That hope was dashed within days of Mrs. Darcy’s first season in London. The housekeeper’s painful, disgraceful humiliation yet resounded through her mind. The subsequent weeks of bowing to Mrs. Darcy’s demands were fresh wounds that gnawed at her serenity.

All of London Society had apparently forgotten the embarrassing background of Elizabeth Darcy, but it did not sway Mrs. Smyth’s opinion. She would not forgive. Or relinquish her belief that, although Mrs. Darcy displayed a newfound class and elegance beyond what she had ever imagined possible, there was a lacking propriety and borderline crassness to the Darcy household that had not existed prior. The addition of the boisterous, coarse Dr. Darcy, surely unacceptable if not for the negative influence of Mrs. Darcy, cemented her judgment.

Numerous times after slimly escaping dismissal she had contemplated seeking employment elsewhere. But, in the end, even with the detriments, she was in an esteemed position of power in a prestigious household. Her wage was substantial, her quarters generous, and her freedom liberal. Their tenancy last spring was trying but short, the family then departing to reside the bulk of the year at Pemberley.

So Mrs. Smyth went about her business, blessedly alone in her supremacy. She had almost forgotten the past indignities, but the looming presence not only of Mrs. Darcy and Dr. Darcy but also an infant escalated her distress. Any miniscule hope that matters may have changed, that Mr. Darcy was not as dotty over his wife after a year, were shattered when the orders came through regarding the nursery. Who had ever heard of an infant sleeping within earshot of the master suite? With bells installed to wake if needed? Quarters for a nanny but no mention of a wet nurse! It was unbelievable. Too unbelievable to fully comprehend, so she assumed it was a puzzle and she was missing a piece.

Thus, her dread had risen substantially until the dratted tic occurred with alarming frequency. The arrival of Mr. Darcy’s valet and Mrs. Darcy’s maid, along with the nanny three hours ago alerted the entire household to the impending appearance of the family. Everyone was on high anticipation, the heightened energy palpable even though they went about their duties with cool efficiency.

Mrs. Smyth waited until the last possible moment, watching the carriage halt and the footman leap down to open the door. She heard the front door of the townhouse open as watchful servants descended the steps to assist with luggage and passengers. Dr. Darcy disembarked first, his skeletal limbs encased in an outlandish foreign outfit of shocking maroon, the toothy smile and piercing blue eyes sweeping over the house sending chills up the housekeeper’s spine. She involuntarily backed up a step, but he turned toward the carriage to assist Miss Darcy before spying her staring out the window.

Ah, Miss Darcy. Finally, a true lady of breeding and gentility, Mrs. Smyth thought. She noted the hereditary elegance and nobility apparent in how Miss Darcy moved, in every tilt of her head or lift of her fine-boned hands. Impeccably dressed, hair arranged flawlessly, smile understated, figure tall and gently curved, skin ivory—in all ways the image of a lady.

Next came Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Smyth sighed, her hands clenching involuntarily. Never, not once in even the remotest way, had Mrs. Smyth considered Mr. Darcy as anything other than her employer. For the same reasons that she was so appalled by his choice of bride, she never fancifully or poetically dreamed of him falling in love with his housekeeper. Leave that nonsense to the ridiculous novelists who imagine such a horrid development romantic! She knew her station in life and embraced it fully. Nevertheless, as a woman in her early thirties, she assuredly recognized a handsome man and could readily appreciate the view.

As always, his stature, masculine physique, strongly chiseled facial features, and absorbing sapphire eyes stirred her womanly instincts. It was a purely lustful response, and she knew this, instigated as much by the specimen of prime manhood before her as by her internal urges so tightly controlled. It was rare, but there were those times when she missed her husband. Or rather what he had roused in her. She sighed again, allowing the feelings to wash over her briefly as she gazed upon her master.

As quickly as they came, they disappeared. Mr. Darcy was a man of astounding presence. He wore his authority, eminence, and rank as an aura discernable to all. He was so far above her, a reality that brought no anger or bitterness but instead a sensation of peace. This is how the world was supposed to be—people keeping to where God had placed them in the proper order. Grasping beyond where one was born only brought upset and strife; it disturbed the flow and caused chaos.

The burn of suppressed passionate lust ebbed, replaced by the burn of irritation. She clenched her fists tighter, observing as Mr. Darcy turned toward the carriage, reaching in and grasping onto the extended hand and elbow of his wife. He said something, his face lighting with a smile as Mrs. Darcy came into view. Typically, Mrs. Smyth noted with a grimace, she was laughing. Her dark eyes glittered with mirth, and her full lips curved into a beaming smile displaying her teeth whitely against the crude tan of her skin and ruddiness to her cheeks. The housekeeper swept her eyes over her mistress, admitting grudgingly that she could find no fault with Mrs. Darcy’s attire or figure or hairstyle. But the shock of seeing the infant clutched against the woman’s chest was stunning.

