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Rosings Park - Mrs Jenkinson

M rs Jenkinson woke earlier than usual that morning, troubled by dreams she couldn’t quite remember.

Twelve years at Rosings had taught her to trust such instincts - the subtle shifts in the household’s atmosphere that preceded Lady Catherine’s storms. As she dressed, she noted the unusual stillness of the morning, broken only by the distant sounds of servants beginning their daily routines.

Her position as companion to Lady Catherine’s daughter had taught her patience above all else - when to speak, when to remain silent, and most importantly, when to attempt gentle suggestions about Miss de Bourgh’s welfare.

The role had been a godsend when she’d needed it most - a widow with young children to support - and she’d grown skilled at managing both Anne’s delicate health and her mother’s forceful personality.

But this morning, something felt different.

Perhaps it was the way Patterson had hesitated when she’d passed him in the hall, or how the maids seemed to be moving more quietly than usual, as if the very house were holding its breath.

Her first task, as always, was to check on Miss de Bourgh.

To her surprise, she found her charge already awake but still in bed, looking more rested than usual.

For once, it seemed, the young woman had slept through the night without requiring company or reading - a rare occurrence indeed.

Through the window, Mrs Jenkinson could see it would be a fair day, with just enough breeze to stir the roses.

Perfect conditions to suggest a morning ride in the phaeton, if she could propose it before Lady Catherine appeared.

The thought of Lady Catherine brought Mrs Jenkinson’s mind back to her uneasy feelings.

Her position at Rosings - secured through Lady Catherine’s notice of a widow’s plight in the village shop - had been unexpected good fortune.

Now, after years of careful economy, she was nearly ready to return to her children at their cottage by the sea.

But until then, she had Miss de Bourgh’s welfare to consider, and something about this morning made her particularly anxious for her charge.

Over the years, Mrs Jenkinson had made careful suggestions about Miss de Bourgh’s need for more activity - perhaps a walk in the rose garden, or a trip to the village shops.

But Lady Catherine remained adamant: her daughter would keep to the morning room and drawing room, venturing out only to sit in the garden or take brief rides in her phaeton when the weather permitted.

Today might be one of those rare occasions when Lady Catherine could be persuaded to allow such an indulgence.

The March sun streamed through the tall windows of the breakfast room, warming the elegant space and catching the silver tea service that graced the table.

Miss de Bourgh’s usual place had been carefully prepared - her chair positioned just so, neither too close to the draft from the window nor too far from the fire’s warmth, cushions arranged to support her delicate frame.

The sideboard gleamed with covered dishes, their contents kept warm while awaiting Lady Catherine’s arrival.

Mrs Jenkinson moved quietly through her morning ritual, settling Miss de Bourgh in her place before taking her own seat.

These precious moments before Lady Catherine’s entrance were the only time decisions might be made without scrutiny, when Miss de Bourgh might speak her own mind.

Through the window, early spring flowers nodded in the gentle breeze - perfect weather for the phaeton, if she could just secure her charges agreement quickly enough.

Mrs Jenkinson poured the tea with practised care, noting how the morning light brought out hints of amber in the steaming liquid.

“The morning is particularly fine,” she ventured, keeping her voice low as was their habit in these private moments.

“Perhaps the phaeton? The crocuses are just beginning to bloom along the south drive.” She paused, then added as if it were merely an afterthought, “Peter could have the ponies ready directly after breakfast.”

Miss de Bourgh’s slight figure was almost lost in the massive oak chair, but there was a hint of colour in her usually pale cheeks this morning.

Her deep green morning dress emphasised her delicate complexion, and her thin fingers wrapped around the porcelain teacup seemed steadier than usual after her good night’s rest.

“Yes,” Miss de Bourgh murmured, a spark of interest lighting her features as she watched the steam rise from her cup. Her voice grew slightly stronger as she added, “I should like to see the crocuses.” Then, as if remembering herself, she qualified softly, “If the weather holds.”

“I’ll speak to Peter directly after breakfast,” Mrs Jenkinson replied, careful to keep her tone casual despite her inner satisfaction.

