Before she started her first day as the actual companion to the Dowager Countess of Jeltotford Elizabeth made a vow to herself that she would last a full year complete and earn the bonus of an extra £26. She also vowed that she would not spend one penny of her salary so that at the end of the year, between her salary and the bonus, she would have £52.

Her resolve started to trickle away on her first day when her maid, Polly, presented her with what she came to consider her uniform: a robe à l'anglaise in orange and white striped silk. For underwear, instead of stays, as Polly told her, it was not as if she would be going anywhere, she was to wore jumps of quilted linen, which were only partially boned and padded with cotton to provide support for her breasts while not being restrictive, and the panniers, which she wore over two petticoats, gave a fullness to her dress, but were not as wide as they had been back in the day. The bodice of the gown was cut shockingly low for a day dress but the lace fichu she was given preserved her modesty. She was surprised they had a gown in her size, but Polly laughed and said they had gowns in twelve different sizes and had been able to accommodate all sizes of companions, from tall and skinny to short and squat. Nothing special was done with her hair; it was piled up and hidden under a full spinster's mob cap trimmed with ribbons which matched the orange of the gown. Elizabeth's toilette culminated with Polly spritzing her with the orange and jasmine scent.

The flooding away of Elizabeth's resolve picked up when she met the Dowager Countess. To be clear, she was not introduced to the Dowager Countess; as far as that grand lady was concerned, Elizabeth was one and the same Carruthers as had been, was, and always would be her companion. Elizabeth was in the dining room when she first saw the Dowager Countess. One of the nurses (Elizabeth was not introduced to them and never had an opportunity to speak with them; to distinguish them, she named them Annie, Betty and Cathy) wheeled in the Dowager Countess, whom was sitting, and would remain sitting throughout the day, in a Bath chair. The Dowager Countess was small and round, as wide as she was tall, and dressed all in black, in a garment more bag than dress. Her cheeks were sunken, given her lack of teeth, but her three chins made up for that lack. She had tiny squinty watery eyes. She sat in a cloud of scent, the same scent Elizabeth had on, a cloud so strong Elizabeth wondered why she had to wear it as well, but not strong enough to mask the odour of incontinence.

The Dowager Countess chatted with her absent friends throughout breakfast. She spoke with a soft lisp, so quietly that Elizabeth could barely make out individual words. She did not say anything to Elizabeth, nor did she acknowledge her. The sweet mush on offer was made up of pieces of crustless bread soaked in well sugared cream, dusted with cinnamon. One spoonful was enough for Elizabeth. She was thankful for the breakfast she had shared with Smithers and Mrs. Smithers that morning.

Elizabeth's duties proceeded as Smithers had set out; but if anything, they were more mind deadening than she had supposed they would be. But she persevered; each day:

At quarter past one the Dowager Countess said "Carruthers, read the letter" and Elizabeth read the letter Smithers brought in, which letter was no more interesting, or intelligent, than as if Lydia had written to Maria Lucas about the doings in Meryton before the militia had come, until the Dowager Countess started chatting to her absent friends. That was Elizabeth's cue to stop.

At half past one the Dowager Countess said "Carruthers, take a letter" and Elizabeth mimed moving a quill pen over a piece of paper while the Dowager Countess's voice trailed off and she started to softly snore. That was Elizabeth's cue to stop.

At two the Dowager Countess woke up and said "Carruthers, read to us" and Elizabeth read from Clarissa. All those parts of the novel that put Robert Lovelace in a bad light had been expurgated, considerably shortening the book. When the Dowager Countess started chatting to her absent friends Elizabeth stopped reading out loud. Elizabeth kept on reading to herself and over the months, in between performing her various duties, she finished the novel, including the expunged parts. She was no more impressed with the heroine than she had been when she had the read the book the first time, in her father's book room at home, her former home. She tried to cast Mr. Darcy as the libertine, Lovelace, but had to admit Mr. Wickham fit the role better. And certainly Mr. Darcy was not quite the old, fat, rich Roger Solmes – certainly not old, perhaps fat headed, but definitely rich.

At three the Dowager Countess said "Carruthers, pour for us" and Elizabeth fixed her ladyship's tea. At her first tea Elizabeth tried one each of the marzipan bon bons and the ginger biscuits – the former were more sugar, than almond, and the latter more sugar, than spice. She never again took either one.

At four one of the nurses took away the Dowager Countess and Elizabeth took care of her own needs. Every day, after doing so, she went out and stood on the terrace, breathing deeply of the clean air, and basking in the sun if it were out. If it were raining, as it so often did, she went out and stood under the portico of the main door. She needed the fresh air.

At five the Dowager Countess said "Carruthers, sing for to us" and Elizabeth played the pianoforte and sang Greensleeves until the Dowager Countess started chatting to her absent friends. Then Elizabeth stopped. The stop always seemed to come after Elizabeth sang the lines:

'Thy music still to play and sing;

And yet thou wouldst not love me.'

and in her imagination thereafter Elizabeth heard Mr. Darcy singing the song to her. At their wedding, without noticing she started to call it their wedding, not the wedding, Mr. Darcy said he would have been happy to marry her.

'Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.'

Had she done him wrong? She had been so terribly discourteous. Had he loved her? Really? Did he still love her?

'Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,

To God I pray to prosper thee,

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me.'

Could she love Mr. Darcy? To ask the question was to plant the seed.

Certainly, Elizabeth had enough time to think about Mr. Darcy. She was on duty for seven hours a day, but her duties only took about an hour a duty to perform. Sitting there, attendant on the Dowager Countess, day after day, waiting for her next cue, Elizabeth had a lot of time, there being only so much sewing and reading she could do, to contemplate what her life would have been like if she had taken the other fork in the road, and married him: being mistress of a grand estate and a townhouse in town; walking in the park at Pemberley; attending balls and the theatre in town; reading in the fabled library; having pin money with which to help support her family (but not a cicisbeo, no matter how Mr. Wickham might inveigle her); raising children, two impertinent daughters and two serious sons; and having debates, not arguments, with her husband. In hindsight there had been passion in those debates, the remembrance of which left a warm glow in her middle even at such a great remove. Slowly, in very small increments, she was coming to realize that such a life would have been very good indeed. But coincident with such realization came regret that such life was never to hers because she had been such a fool.

At six Elizabeth joined the Dowager Countess for dinner. She never tasted the savoury mush, the look of it reminded of the meal the Longbourn stableman fed his dog. Suspecting the sugar content, she passed on the blancmange. One sip of the madeira was enough to put her off it forever. Each night she looked forward to dining with Smithers and Mrs. Smithers.

At seven Elizabeth hurried up the stairs so Polly could help her out of that orange abomination of a costume, and she could scrub off as much of that scent as she could.

And so, Elizabeth's life continued day after unremitting day; month after unremitting month.