Next came the flour. Feeling now that she could do no wrong, and wishing to add a flourish to the proceedings, she filled the scoop to overflowing and held it high over the bowl, unending its contents, which landed unceremoniously into the liquid, making both flour and milky water come rushing back up onto Mr. Darcy’s shirt front, soaking her in a sort of instant, runny paste.

“Oh dear. I hope Fitzwilliam was not intending to wear this one today.”

She began to stir up what remained in the bowl. Noting that Hill’s never looked quite this lumpy or runny, nor so brown. She carefully added more flour only to have the lumps grow even more numerous.

Frowning at it, she carried the mixture over to the stove and poured some of it into the pan she had placed there. She stood over it and waited. She hummed a tune and stared at it, biding her time until it turned into what she knew it must: the wafer thin pancakes that almost melted in one’s mouth. But nothing happened. Absolutely nothing at all – except that she began to laugh heartily at herself. It was then that she felt him wrap his arms around her from behind.

“Mr. Darcy, I had been making pancakes for you, but since I did not build a fire in the stove, I am afraid it was all for naught!”