At precisely seven o'clock, Elizabeth entered the breakfast room at Everton Manor with determined optimism.
“Good morning, sir. Miss Ballard, how are you this morning?” she greeted them cheerfully.
Rebecca's silent study of her plate did not go unnoticed by Lord Grissholm. When it became apparent there would be no response to Elizabeth's greeting, Grissholm lowered his paper and eyed the girl at the other end of the table. “Rebecca, Miss Bennet has addressed you.”
“Good morning, Miss Bennet. I am well, thank you,” she replied tersely and then put another bite of eggs into her mouth, chewing very slowly.
It was painfully obvious there would be no conversation from either end of the table this morning.
Sighing to herself, Elizabeth sat down a little disheartened. This morning's exchange was essentially the same as every other morning since her arrival two weeks previous. The oppressive silence as they ate was broken only by the sounds of knife and fork upon china, and Lord Grissholm turning the pages of the London Times. For her two tablemates, it seemed to be an acceptable arrangement, but for Elizabeth, who was accustomed to lively conversation and energetic exchanges between her sisters, it was a trying ordeal. Lord Grissholm was as aloof as Rebecca was shy. It seemed an impossible situation but she was not about to give up.
“My Lord,” Elizabeth began, watching Rebecca's sullen expression. “Mrs. Moore tells me there is a trunk containing art supplies in the storage room. Would it be possible to have it taken down and brought to the morning room for our use?” She was rewarded with the faintest flicker of interest in the girl's face.
“What do you want with art supplies?” he barked from behind his paper.
“I have seen a few of Miss Ballard's sketches and I thought perhaps she would enjoy expanding her talents.”
“It is a waste of time,” he snapped.
“Indeed, sir,” Elizabeth's eyebrow rose. “I should think it good use of time for any accomplished young lady to pursue whatever talent she may have, be it pianoforte or needle and thread – or paint and canvas.”
After a long moment, Lord Grissholm lowered his paper. “I suppose it may be done. Just see that you do not indulge too much of her time in such a wasted endeavor.”
Elizabeth wondered at his obvious dislike for the activity since she had observed many beautiful paintings adorning the walls of Everton, including one particularly charming collection of watercolors in the east wing. Nevertheless, she was grateful for his consent for she hoped to use the 'wasted endeavor' to breach Rebecca's implacable wall of resentment.
The two young women spent the afternoon unpacking and inventorying the contents of the trunk. When it was finally emptied, Elizabeth straightened and surveyed the massive amount of supplies that had been concealed in the deceptively small trunk.
“I think that is the extent of the secrets of this chest,” Elizabeth announced cheerfully, placing the last packet of paint on the table and sweeping an errant lock of hair from her face. “What shall we do with our treasures?”
Rebecca was silently straightening the stack of sketch books in front of her. Elizabeth could see the girl struggling against an obvious desire to paint. Would this gambit be enough to win Rebecca over, to break down the barrier and provide an opportunity to prove she could be trusted?
“We have charcoal, watercolor, oil paint, and – I believe this is more charcoal,” Elizabeth offered.
“I would like to try watercolors,” came the quiet reply.
“That is an ambitious endeavor, indeed!”
“Perhaps not, then,” Rebecca answered quickly, retreating behind her resentment once more.
“Not at all! I am only praising your courage for attempting such a difficult medium,” exclaimed Elizabeth. It would not do to lose what little ground she had just won. She smiled encouragingly. “Have you worked with watercolor before?”
“Only a little,” Rebecca replied curtly.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Rebecca spoke again, exhibiting the first real effort to converse since Elizabeth had come to Everton.
“A few years ago, Mrs. Holiby invited a gentleman from a nearby estate to give me lessons; but they did not last long. When the viscount found out, he sent him away immediately.” Rebecca's keen disappointment played on her face. “The supplies were packed away and I never knew what happened to them until today.”
“Well, you shall have another opportunity. I am not a proficient at painting by any means, but as with any endeavor, I believe practice will bring accomplishment. We can do it together. Based upon your previous instruction, where do you recommend we begin?”
“It helps to have an example to look at while you work,” she offered tentatively. “There is a painting I admire very much.”
“And which one would that be?” Elizabeth smiled with excitement.
“It is part of a collection in the east wing – a small watercolor of wild violets.”
Elizabeth knew exactly the one Rebecca was describing for it was her favorite of the collection as well. “An excellent choice, Miss Ballard. We shall begin at once!”
Triumphantly she started for the east wing to retrieve the painting. She was almost out the door when Rebecca's quiet voice stopped her.
“Thank you, Miss Bennet.” Her shy smile was the first Elizabeth had ever seen.
“You do not have to thank me for anything, my dear. It is his lordship's trunk and his condescension that brings it to us.”
“But it...it was you who made the suggestion and pursued it when he would have refused,” Rebecca stammered with some embarrassment. “I am very grateful.”