These small victories - a ride in the phaeton, a glimpse of spring flowers - were precious precisely because they were so rare.

She reached for the toast rack, deliberately avoiding Miss de Bourgh’s eye lest her own eagerness make Miss de Bourgh self-conscious.

“As long as Mother doesn’t think it’s too windy.

” The words came out barely above a whisper, Miss de Bourgh’s earlier spark of animation fading as quickly as it had appeared.

Her shoulders tensed, and her fingers tightened around the delicate teacup until Mrs Jenkinson feared it might crack.

Even the mere mention of Lady Catherine was enough to cast a shadow over these precious moments of independence.

Mrs Jenkinson sighed quietly but said nothing, focusing instead on adjusting the already perfectly arranged dishes before them.

In moments like these, she could glimpse traces of what Anne de Bourgh might have been without her mother’s oppressive care - a young woman with opinions and desires of her own, not merely an extension of Lady Catherine’s will.

But such glimpses were rare and fleeting.

More often, Mrs Jenkinson watched helplessly as her charge retreated behind the facade of the invalid daughter, too delicate for any activity her mother didn’t explicitly approve of.

Sometimes, in her darkest moments, Mrs Jenkinson wondered if years of such careful control had left anything of Miss de Bourgh’s true self intact.

Miss de Bourgh shifted in her chair, turning slightly away from the window as the morning light made her squint - another legacy of the typhus fever that had claimed her father’s life.

That devastating illness had left her with painful joints and frequent headaches, true enough, but Mrs Jenkinson had long suspected that Lady Catherine exaggerated these ailments to justify keeping her daughter virtually imprisoned at Rosings.

In fifteen years, Miss de Bourgh had rarely left Kent, save for occasional visits to London physicians, her life regulated by an endless parade of physicians whose treatments seemed designed more to reinforce her mother’s control than to improve her health.

Each new doctor would arrive full of theories, only to eventually echo Lady Catherine’s own convictions about her daughter’s delicate constitution.

The peaceful morning shattered at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Mrs Jenkinson felt Miss de Bourgh tense beside her even before Lady Catherine swept into the breakfast room, her silk skirts rustling ominously.

The very air seemed to change as her ladyship settled herself at the head of the table, her presence immediately dominating the space that had moments ago felt so comfortable.

Lady Catherine surveyed the breakfast table with her usual air of dissatisfaction.

Though the sideboard gleamed with covered dishes keeping the meats and eggs warm, though fresh baskets of rolls and toast sat within easy reach, her expression suggested she found it all somehow lacking.

Taking up the teapot with an air of resignation, she poured her own cup, her movements precise and deliberate.

“I must speak to Mrs Louis about this tea,” she announced to the room at large, through her eyes fixed accusingly on Mrs Jenkinson. “It is really not as good as the tea we used to have.”

Mrs Jenkinson offered a careful nod of agreement - years of experience had taught her that while Lady Catherine didn’t expect responses to such pronouncements, she did expect acknowledgment of their wisdom.

Beside her, Miss de Bourgh remained perfectly still, as if hoping to fade into the background of her mother’s displeasure.

The only sound was the quiet clink of china as Lady Catherine helped herself to toast.

“Has the post arrived?” she demanded suddenly, making both her companions start slightly despite their familiarity with these morning performances.

“Not yet, your ladyship,” Patterson replied from his station by the door. “James will bring it directly when it arrives.”

Lady Catherine bestowed a regal nod of approval on Patterson before turning her attention back to her breakfast companions.

“I expect a letter from my brother,” she announced, as if conferring a great honour on her listeners by sharing this information.

She paused to butter her toast with precise movements.

“And of course from dear Mrs Wilson - though I cannot imagine why she chose Bath for her daughter’s confinement.

I specifically recommended Tunbridge Wells. ”

Having dispensed with one topic to her satisfaction, Lady Catherine turned her attention to her daughter. “Anne,” she began, her tone sharpening slightly, “when did you last hear from Darcy? You had a letter last week from dear Georgiana, I remember. But when last from her brother?”

Miss de Bourgh’s spoon clinked against her teacup as she set it down. “I am not sure,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth.