Elizabeth allowed herself a small sigh.
More business, no doubt. Ships or inventories or whatever it was that consumed her uncle’s mornings.
Nothing to do with them.
She returned to her chair, determined to read at least three pages in whatever dull book she could find before allowing herself to glance again toward the door.
Another knock.
Another voice — lighter this time, unmistakably female.
Elizabeth straightened instinctively. Jane set down her embroidery with a hopeful glance. Even Mrs. Gardiner shifted forward, smoothing her skirts.
The footman appeared in the doorway, his expression composed but his voice carrying a note of something almost like awe.
"The Right Honorable the dowager Countess of Matlock," he announced.
TheWho?The teacup in Elizabeth’s hand trembled very slightly.
Mrs. Gardiner, usually so unflappable, blinked and rose with more haste than grace. Her smile was swift, automatic, but the surprise in her eyes was unmistakable.
Elizabeth rose too, the motion mechanical, her mind scrambling to make sense of it. The dowager Countess?Here?
The door swung wider, and there she was: a small, regal figure wrapped in velvet and authority, sweeping into the drawing room as though it were a minor annex to her own domain.
Elizabeth's first wild, ridiculous thought was that surely this must be a mistake.
But there was no mistaking the woman’s bearing — or the sharp, almost amused gaze that landed squarely, unerringly, upon her.
Chapter Nineteen
The dowager Countess ofMatlock seated herself on the best chair in the drawing room with the unspoken assumption that it had been warmed for her specifically. Mrs. Gardiner, still rallying from the shock of such a visitor arriving without expectation or fanfare, managed her welcome with commendable grace.
“How very good of you to call, Lady Matlock,” she said, offering a plate of shortbread that looked suddenly very humble.
The dowager accepted one with regal indulgence. “Yes, yes, I thought it long past time to renew old acquaintances, and I was always fond of your cousin… Pennyworth, I believe?”
Mrs. Gardiner cleared her throat softly. “Mrs. Pennington, my lady.”
“Ah, yes. They do say the first thing to go is the memory. I do hope Mr. Gardiner is well?”
“Quite well, thank you. He is with a caller in his study at present.”
“A pity,” the dowager murmured, though her tone suggested she found male callers inconvenient at the best of times.
Her gaze flicked over to Elizabeth and Jane, pausing just long enough to register a sparkle of satisfaction before returning to her biscuit.
“Now, these must be your nieces. I believe I have had the pleasure… though I hardly recall their names.”
Elizabeth met the countess’s gaze squarely, resisting the urge to smile. “Elizabeth Bennet, ma’am. And this is my elder sister Jane.”
“Ah yes,” the dowager said, as though she had solved a moderately interesting puzzle. “How lovely. You favor your mother’s side of the family, I think,” she added, in a tone that left unclear whether it was a compliment or a curse.
Elizabeth inclined her head, her spine held just a little straighter. Jane looked like she had not drawn breath in several minutes.
They settled into a pattern of careful civility. The dowager praised the embroidery—Elizabeth was fairly certain she had no real opinion on the matter—and asked after Mrs. Gardiner’s sister and acquaintances with an interest that hovered on the edge of performance.
Then, with disarming abruptness, she turned back to Elizabeth. “And what, Miss Bennet, brings you to London this winter?”
