Bridget pulled on her shoes, her hair was neatly pinned, and she brushed down her grey apron, before walking quickly along the north top corridor, pushing past the other girls who were all busy preparing for the day. The sun was glinting over Cage Hill, bright beams hitting the glass in the sashes, as young Dotty, who barely reached the windowsills, tapped on the doors of the more senior servants to wake them, almost tripping over her dress as her boots caught on the hem.

Pemberley was already awake, scullery maids lighting fires, housemaids opening shutters and curtains, kitchen maids chopping and kneading, and overseeing it all was Mrs Reynolds, the firm but fair Darcy housekeeper, ensuring that everything was prepared to the highest of standards. In the kitchens the girls were working with the new chef, Mr Artaud, who had travelled up from Pemberley from London only a few weeks before. He had been hired to work with Mrs Boyle at Derbyshire House, however she had been quickly offended by his manner in the kitchen and his superior culinary expertise, and so he had been sent to the estate. Adam Artaud, not as French as his name would have people believe, was happy to travel to the north, where the sky was blue, and the house was filled with giggling girls who liked a coy flirtation over the pastry table.

"How are the biscuits coming along, Mr Artaud?"

Mrs Reynolds wandered into the kitchens, squeezing past kitchen maids who quickly bobbed their deference and then continued with their work, kneading, and stirring, and carrying trays of treats and delights from the hot, noisy kitchens into the storage rooms that ran underneath the house.

"Very well," he smiled, "I've got Bridget here doing something delightful with sugar."

The girl stood next to him did a smile and continued on with her work, whilst Mrs Reynolds studied her carefully, she had a look of her brother.

"Excellent work, Miss Wickham, and the Prince of Wales biscuits?"

"Already done, and we have the brown onion soup as requested by Miss Darcy."

"Best do white soup too, that's the master's favourite."

"Two soups?"

"And why not two soups? Surely, we can stretch the budget, Mrs Reynolds?"

Fitzwilliam stood at the doorway of the kitchen, causing a frisson of excitement amidst the maids who all stood to attention in the presence of Mr Darcy; even little Dotty, her face still smudged with coal stretched as tall as she could to see the master.

"Why, Mr Darcy, we do not usually expect you downstairs…" the housekeeper fumbled.

He smiled, "I woke early and… well, I was wondering if I could trouble you for some bread and maybe a slice of cheese?"

Mrs Reynolds nodded to one of the more senior girls, who disappeared into the larder, "Maria will get that for you now, sir, and bring it up to your rooms?"

"Thank you, Mrs Reynolds," he did a short, stiff bow. "Mr Artaud, two soups would be perfection… and your white soup is beyond compare."

Adam did a polite bow in response to this compliment; he knew his soup was excellent, but it was nice to have it recognised by a gentleman who dined in the finest houses in the country.

"…And thank you, ladies, you may now all return to your work and I will bother you no longer."

Fitzwilliam turned on his heel, but gestured to Mrs Reynolds to follow, which she did. They travelled along the short corridor, back up the stairs through Mr Staughton's pantry, where footmen were busy unpacking the silver from the large wooden trunks that carried it up and down the country, and then past Mr Staughton himself who was pouring bottles of port into heavy bottomed decanters, and then up more stairs to the ante-room, where the overly ornate gold clock was chiming out an off-key melody signalling that it was seven o'clock.

"Mrs Reynolds… Frances…"

"Yes, Mr Darcy, what is the matter?"

She could see that his face was all concern, that there was something he wanted to say and he was simply looking for the words, and she placed her hand gently on his arm. Standing nearly a foot taller than her, he was now a grown man, but his expression and his features were the same as when he was small. He was her master and she was still his servant, but to Mrs Reynolds, Fitzwilliam Darcy would always be the young boy who ran into her skirts trying to hide from his nightmares.

"Georgiana is… she is out of danger now, I believe?"

She nodded, and saw his façade drop for the briefest of moments, "she is. You have no need to worry about Miss Georgiana and anything regarding Ramsgate. Nobody knows, excepting Staughton and myself, and even if anybody knew anything, they would never say. We are a family here at Pemberley, Master Fitzwilliam…"

He looked up quickly, a small reassured smile crossing his face for the briefest of moments, "I know that. Thank you, Mrs Reynolds." Leaning down he gave her a small kiss on the cheek, "and now we have but a few hours until our guests arrive."

"I hear that maybe our new mistress is to be amongst the party," she said, "am I correct in my information?"

She immediately saw the change in his countenance, his face lit up and a smile crossed his face,

"Aye," he confirmed, "if all goes to plan."

"Well, we better impress her then."

"Mrs Reynolds, I have never doubted you once."