in fine livery and powdered wig—whisked past her.
“Excuse me …”
He stopped, and came back. His face was quite brown. She glanced at his hands; he wore white gloves, so she could not see if they were brown too. She bit her lip, looked up at his face again—he was distressingly handsome—and then away, because it was rude to stare. Her cheeks were hot; she stared down at her feet.
“May I be of assistance?”
The words were English, and spoken in a very gentlemanlike fashion. Not daring to meet his gaze, she held out Mrs. B.’s carefully constructed note, and shook it at him.
“For— For Mr. Bingley.”
“And do you wait for a reply?”
She nodded. But he just stood there, so she was obliged to look up at him again. His eyes, dark as black coffee, still rested on her; he was almost smiling. She felt her cheeks get hotter.
“I am very glad to know it.” He bowed, and was gone.
So was he what they called a black man, then, even though he was brown? An African? But Africans were cross-hatched, inky, half-naked and in chains. That plaque she had seen at the parsonage, hanging in the hallway: Am I not a man and a brother? This fellow, though, was immaculate in his livery, and his skin was not scribbly at all, but beautifully smooth and clear. He was indeed hardly darker than Mr. Smith, or any local man who worked the fields in the August sun. Though with them, the brown faded with the winter, and only ever extended as far as their shirt collar and rolled-back sleeves …
Sarah shrank back against the wall, so as to be out from under everybody’s feet. It must be a fair old hike up to the family rooms and back. Or perhaps Mr. Bingley could not make up his mind whether he could face a Family Dinner with the Bennets or could not. The lime-washed plaster was cool against her palms. She watched the busyness and hurry and was glad that she was not required to be a part of it. The Netherfield housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls, had been stopped by the male cook, and he was barracking her; he must have come up with the family from London, since they did not have male cooks around here. Mrs. Nicholls was apologizing, flustered, hands spread in supplication, and Sarah looked away; Mrs. Nicholls would not want to be noticed like that.
When the footman came back, he held out a little letter, folded and sealed in a slapdash fashion, the direction written in a scruffy hand.
“I do hope there is a reply to the reply,” he said.
Sarah did not know what to say to that. She bobbed a curtsey, and she fled.
“So he’s not coming?”
“He won’t even be at home at all!” Eyes wide at the thrilling news: “He’s going to London!”
And at the drop of a hat, as though it were something and nothing, as though it were a thing one might do every day!
“He’s fetching some people back for the ball.”
“Gallivanting about!” Mrs. Hill tutted, resumed her darning. “And I’ve already ordered the beef.”
“Oh, the Bingleys do have good money for gallivanting,” Polly said. “Everybody says so. I heard their old daddy was in sugar.”
“And there’s a fair deal of money to be found in sugar.”
James was cleaning the cutlery; Sarah should be grateful, since it saved her doing it. But it felt like a slight: was her work no longer considered up-to-scratch, that the new man was required to do it for her?
“It must be a very profitable trade,” Mrs. Hill said. “We can’t seem to do without the stuff.”
“I would love to be in sugar,” sighed Polly. “Imagine!”
“You’d go sailing out”—James traced a triangle in the air with a fork—“loaded to the gunwales with English guns and ironware. You’d follow the trade-winds south to Africa—”
Polly smiled excitedly at this. But then she blinked. “What’s ironware?”
“Shackles and chains, pots, knives,” James said. “In Africa, you can trade all that, and guns, for people; you load them up in your hold, and you ship them off to the
“Excuse me …”
He stopped, and came back. His face was quite brown. She glanced at his hands; he wore white gloves, so she could not see if they were brown too. She bit her lip, looked up at his face again—he was distressingly handsome—and then away, because it was rude to stare. Her cheeks were hot; she stared down at her feet.
“May I be of assistance?”
The words were English, and spoken in a very gentlemanlike fashion. Not daring to meet his gaze, she held out Mrs. B.’s carefully constructed note, and shook it at him.
“For— For Mr. Bingley.”
“And do you wait for a reply?”
She nodded. But he just stood there, so she was obliged to look up at him again. His eyes, dark as black coffee, still rested on her; he was almost smiling. She felt her cheeks get hotter.
“I am very glad to know it.” He bowed, and was gone.
So was he what they called a black man, then, even though he was brown? An African? But Africans were cross-hatched, inky, half-naked and in chains. That plaque she had seen at the parsonage, hanging in the hallway: Am I not a man and a brother? This fellow, though, was immaculate in his livery, and his skin was not scribbly at all, but beautifully smooth and clear. He was indeed hardly darker than Mr. Smith, or any local man who worked the fields in the August sun. Though with them, the brown faded with the winter, and only ever extended as far as their shirt collar and rolled-back sleeves …
Sarah shrank back against the wall, so as to be out from under everybody’s feet. It must be a fair old hike up to the family rooms and back. Or perhaps Mr. Bingley could not make up his mind whether he could face a Family Dinner with the Bennets or could not. The lime-washed plaster was cool against her palms. She watched the busyness and hurry and was glad that she was not required to be a part of it. The Netherfield housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls, had been stopped by the male cook, and he was barracking her; he must have come up with the family from London, since they did not have male cooks around here. Mrs. Nicholls was apologizing, flustered, hands spread in supplication, and Sarah looked away; Mrs. Nicholls would not want to be noticed like that.
When the footman came back, he held out a little letter, folded and sealed in a slapdash fashion, the direction written in a scruffy hand.
“I do hope there is a reply to the reply,” he said.
Sarah did not know what to say to that. She bobbed a curtsey, and she fled.
“So he’s not coming?”
“He won’t even be at home at all!” Eyes wide at the thrilling news: “He’s going to London!”
And at the drop of a hat, as though it were something and nothing, as though it were a thing one might do every day!
“He’s fetching some people back for the ball.”
“Gallivanting about!” Mrs. Hill tutted, resumed her darning. “And I’ve already ordered the beef.”
“Oh, the Bingleys do have good money for gallivanting,” Polly said. “Everybody says so. I heard their old daddy was in sugar.”
“And there’s a fair deal of money to be found in sugar.”
James was cleaning the cutlery; Sarah should be grateful, since it saved her doing it. But it felt like a slight: was her work no longer considered up-to-scratch, that the new man was required to do it for her?
“It must be a very profitable trade,” Mrs. Hill said. “We can’t seem to do without the stuff.”
“I would love to be in sugar,” sighed Polly. “Imagine!”
“You’d go sailing out”—James traced a triangle in the air with a fork—“loaded to the gunwales with English guns and ironware. You’d follow the trade-winds south to Africa—”
Polly smiled excitedly at this. But then she blinked. “What’s ironware?”
“Shackles and chains, pots, knives,” James said. “In Africa, you can trade all that, and guns, for people; you load them up in your hold, and you ship them off to the
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