Page 41 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

He puffed his chest out, with a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. “I persuaded Mrs Reynolds to extend the invitation. I pointed out the necessity of domestic harmony.”

Mrs Reynolds closed her eyes, seeking a brief moment of patience. “You did nothing of the sort, Bates. You stood in the passage and reminded me that Mrs Lovejoy is a cousin to the new Mrs Darcy’s aunt.”

“A persuasive reminder.” Bates nodded firmly, adjusting his waistcoat. “The new mistress will undoubtedly wish to entertain her family connections when she returns to Derbyshire. We cannot have the housekeeper and the haberdasher’s widow glaring at one another over the soup course. It would upset the hounds.”

Mrs Reynolds opened her eyes, offering a reluctant nod. The footman, despite his clumsiness, had a frustratingly accurate grasp of the situation.

“I must resolve my differences with that devious snake.” Mrs Reynolds tapped her index finger on her knee. “That purveyor of substandard ribbons, that loud, intrusive meddler, that thief of citrus zest. She is connected by blood and marriage to the new Mrs Darcy. For the sake of the master’s bride, I shall swallow my pride and offer the woman a cup of tea.”

Martin raised a single, sceptical eyebrow. “I shall remain in the room. In the event that the tea service becomes airborne.”

“I shall remain as well.” Bates adopted a stance of vigilant observation. “I am an excellent mediator. I have watched Mr Gardiner soothe the tempers of the hounds. I know exactly how to manage a delicate conversation.”

The entrance knock sounded and moments later Mrs Lovejoy swept into the private parlour escorted by a footman.

The widow wore a gown of pink silk. A bonnet adorned with three large purple ostrich feathers perched on her greying curls. She gripped a beaded reticule, her eyes sweeping over the modest room.

Mrs Reynolds rose from her armchair and executed a measured, formal curtsy.

Mrs Lovejoy returned the gesture.

The silence in the room stretched into a taut, uncomfortable wire. Neither woman spoke. Neither woman offered a smile. They stared at one another, twenty years of bitter resentment simmering.

“Please, take a seat, Mrs Lovejoy.” Mrs Reynolds gestured to the chair opposite her own.

Mrs Lovejoy moved forward, lowering herself into the chair. She arranged her skirts, her eyes darting to the tea tray.

Bates lifted the teapot and poured the hot, fragrant liquid into the delicate porcelain cups, not a single drop splashing onto the tray. He stepped backwards to stand beside Martin.

Mrs Reynolds offered a cup to her guest.

Mrs Lovejoy accepted the saucer, raising the rim to her lips. She took a small, cautious sip and lowered the cup, with a tight, clipped nod.

The silence returned, thicker and more oppressive than before.

Bates clapped, a startling sound that caused Martin to flinch.

“Now.” Bates pointed a bony finger at the two women. “Discuss.”

Mrs Reynolds glared at the footman, a reprimand hovering on her lips. She looked back at the widow. Mrs Lovejoy sat upright, her purple feathers quivering.

“The Parish Charity Competition.” Mrs Reynolds placed her own teacup onto the table. “The summer of 1792. It is time we spoke of the matter, Honoria. The new mistress of this house deserves a peaceful county.”

Mrs Lovejoy set her saucer down. “I am amenable to peace, Martha. Provided we establish the truth of that dreadful afternoon. The strawberry and orange marmalade category.”

“You submitted a jar of preserves.” Mrs Reynolds’s voice lowered. “I submitted a jar of preserves. When Parson Davies opened the jars for the blind tasting, the contents were undeniably identical.”

“They were identical.” Mrs Lovejoy gripped her reticule. “The texture was perfect. The consistency was perfect. The balance of the sweet strawberry and the bitter orange was a triumph of cookery.”

“And the secret ingredient.” Mrs Reynolds narrowed her eyes. “The precise, unrecorded addition of fresh lemon zest and one pinch of grated ginger. A combination I developed in the Pemberley kitchens over three painstaking weeks.”

“A combination I developed in my own kitchen.” Mrs Lovejoy bristled, her pink silk rustling loudly. “I purchased the ginger from the apothecary myself. You saw me at the market, Martha. You saw my ingredients, and you replicated my masterpiece.”

“I stole nothing from a haberdasher’s wife!” Mrs Reynolds pressed her hand on her chest, offended. “You bribed the scullery maid to spy on my boiling pots! You duplicated my recipe to secure the blue ribbon for yourself!”

“I did no such thing!” Mrs Lovejoy’s face flushed in indignation. “I am a woman of independent culinary creation!”

Martin cleared his throat as a warning. Bates raised his palms facing outward, ready to intervene before the tarts became projectiles.