Lydia Bennet was in a fine mess. She had thought having dinner in her room wouldn’t be so very bad. She had a delicious novel to read and everyone at the table would miss her lively conversation and her father would be sorry he sent her upstairs. Come breakfast, they would all be thrilled to see her again. She changed her mind when she saw the tray of lumpy porridge Sarah, the maid, brought to her room. When she asked about it, sure there must have been some mistake, the maid informed her that it was brought on Mr. Bennet’s orders and he’d said that proper food was served in the proper dining room to proper ladies. The maid’s cheeks burned as she recited the message, and Lydia positively quivered with anger. She balled her fists and stamped her foot and let out a most unladylike grunt. Sarah bobbed a quick curtsey and dashed out of the room, just in time to avoid the heavy spoon Lydia threw at the door.

Mrs. Bennet heard the commotion from upstairs and worried over her youngest and most favored child, but her husband reassured her and said that Lydia just needed time to adjust and would accept the changes in good time. She nodded and attended her meal, imagining how jealous Lady Lucas would be when all five Bennet daughters sang in perfect harmony at the next neighborhood party.

The following morning, Lydia was surprised when the maid came in with another tray for breakfast: porridge again. There was a tiny bit of jam dolloped in the middle, but it was an uninspiring meal. She huffed and sat down to eat, thinking the sooner she was through, the sooner she could leave this room.

“Sarah, you’ve forgotten the spoon!” she called to the retreating maid.

“The master’s orders, miss. There’s a note from him there.” She pointed to a small piece of folded paper on the corner of the tray and quickly left.

Lydia picked up the note and read, “Silver is not a ball meant for throwing. See you don’t treat it as such.”

Lydia became so angry, the tips of her ears turned red. He expected her, Lydia Bennet, to eat without a spoon? How was she going to manage it? She certainly couldn’t put her face in the bowl like an animal. Huffing, she crossed her arms and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore her growling stomach and maintain her ire. It was exhausting.