Page 149 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Miss Bingley has strong opinions about everything," Richard agreed. "It is one of her most terrifying qualities."

The tea arrived. Richard poured. He had learned the skill in war zones, where a poorly steeped cup could spark an international incident. Schmidt accepted her teacup with the caution of a prisoner eyeing a suspicious loaf of bread offered by the jailer.

"Tell me," Richard said, stirring sugar into his tea with unnecessary vigour, "does your mistress shop as a form of gymnastics?"

Schmidt blinked. "Sir?"

"I have seen you hauling enough parcels to supply a regiment," he elaborated. "Does she purchase millinery to build you upper body strength?"

Schmidt softened. She took a sip of tea, then set the cup down with a clink. "It is my job, Colonel. And I am happy to do it."

"Even when it threatens to snap your spine in two?"

"Even then." Her voice was firm. "I would do anything for Miss Bingley."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "Most servants merely tolerate their employers. You sound as though you would take a bullet for her."

"I would," Schmidt said simply. "She saved my family, sir. I owe her everything."

Richard set down his teacup with exaggerated care. "Saved your family?"

Schmidt glanced around the tea room, as if expecting spies to emerge from the cake stand. Then she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My brother, sir. He fell ill three years ago. Fever. The doctors gave him until winter." Her hands twisted in her lap. "He left behind a son, just a boy, eight years old. No mother, no other family. Just me."

"I am sorry," Richard said, and he meant it.

Schmidt waved a hand, dismissing his sympathy like an inconvenient fly. "The boy is bright, sir. Sharp as a tack. But he needed schooling—proper schooling, not the parish charity school, where they teach children to be grateful for gruel and beatings."

"And Miss Bingley…?"

"Pays for his tuition," Schmidt finished. "Every term. Out of her own allowance. She doesn't touch the household funds. Doesn't ask her brother for a penny. It is her money, and she spends it on my nephew so he can learn to read, write, and cipher."

Richard stared at her. His brain, which prided itself on tactical analysis, struggled to reconcile this information with the image of Caroline Bingley—a sour woman who wore orange to the opera and insulted his cuffs.

"She pays for his schooling," he repeated slowly.

"Every penny," Schmidt said. "And when he needed new boots last winter, she bought those too. She doesn't hide it, mind you. But she doesn't advertise it either. When I tried to thank her, she told me to stop weeping and fetch her the violet reticule because the green one clashed with her pelisse."

Richard's mouth twitched. "That does sound like her."

"She is good, Colonel." Schmidt's eyes burned with fierce loyalty. "I don't care what Society says about her. I don't care if she wears feathers the size of trees or dresses the colour of a bruised sunset. She is kind. And she is loyal. And if she asked me to give her an arm, I'd hand it over without a second thought."

Richard thought of the woman he had pulled from a runaway horse—the same woman who had clung to him in terror one moment and glared at him the next as if he had personally offended her sensibilities instead of saving her life. The woman who critiqued his poverty and his very existence.

That woman paid for a servant's nephew to attend school.

That woman, who hoarded her wealth like a dragon guarding its gold, spent her own money on a servant's child.

"Does she visit the boy?" Richard asked.

Schmidt shook her head. "Never. She asked his name once—Thomas—and told me to make sure he learned Latin because 'ignorance is a sin and stupidity is a choice'. That was all."

Richard sat back in his chair, staring at his teacup as if it held the secrets of the universe. "She is not what I thought," he said, though he was speaking more to the dregs of his tea than to Schmidt.

"No, sir," Schmidt agreed. "She is not." She picked up her basket and stood. "If you'll excuse me, Colonel, I must finish my errands. Miss Bingley expects these ribbons before supper, and if I'm late, she'll threaten to replace me with a more competent footstool."

"She would never replace you," Richard realised.

Schmidt smiled. "I know. But she enjoys the threat. It makes her feel powerful."