Elizabeth’s sister was in this house. Perhaps that was why he detected the faintest trace of Elizabeth’s lilting voice, though he had never thought the sisters sounded alike. Darcy sighed. His mind was playing some rather cruel tricks on him of late.
When enough time had passed, Darcy stuck his head out of the study to check whether the halls were clear. All he could see were several servants headed to the dining room with platters. He slipped out of the study and moved towards the stairs to the guest wing. If he was closer to running than walking, who couldblame him? Just before he dashed up the steps to his chambers, he glanced over his shoulder. Carstairs was staring back at him, shaggy grey eyebrows lifted in amusement.
Darcy was tired of being a joke. He could not wait to get away.
Dinner arrived only a few moments after he did. He ate quickly and in peace, then looked over his scant belongings. He swung open the door of his wardrobe only to find a single nightshirt hanging there.
Well. That was disconcerting.
Scripps entered the room as Darcy stood staring at the space where his clothing ought to be. “Your things should be back soon, Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Bingley suggested I have everything laundered this morning before packing it. As you did not expect to be here long and packed only that you believed you would require, I thought it a sound notion.”
Darcy was amused by this. Had it been Bingley, he would have been irritated, but he thought it might be close to impossible to be aggravated with the man’s wife. He understood almost instinctively that because Bingley had not been much in need of Scripps for the past four days, the valet was at loose ends, and Mrs. Bingley would have seen this as a way to please her guest and placate her husband’s man at the same time. Mentally, he calculated a generous vail for the valet, but outwardly, he simply nodded. “Very well.”
“Do you mind, sir?” Scripps asked, motioning over to the items he would use for Darcy’s morning ablutions.
“Not at all, Scripps. Carry on.”
The valet cleaned Darcy’s brushes and sharpened his razor on a leather strap.
“Scripps,” Darcy asked at last, “do you know how long Bingley’s sister intends to stay?”
The valet stopped what he was doing. “I believe the master and mistress intend to have her live with them permanently, sir,” he said a little stiffly.
Gads. That meant that if he invited Bingley and his wife to Pemberley, he would have to endure Miss Bingley as well. If only they could invite Elizabeth instead. Perhaps he could seek Bingley out at the club in London and have a conversation with him there.
“I see.”
It might have been his imagination, but Scripps seemed a bit cooler after that exchange. Still, when his clothes arrived, he took them into another room to iron them, and returned them to the wardrobe with an exactness that Darcy could not help but admire. Darcy’s own valet would be hard pressed to find anything wrong with Scripps’s work, though he would try.
“Scripps,” Darcy said as the valet was preparing to leave for the night, “how long have you worked for Bingley?”
“Since September, sir, when he returned to the country. His old valet did not wish to leave London again.”
“And how did he find you?”
Scripps straightened his back and looked Darcy directly in the eye. “My uncle is Mr. Gardiner’s valet. Miss Elizabeth . . . Miss Bennet, that is, knew through her relations that I was looking for a position outside of London and recommended me.”
Darcy smiled fondly. “Of course she did.” Elizabeth would have known not only that Scripps was in need of employment, but that Bingley would be in need of a very organized sort of valet. Learning that Mr. Gardiner kept a valet did not surprise him; both he and his wife were always very well attired.
Scripps was bemused. “As you say, sir. I will be back at seven, then?”
“Yes, thank you, Scripps.”
The valet nodded and was gone.
Elizabeth placed her napkin on the table with a little sigh. Dinner had taken twice as long as it ought because Miss Bingley had criticised each dish as it came out. The soup had too little salt, the meat too much, the wine was too weak, and the bread too dry.
The meal had, in fact, been wonderful.
No one responded to Miss Bingley’s complaints other than the harried servants, but it did not keep her from continuing.
“Really, Jane,” Miss Bingley said as they rose from the table, “you shall have to speak to your cook. You cannot allow her to serve this sort of food to the family, let alone your guests. I will help you with it tomorrow.”
“I thank you for the offer, Caroline, but that will not be necessary. You are our guest.”
Miss Bingley waved a dismissive hand in the air, intentionally ignoring Jane’s meaning. “It is no trouble.”
“Caroline,” Jane repeated without raising her voice or appearing unsettled in any way, “Thank you for offering your assistance—”
