The conversation was interrupted by Thomas, who had abandoned his beetle and key in favor of more interesting company. He marched across the rug and planted a sticky hand on Lady Sophia’s silk skirt.
“Buh,” he announced, holding up a small wooden horse missing one leg.
“A wounded cavalry mount,” Lady Sophia said gravely. She did not recoil from the sticky hand; instead, she examined the horse as though it were a diplomatic gift of considerable importance. “Has he a name?”
Thomas considered this, then scrambled up into her lap without waiting for an invitation.
To Elizabeth’s amazement, Lady Sophia simply shifted her teacup and made room for him amongst her lace.
“He is a bold one,” she remarked to Mrs. Gardiner. “He has your chin. Does he enjoy London, or is he a creature of the mud?”
“Thomas finds interest in anything that moves,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, her formal hostess mask finally softening into genuine warmth. “Be it a beetle in the country or a coal-heaver’s cart in town. He has no regard for rank.”
“The boy has sense, then.” Lady Sophia broke off a piece of lemon cake and offered it to him. “In London, one must look at everything; in the country, one has time to actually see it. I think I shall like your family, Mrs. Gardiner. They are far too busy being themselves to bother being tedious.”
Mrs. Gardiner watched this, her expression finally softening into one of complete approval. “More tea, Lady Sophia?”
“Thank you, yes.” Lady Sophia held out her cup over Thomas’s head. “Your cook’s lemon cakes are exceptional, Mrs. Gardiner. I wonder if I might prevail upon her for the recipe?”
“She will say no,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, pouring. “She has said no to everyone for fifteen years. But I will ask, for you are the first person I believe might actually succeed.”
“I have worn down greater resistance,” Lady Sophia said. She broke a second cake in half and gave Thomas a portion. “I shall send my cook and mention that your nieces covet these lemon cakes.”
Elizabeth laughed—a real, uncalculated sound that escaped before she could make it presentable. Her aunt’s eyes met hers, sparkling with a warmth that said, plainly,Yes, I see it too.
A comfortable silence took hold, the sort that only happens when everyone is quietly pleased to be exactly where they are. Rose curled into Jane’s lap with a picture book; Alice read in the corner with Nettle snoring at her feet; and Mary lectured Samuel on musical notation while he perfected the art of not listening.
Lady Sophia looked from the sleeping dog to the busy boy in her lap, then up at Mrs. Gardiner. The sharp, assessing glint in her eyes had been replaced by something far more dangerous: genuine respect.
“You have a very fine household, Mrs. Gardiner,” she said frankly. “It is a rare thing to find a room where the inhabitants are so entirely at home in their own skins. I shall dream of these lemon cakes, I suspect, for a fortnight.”
Mrs. Gardiner took Thomas off Lady Sophia’s lap. “Then I shall ensure your cook is not sent away empty-handed, Lady Sophia. It has been a pleasure I did not anticipate.”
“The best kind,” Lady Sophia replied. She gave Thomas a final, brisk pat on the head and reached for her cane, reclaiming her dignity as if she had never had a toddler and cake crumbsin her lap. “Your blue door did not mislead me, Mrs. Gardiner. I find I am an excellent judge of character after all.”
The carriage pulled away, and Elizabeth settled against the cushions, Nettle curled warm against her side. Jane closed her eyes, smiling contentedly, and Mary looked back at the blue door.
“Your aunt,” Lady Sophia said, “is a woman of considerable intelligence who has chosen to live it out in the quiet service of her family rather than in the loud pursuit of ambition. I used to wonder whether such a choice was wisdom or a waste. I no longer do.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “And what have you concluded?”
“That we are not meant to spend our lives proving how clever we are,” Lady Sophia replied. “Ambition can be dazzling, but it is often a performance for strangers. Your aunt has chosen something truer. She is the same woman in her kitchen as she is in her drawing room. She has given herself where she may be most authentic. That, Miss Bennet, is the cleverest kind of wisdom—though it has very little to do with being clever at all.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A TRUSTEE’S DUTY
“You have changed your cravat.”
Darcy did not need his godmother to needle him about his first meeting with her latest goddaughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had prepared for this meeting in the manner of a professional obligation. But nothing felt professional about sitting across a ledger from the woman who had eviscerated his heart.
However, a Darcy had dignity, and he would not deign to bleed in front of Lady Sophia by dignifying her taunt with a response.
“Twice, unless I am mistaken,” Lady Sophia continued from her armchair, where she sat with a chocolate and a novel. “The first was your usual knot. The second was rather more elaborate. I observed it through my window when you crossed the garden. You have since returned to the first, which I commend. Too much formality makes it look as though you planned every detail, and that level of preparation can reveal rather more interest than is prudent, and we would not wish to hint at undue interest, would we, Fitzwilliam?”
“I changed my cravat because the first was poorly tied.”
“How unlike you, my dear.” Her eyes crinkled. “Sit down and do try not to look as though you are facing a tribunal.”
