“Hill? Hill, where are you?” I call out.

It’s half-past nine already, and she hasn’t even popped her head in to see if I’m awake. The fire is out; I am still in my nightclothes, and my breakfast tray is nowhere in sight.

“She’s never this late.”

I can get out of bed and dress myself, but I have not dressed without a maid in years. Do I even have any clothes simple enough to don myself?

“Oh, bother.”

The bedsheets fall to the floor as I swing my legs to the side. The cold seeps through my slippers and my toes hurt. My closet has one simple dress I can wear without petticoats, but it is terribly immodest. My favorite wool shawl clashes with it, but there’s nothing else to be done at the moment. I cannot go downstairs without it.

I do my best to complete my morning toilette, but I have to admit, a peek at the looking glass confirms my scraggly appearance.

Sighing, I try once more to stuff all of my locks under my matron’s cap, but several stubborn curls poke out from the edges.

“Forget it!”

I slam open the door and stomp down the stairs. How dare Hill abandon me? Letting me endure the humiliation of no service in my own home.

Entering the kitchen, I screech out.

“Hill, where have you-my god!”

There, hunching over the kitchen table, is Hill, a bottle of rum in her hand, and drool dripping from her mouth.

I tiptoe closer to her body, afraid she may have slipped into the kitchen for a nip and died in the middle of the night. When I am an arm’s length away, I tentatively shove Hill’s shoulder to see if she’s stiff yet. Her head tilts to the left and a loud snore erupts from her.

Relief floods my being. I have no desire to host a funeral this week. Or any other week, for that matter.

“If you weren’t my oldest employee, I would fire you in an instant.”

Hill does not stir at my words and I do not care enough to wake her up right now. I rub my eyes hoping when I open them the dream ends. That’s all this is right? A silly dream. When I open them nothing changes. Hill still is snoring. I sigh. Perhaps, a nice bit of food should soothe my irritation. Hopefully, Cook has not been lax in her duties this morning.

The door connecting the kitchen to the breakfast room pushes open, revealing Lizzy. Her mouth falls open and her brow wrinkles.

“Mama, what are you doing here? Come sit down with the rest of us.”

Lizzy ushers me to a chair, pulling it out for me. Then, she proceeds to sit down beside me and heaps food onto my plate. I peer at her, her actions confusing me. Lizzy never dines beside me and prefers a seat next to Mr. Bennet. Lifting my eyes, I gaze at the rest of my girls to see if any of them are acting equally strange.

“Child, what are you wearing?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Prudish Mary, whose wardrobe can be mistaken for a seventy-year-old widow’s, is breaking her fast in a ballgown of the latest fashion. I cannot recall seeing her collarbones these past three years since she’s been out and yet here she is, the neckline of her gown two inches lower than appropriate.

Mary huffs at me and pushes her chest forward to expose her bosom further.

“Mama, you can’t be serious. This is the gown you chose for me specifically at the modiste last month. Can’t you recall? You said this shade matches me the best and that the officers will flock to me if I wear it.”

“I did? Mary, since when did you care about the officers? Do you not hate their presence in Meryton?”

“Oh lord no,” Mary snorts, and blows her nose into a napkin. “You must have confused me for Jane.”

“Jane…” At the end of the table sits my eldest daughter, her head bowing over a book. The title on the cover reads Fordyce’s Sermons. At the sound of my voice, Jane lifts her face up and on her nose lays a pair of spectacles.

“Yes, mama? Please tell me we aren’t going to host another dreadful card party for the officers.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” My stomach turns with queasiness at the madness surrounding me. All of a sudden, my daughters are not themselves.

“Oh dear. Mama are you unwell? You’re not like your usual self.” Lizzy holds a hand up to my forehead as if to check for a fever.

“Yes, it’s unlike you to be forgetful. You’re a quick wit.” Jane folds her hands on top of her book.

“Sisters, don’t be riduclous. Mother, don’t be dramatic. You were fine just a moment ago.” The retort comes from Kitty sitting across the table from me.

“What did you say? Kitty, you never speak to me in that manner.”

“Humph. Who cares? Can I be excused? Lydia and I want to go to town to visit Aunt Phillips.”

Lydia comments nothing, simply staring at her plate, picking at her eggs, a habit more commonly seen in her next older sister.

“Right, I am leaving. This is madness. You are all playing a cruel joke on me and I know who put you up to it. Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet!”

Pushing back from the dining table, I stumble to my feet and head down the hall to Mr. Bennet’s reading room.

“Mr. Bennet! Ah!” Before I turn the knob, Mr. Bennet swings the door wide, his chest bumping into mine.

“Pardon me, Fanny. I heard you calling and came to see the commotion.” He grins down at me with that same teasing smile he always wears on his face when something amuses him.

I calm down a little from the normalcy of his character in comparison to our daughters’ scene in the breakfast room.

“Husband, an alarming event is occurring as we speak. Our girls are not themselves. Mary is dressing horribly, Jane is a bluestocking, Lizzy likes me, Kitty is rude, and Lydia quiet. Now Mr. Bennet, I demand answers. You put them up to this, didn’t you? Playing another one of your cruel jokes?”

Mr. Bennet’s arms reach up to grip my elbows. I jerk back, his touch foreign to me. We never unnecessarily display affection anymore.

“Peace, my dear Fanny, compose yourself. I did no such thing. The girls are silly on their best of days and perhaps today they are sillier than usual.”

“I-I suppose. It is just that Hill also seems odd. She’s in the kitchen, drunk, and I don’t know what to make of it all!”

“Now, now. It’s all right. Let’s go up to your room and lie down.” He links my arm around his and attempts to escort me up the stairs, but I dig my heels into the rug.

“No, I will not be going anywhere with you! How dare you try to lead me to my own bedchamber! How scandalous!”

He flashes me a lascivious smirk before crushing my torso against his.

“What’s wrong with a meager amount of scandal, eh? Keeps things exciting, does it not? And you-” Mr. Bennet leans near my ear and breathes in, “You are still an exquisite creature, Mrs. Bennet.”

“That’s enough!”

“Hah, hah, hah.” My chest rises and falls, struggling to take in air. I can feel the covers under my hands, the warmth and soft a complete contrast to what I first woke up to. But how is this possible? The fireplace crackles and next to it on a chair lays a fresh gown for me to wear.

“Maybe I am the one who is mad? Hill!” I wait with bated breath, half expecting my housekeeper to not respond to me like earlier.

Eons pass, but eventually, I hear Hill’s faint footsteps pad across the hallway floor. She enters my bedchamber in her nightgown, showing it is still very early.

“Yes, ma’am. You called?”

“Hill, have you been drinking?” Hill steps back at my words as if I hit her.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I never touch the stuff. ‘Tis nasty.”

My fingers curl around the bedsheets tighter, fear and hope rise within me. I sag back onto the mattress with relief that really is all a sleepy delusion. A giggle escapes my mouth at the absurdity. Perhaps it is all a dream or a nightmare in this case. Nothing more, nothing less. An upset stomach can cause these kinds of things I hear. Maybe the beef yesterday- My train of thought halts when a muscular arm wraps around my middle.

“Good morning, my dear. You’re up rather early. What say you to having breakfast in bed?”

“Mr. Bennet!