The speech did much to restore the maid's determination and to inspire her with a sense of devotion. For as long as the lady remained in Molly’s care, no assignment would be missed nor expectation unmet.
The lady was not impervious to the effect her words had on the maid, and she intended to keep a wary eye lest the maid became disenchanted with her lot after the arrival of the other, much grander, guests. But the maid remained devout, her good opinion being fixed. Indeed, nothing was lacking in her lady's appearance or behavior.
Her dress was modest, but she was a widow, and a certain show of respect for the state was not unseemly. The materials of her wardrobe were well enough, her air was distinguished as one who was used to having her opinions revered, and her affability, though sincere, was deemed more of a gracious condescension than from being from the humble origins from whence it truly came.
"Do you know, I have not enjoyed the benefits of a having a personal maid in… oh," she pondered aloud, “nearly two decades." She nodded at Molly's show of astonishment. "You will spoil me, I know it. For tonight, however, I shall wear the lilac dress and tend to my hair myself."
The maid laid out the required pieces and curtseyed before she left, determining to become indispensable to her lady and, thus, setting her mind to speak to Mrs. Darcy's maid, Morgan, before the night was out. Morgan - precious few of the servants were privileged to know if this was her given name or her surname - was rumored to have "broken in" the lady of the house, who, upon entering its hallowed walls, was discovered to be "an efficient."
The widow herself dutifully and efficiently performed the tasks essential to making her person presentable at dinner, and she studied her reflection as whole, nodding at the overall acceptability. Her pallor was of no concern, being as normal a feature as were her prominent teeth and diminutive size.
The truth was that the lady was plain or, perhaps, average in appearance. Her hair was a nondescript brown, lacking luster and curl. She boasted no admirable features, such as fine eyes or a perfect complexion, and her personality was not immediately warm or contagious. Indeed, the list of what she was not could fill a page, yet those who knew her well could read that page and never realize it spoke of their friend. Her person was neat and precise, her grey eyes frank and honest, and she often sacrificed her own comfort for the pleasure of others.
Her cheek boasted no playful dimple, yet, to win a real smile from her was a rare treat and warmed the heart of the recipient. Her voice, always perfectly modulated, was never mean but was often noted to encourage or inspire the hearer. She had once called a "treasure," and that was truly how her friends would have described her, had they ever been coerced to represent her in a single word.
Mrs. Darcy soon came to her door to escort her down to dinner herself.
"Only a paltry seven courses," the lady whispered conspiratorially to her friend, taking her arm. "Mr. Darcy is overwrought," she continued, her eyes twinkling as she caught her friend's eyes. "He says you will think it a slight once the other guests arrive to enjoy their ten or twelve!"
"Perhaps I should offer my services to your kitchen staff," the lady replied readily, her expression as fixed as it was calm. "Or should I simply prepare a speech of appreciation suitable to the occasion?"
Mrs. Darcy giggled and released her friend's arm. "I am so happy you came."
Elizabeth Darcy’s naturally strong will was strengthened by a sort of independence arising from the necessity of economy. Her reformation had required a great degree of coaxing and manipulation, not to mention patience, in conquering her prejudice against extravagance, which is not to imply that the young wife had shown any lack of appreciation. In truth, it was an adaptation of thinking, perceiving, and reacting that had been required. No easy task! To have gone from sharing a maid with four sisters, accepting the veriest bit of help before sending the maid on to the next, was but one habit to break.
To demand assistance in the genteel poverty of Longbourn would have been the height of selfishness, but here, at Pemberley, to require little to no assistance was a slight on the staff.
The following day, armed with the directions of the best footpaths and views, she broke her fast with Mrs. Darcy who determined a time at which they might enjoy a stroll through the park. They separated only to change into walking attire suitable for early autumnal weather, but upon descending the grand staircase onto the landing in the foyer, the widow had cause to pause on the threshold.
"We shall return to London soon enough," a young lady hissed. "Why hasten my return? Am I such a burden to you here?"
"Your aunt writes to assure me that all the best mantua makers will be booked by the time of our return," a male voice replied firmly.
The young lady heaved a great sigh. "You know what aunt is," she returned. "There is never enough time or money or energy or anything else." As her argument struck home, she plunged ahead. "My aunt and uncle are lovely people, I appreciate their sacrifices and ambitions, but I would much prefer to stay with you, Papa!"
The young lady's success concerning her plight remained unknown. The widow stepped forward, her eyes fixed upon the gentleman's face.
"Puff?" the lady asked.
He had been leaning over the young lady's extended hand, but abruptly corrected his posture. His eyes wandered to the newcomer's face but did not seem to focus on the present.
"I beg your pardon," the widow continued, unruffled, "but I was overcome with curiosity." Then, in an aside to the young lady, she explained, "The feeling has not inspired me with such force in more years than I could name." Her gaze returned the gentleman’s face.
"Mouse," he answered.
The two stared at one another for another moment before they broke the tension with hesitant smiles.
"How many years have passed since we last used those names?" he asked.
"The recollection could not possibly benefit me in any way, so I pray you will not perform the calculation!"
"You could not have been more than… six years old at the time," the gentleman continued.
"And you more than twice my age," the widow conceded gently.
The gentleman smiled fondly. Suddenly remembering his surroundings, he took the young lady's hand and presented her.
"I should like to introduce you to my daughter, Miss Katherine Kelly."
The ladies curtsied. Miss Kelly was a beauty of the highest order. The golden curls framing her face were natural, the style of enlarged sleeves and lowering waistline were flattering, her blue eyes held both intelligence and kindness, and her complexion was cream. Her smile was as ready as it was entrancing, boasting tiny dimples on either side of her mouth, and her teeth were straight and white.
"A pleasure, Miss Kelly."
"But this is not fair!" the beauty complained playfully. "I could not possibly call you 'Mouse'!"
The widow's eyes drifted merrily to the gentleman's, noting his discomfiture.
"I do not suppose you to be still a 'Miss Lucas'?"
At this point, Mrs. Darcy arrived, hastening to assist her guests.
"Please excuse my tardiness! Dear Charlotte, I have delayed our walk. You will not wonder at it." Indeed, no one who saw Mrs. Darcy could wonder at any delay that might be forthcoming. It was wonderful, in fact, to see her efforts at all.
"Of course," she continued, almost breathless, "you have stepped into the breach to make our friends comfortable. May I make them known to you? Mr. Kelly and his daughter, Miss Kelly; my dear friend, Mrs. Collins."
There followed a lapse in conversation which Mr. Kelly and Mrs. Collins made no attempt to fill. Miss Kelly, enjoying the scene excessively, put herself forward.