked the poetry."

McKeever kept his face composed. This visibly required effort, and Darcy, against his better judgement, respected him for it.

"Sarah believed she would, sir."

Two servants had arranged one book between them. It should not have mattered in the least. Darcy slept badly, because it did.

CHAPTER 3

Elizabeth

Jane's fever had broken by morning. The improvement was not miraculous. She remained pale, weak, and inclined to apologise for each cup of tea as though drinking it were an imposition on the household. But the danger Elizabeth had imagined during the long hours of the night withdrew to a more reasonable distance, and the tight knot below her ribs came undone at last. She had been carrying it since yesterday.

Reason permitted breakfast.

Sarah brought it on a tray and threw open the curtains with a flourish. The rain had stopped at last. Water flashed on the lawn in the new light, and the south terrace lay in a strip of cold, clean sunshine.