Mrs. Smyth caught her breath. When the nanny had arrived with the personal servants and not the infant, Mrs. Smyth had been surprised. Fleetingly, she had wondered who was caring for the child, but put the thought aside in the haste of last minute preparations. If asked, she probably would have answered that the wet nurse was caring for the babe, or that it would be swaddled tightly and contained in a carry basket of some sort. Seeing it now with tiny bare feet emerging from the bottom edge of the blanket that Mrs. Darcy held over the body, the round head and pink face pressed against its mother’s full bosom was astonishing. Obviously the squalling, probably smelly baby had been held and cared for squarely in the midst of them! The idea was revolting, but then Mrs. Smyth did have to admit honestly that she knew nothing about babies, praise the Maker for that miracle. Nevertheless, it was exceedingly rare, as even she knew, for offspring to be so boldly displayed, let alone carted about.

She shook her head, inhaled deeply, and steeled her spine. “Only three months or so,” she murmured aloud, repeating the words again to etch the fact firmly in her mind. With a final sigh, pat of her palms to ensure every hair was secured into the severe bun, and harsh rub to the persistent tic, the housekeeper moved toward the foyer to greet her Master and Mistress.

“Excellent, Georgiana. Remember to casually sweep with your right hand as you rise and grasp onto a few folds, the train will move to the side, and you will be able to back away faultlessly. Small steps though. If your heel snags it will be easier to remedy if you are not off balance from a large stride. Very good. Try it again, Elizabeth. As Georgiana has done.”

“Thank goodness the ridiculousness does not extend to the footwear,” Lizzy muttered. “If I had to don jewel encrusted shoes with three-inch heels and attached feathers I am certain I would fall on my derriere.”

“You shall be marvelous, my dear,” Lady Matlock placated, continuing the instruction in her dulcet voice.

The three women stood in the Darcy House ballroom spending their fifth day in a row practicing the choreographed maneuvers required when presented to the Prince Regent at the Court of St. James. Lizzy and Georgiana were granted permission to be presented to the sovereign by Lord Chamberlain, and the ceremony was scheduled for that afternoon. Darcy never doubted the entitlement. As the wife of a wealthy and esteemed landed gentry with a venerated ancestry, an introduction at Court was an expectation.

It was quite probable that the Georgiana of a year prior may have collapsed in fear at the idea of entering St. James’s Palace, embarrassing the Darcy name by paralyzing nervousness when the time came. Her limited experiences in social milieus while touring Wales and on Twelfth Night partially paved the way; however, even with that minimal exposure to Society, she seemed to grasp readily the pomp involved. She wore the wide hoop skirts and layers of fabric with natural ease. Not once had she erred in her curtsy, her limber body bending into the deep genuflection and rising dozens of times over without the slightest waver or misstep. She masterfully handled the three-foot train, the yards of lace and braided rouleau edging the delicate satin and tissue gown flowing over the curves of her body fluidly as she walked. It was awe-inspiring to observe her graceful command of the protocol-ridden ceremony and unwieldy costume. Even the laughable extravagance of the court-ordered attire with velvet torque adorned with pearls and three ostrich plumes waving a foot over her head did not seem as amusing on her lithe figure.

Moreover, the lifelong immersion in protocol, ease with aristocracy, and natural elegance of the former Lady Madeline Hamilton, daughter of a Marquess and now the Countess of Matlock, was a soothing balm. For weeks, Lady Matlock prepared Georgiana and Lizzy for their presentation to the Prince Regent and his court.

Lizzy observed her newest sister with a mixture of proud adoration and irritation. She felt ungainly and absurd in the heavy dress. It was a feeling that persisted no matter how often she was assured of her beauty and agility. Her constant muttering and flippant comments did not hide her anxiety from Lady Matlock or Georgiana, both of whom ignored her grumblings and offered gentle encouragements.

“I look nine months pregnant,” Lizzy lamented to her husband as he greeted her in their bedchamber an hour later.

“You were stunningly gorgeous when you were nine months pregnant and are stunningly gorgeous now,” he replied with conviction.

Lizzy huffed and shook her head. “How am I to ever believe you when you claim I am beautiful upon waking in the morning with my hair a tangled mess?”

“Very well,” he laughed. “You are merely pretty and highly desirable when freshly waking beside me. Dressed in such lavish attire, you are stunningly gorgeous. I have qualified my assessment. Does this convince you?”

Lizzy bit her lip, glancing down and blinking furiously as she smoothed invisible wrinkles from the gilded moss-colored crepe falling in leafy overlapping layers over the flexible hoop underneath.

Darcy stepped closer—as close as was possible with the full gown interfering—and gently lifted her chin. “My love, trust me. You are indeed a vision of loveliness. Madame Lanchester is the best modiste in London for Court dress. She would never create a gown that was not flattering to the wearer and perfect for presenting to His Highness. I know it is an unusual cut and weighty, but you truly are beautiful.”

And of course it was true. Madame Lanchester was a visionary genius, managing to design gowns that included the abundant arrays of flowers, jewels, rich embroidery, tassels, braided rope, lace, and so on that was requisite, but in an airier pattern that was both lighter in weight and delicate.