“Well, you are quite welcome,” Elizabeth gave her a small bow and left the room. As she made her way to the east wing, she silently rejoiced. Thanks to you, Mrs. Moore, we have a good beginning, a very good beginning, indeed!
Quietly slipping into the room, Elizabeth had nearly reached the small painting when she realized she was not alone. As she skirted a tall wing-back chair oddly placed away from the rest of the room's furniture, she could not help a startled Oh! from escaping when she saw Lord Grissholm looking back at her. His own startled expression immediately turned to cool indifference, but not before she glimpsed an expression of deep sorrow in his dark eyes.
“Your Lordship! I beg your pardon. I thought the room to be empty or I would have never dreamt of invading your privacy.”
“Do no concern yourself, Miss Bennet,” he said, rising. “I was just leaving.”
“Please stay! Do not let me disturb you. I can come back later.”
“As I have already stated, my business is finished. But now that you are come, you will save me the trouble of finding you. There is a particular matter I would speak to you about. Sit, please,” he said, motioning to the chair in which he had been sitting.
Elizabeth sat down, noting the slightly worn arms which could only have come from much use. She looked at her employer, and noticed on the wall directly behind him, the very watercolor that she had come to retrieve. In fact, from where she sat, there was an excellent view of all the watercolors in the collection; but she had little time to reflect upon that observation as it was forced from her thoughts the moment Lord Grissholm began speaking.
“Miss Bennet, I would like to address the matter of your wardrobe.”
“My wardrobe?” she was astonished at his interest in so private a matter.
“Yes. I find it wholly inadequate.”
“I beg your pardon! I find my wardrobe quite adequate and, frankly, none of your concern,” she cried, cheeks aflame with embarrassment and mortification that she would be compelled to defend herself on such a charge.
“It is my concern. Your current apparel may have served you well as the daughter of a country gentleman, but you are now elevated in company and it simply will not do.”
“Oh, I see. I was under the impression that I was employed as Miss Ballard's companion, not a fashion plate. Was I mistaken?” she cried, lifting her chin in challenge.
Her sudden anger kindled his own. “You are required to accompany my ward in whatever social engagements I choose to accept on her behalf. You will find yourself in company decidedly above what you are accustomed to. While I cannot alter your status as companion, I can do something about your appearance.”
“That, sir, is impossible! I cannot accept any assistance as regards my person from a man so wholly unconnected to me, employer or otherwise!”
“It is merely an extension of my duty to my ward,” he replied tightly. “I cannot have her appearance in society looked upon as anything but impeccable; and you, madam, are found wanting. I insist you not be difficult in this matter.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to object, but in that moment Wickham's words came back to her… “should you prove to be difficult in any way…” Furious at her inability to control her circumstances, she realized she would have to accept the arrangement or risk everything she had achieved so far. Still, she could not bring herself to capitulate completely.
“Perhaps I need not accompany Miss Ballard so frequently. My presence could be limited sufficiently so as to not require this objectionable arrangement.”
“Miss Bennet, you will conform to my orders as I have expressed; or do you wish to terminate your employment?” he demanded, knowing full well that she could not.
“Very well, sir, I see I shall have to abide by your wishes – when we are in company,” her eyes flashed angrily. “Pray tell, am I or am I not at liberty to dress as I see fit when we are not?”
“If we are not in company, you may dress as you please,” his eyes swept her form critically before turning away in rare frustration. He should have realized from the spirited nature of her arrival that it would not be easy to enforce his will with this woman. Her wardrobe was, in fact, satisfactory; but the last few days had found him wondering what she would look like in more elegant attire. Any other woman would have been delighted and flattered by his attention. Why was this one being so difficult? “Mrs. Moore has made arrangements for the modiste to come this Thursday. Please arrange your schedule accordingly. You may select the styles, but know that I will review them before the order is placed.”
“Are you quite finished?” she was furious.
“I am for now,” he drawled indifferently. “You may go.”
Elizabeth managed to maintain her composure while in the room, but as she reached the hallway, she exploded with fury and humiliation at having been subjected to this man's blatant examination. Gathering her senses long enough to send a footman with her excuses to Rebecca, she retreated to her room and flung herself onto the bed.
Hateful, hateful man! How could she have gotten herself in such a position! She who had always prided herself on independence and self-reliance was now subject to the whims and fancies of an arrogant, controlling man like Lord Grissholm!
Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling and allowed her tears to flow unchecked. She missed her simple, unaffected life in Hertfordshire. She missed her father and she missed Jane, terribly. She had come here for Jane's sake, and for her happiness she would endure a thousand insulting interviews with the pretentious Lord Grissholm; but she had no idea if her efforts were doing any good or not. Are Jane and Mr. Bingley engaged by now? Has Father managed to keep Lydia from Mr. Wickham? A fresh wave of anguished tears sprang to her eyes. Why have I not had any reply to my letters by now?