Longbourn by Jo Baker Page B

mistress any real attention: Jane had arrived at Netherfield in a good dinner-dress and cloak, which would have been soaked through; the servants there would have dried them out and sponged off any mud by now, and meanwhile the ladies would have lent her a gown and shawl for the evening, as well as a nightgown on seeing she was to stay the night. So what Jane needed now were nightclothes of her own, a couple of shawls and a good day-dress for when she was able to sit upagain. Elizabeth, on the other hand, would have arrived muddy after her walk: she would need a good gown to dine in, a plain day-dress to nurse her sister in, and a pair of decent shoes for around the house, and linen. For all she understood Mrs. Bennet’s eagerness to make a good impression, anything else was just silliness, and would be seen as such by the servants over there.
    When Mrs. Bennet turned away, saying she would just find Jane’s dancing shoes, Mrs. Hill slammed the valise shut and buckled it. If she did not get that black dandy out of the kitchen sharpish, who knew what trouble would come of it. He’d have Sarah’s head turned entirely.
    At Mrs. Bennet’s outraged glare, she said, “We’d risk spoiling the gowns, ma’am, if we crammed anything more in there.”
    Then Mrs. Hill hurried off with her burden, before Mrs. B. could either protest, or congratulate her housekeeper on her good thinking.
    The pair of them—Sarah and the mulatto—were facing each other in the chairs by the fire, he stretched out and at his leisure, she leaning forward, hands on knees, eyes bright, her kerchief falling away to reveal rather too much of her bosom. The talk stopped the moment Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen. Sarah looked flushed and far too animated for Mrs. Hill’s liking; the housekeeper strode over and dropped the valise in the footman’s lap. He winced.
    “There you go,” she said. “Safe home, now.”
    He made charmingly heavy weather of his new burden, pretending to puff and crumple under its weight, shaking his head and tutting in mock outrage. This made Sarah laugh, which seemed to satisfy him; he left, doffing his hat to her. Mrs. Hill closed the door on him; then, hands on hips, she watched Sarah brushing the ashes together on the hearth, swirling them into patterns, heaps, then sweeping them out flat again. The girl’s thoughts were, clearly, not on her work.
    The following day, Mrs. Hill dispatched Sarah to Meryton with a request for a loaf of good sugar from the grocer. There was not a scrap of the stuff left in the house. She must have it home in time for dinner, as it was needed for the baked apples. Mrs. Hill was very sorry to inconvenience her, but she was obliged to ask the favour. She was far too busy to go herself. And so the girl now would be out of the way, when that fellow next came calling.
    “Can I go too?” asked Polly.
    “No. I can’t have everyone gadding about. I need you to scrub. Get the rags out, and the cold tea. We’re doing the hall and vestibule floors.”
    “Bah,” said Polly. “When Miss Jane marries Mr. Bingley, there’ll be no need to go to Meryton for sugar. We will have mountains of sugar-loaves, we’ll build a house out of it. We’ll bathe in syrup.”
    “That,” said Sarah, “would not be very pleasant.”
    She took off her apron, and fetched her bonnet, before Mrs. Hill could change her mind.
    Sarah, with the ragged old crow of an umbrella folded under her arm, and the old blue pelisse warm on her shoulders, walked out of the kitchen light of heart: this seemed as good as a fête-day. To be out, with nothing but a mile of fresh air ahead of her, with nothing very much to carry and no one to tell her what to do, this was a pleasure indeed. Mrs. Hill wouldn’t notice if a crumb of the sugarloaf went missing. The walk back would be sweetened: the prospect of a dinner she had not made herself, on her return, was really quite delightful.
    Her boots were soon heavy and damp, and the left one