“’Tis a little late to be worrying about that,” had been Daffodil’s response. “Your intrigues have landed you front and centre of his notice.” She had taken a good look around before adding, “But you will receive no more censure from me. There are very few people with integrity enough to turn their noses up at all this.”
James had returned at that moment to escort them to the morning room, but Mrs Reynolds had heard enough. Miss Bennet had revealed her design to captivate Mr Darcy, just as her sister had reportedly attempted to do to Mr Bingley. And the master, it seemed, had thrown all his usual discernment to the wind and allowed himself to be drawn in. It made Mrs Reynolds sick to her stomach to see so excellent a man fall prey to such duplicity. No doubt this woman saw Mr Darcy’s wealth and assumed his life was one of ease and indulgence—ripe for the picking.
She knew better. She had seen first-hand the effect of death after death upon the family. In particular, she had watched the young master’s travails after his father’s sudden demise and witnessed with her own eyes his unstinting efforts to learn what he must to do for his tenants in a time of unprecedented national unrest. She had observed his devotion to his young, orphaned sister—and the devastation wrought upon him by what Mrs Reynolds suspected was her near ruin at the hands of his once treasured childhood friend.
Though she knew no details of what passed at Ramsgate the previous summer, she had surmised enough to know it was dire. She had brought to bear every ounce of her not inconsiderable influence to suppress all mention of it in the Darcy households. She regretted that her influence did not extend to allaying the profound sadness Wickham’s betrayal had provoked in the master. That Miss Bennet thought to use him so ill again was the cruellest thing in the world, and Mrs Reynolds railed that her station in life made her utterly powerless to intervene.
As if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against the young woman, Mrs Reynolds chose for her employment the examination of all her most recent letters from Eleanor, in every one of which her friend made some mention of her goddaughter. Dorothy—or Dot, as Eleanor called her—was the young lady responsible for Mrs Reynolds’s long-held opinion that, unless another woman existed who possessed the same inimitable virtues, then there could be no one else who was good enough for Mr Darcy. For years, she had read Eleanor’s proud reports of Dorothy’s accomplishments and triumphs, and she had long wished to see the master settled with a woman half so deserving. Instead, this young upstart had insinuated herself into his affairs, and Mrs Reynolds could do nothing but watch in dismay as the dear man fell further and further under her spell.
* * *
The next morning did not so much dawn as emerge reluctantly from the long, uncomfortable night. Aches and pains kept Mrs Reynolds tossing and turning in her bed through all the hours of darkness, giving her far too much time to worry. There was, as always, plenty about which to fret. The bell-pull in Miss Bingley’s room still stubbornly refused to work, two casks of redcurrant wine had spoiled, and there was mildew in one of the linen cupboards. Mr Hurst was up to his old tricks, attempting to bribe the footmen to steal liquor for him, and she had a strong suspicion that one of her maids was secretly stepping out with the new groom. Problems such as these, more irksome than truly distressing, nevertheless loomed large at three o’clock in the morning. Of late, however, more pressing anxieties had begun to obtrude.
She was not well. It was not something she could any longer deny. She knew what ailed her: the same thing as had taken her mother and both aunts. An unnamed, insidious end that she supposed she must be grateful had, in her case, waited until the advent of her seventh decade to show its hand. She was familiar with the course it would take, and she was resigned to it.
She was less able to reconcile herself to the peril overshadowing her beloved Pemberley. Two days ago, the problem with the house had been an inconvenience: extra work for already busy hands. But Mr Ferguson’s uncharacteristically dour humour and Mr Vaughan’s more than common guardedness concerning Mr Darcy had alerted her to there being a more serious problem afoot. She rarely walked around the eastern end of the house, for the servants’ quarters were in the opposing wing. Thus, the previous evening, she had stolen a few minutes to view it for herself.
It was a startling sight; a deep wound in the fabric of the building that she felt as keenly as the ominous pangs afflicting her vitals. It imprinted all her dreams that night with tentacular crevasses until she gave up on sleep entirely and removed to her desk, where she set out all her qualms in a letter to her friend.
Revered though any housekeeper worth her salt must be, she was denied the luxury of friendship within the household over which she ruled. Such relationships eroded one’s authority. Eleanor, an intimate companion since childhood, was the only person in whom Mrs Reynolds could safely confide, and so she had done in the early hours of that morning.
Her dismay at the deterioration of the house had been set down in but two lines, for what was there to say but that she hoped it could be repaired? Of her own health, she had written nothing. On the present danger to the master’s happiness, she had dwelt with warmth for several pages. Eleanor liked to joke that she knew Mr Darcy better than his own mother ever had, so much had been revealed to her by this method over the years. While Mrs Reynolds had never divulged anything that might injure the master, she had written more often than she liked of his loneliness and melancholy. He was the best of men, but the happiness he deserved cruelly eluded him at every turn.
Never had he seemed sadder than these months since his sister’s misadventure in Ramsgate. Whatever had passed in those few, significant days, whatever that scoundrel Wickham had done, had taken a terrible toll. When Mrs Reynolds received word that he was to bring a large party back to Pemberley with him this month, she had hoped it was with the intention of finally choosing a bride. A faithful companion, who would fill his empty house with children on whom he could dote as he had done his young sister, would be just the antidote to his solitude.
Alas, when she received the list of names, it appeared as though he had gone out of his way to invite as many married couples and male acquaintances as he was able. The only single women of marriageable age in the party were Miss Bingley and Miss Templeton. The first, despite the lady’s most tenacious efforts, had failed to endear herself to him in all the years of their acquaintance. The second might have been considered a contender, had not James witnessed her embracing Mr Pettigrew enthusiastically in a dimly lit anteroom the previous evening. The dearth of eligible women had given rise to vexatious ramifications and her complaints to Eleanor on the subject had been lengthy and bitter.
Instead of either of these desirable ladies,it isClarabellewho has insinuated herself into his attentions, exploiting his loneliness to extract an invitation to dinner. Thus, rather than the pleasure of overseeing a grand feast for the future mistress of Pemberley, I am reduced to appeasing Mr Matthis’s disgruntlement at being required to serve a tradesman and his family at table.
CHAPTERELEVEN
ARTS & ALLUREMENTS
Once the breakfast service was finished, Mrs Reynolds set out for Lambton with several bills to settle, a jar of Pemberley honey for the goldsmith who had promised to mend a link on her chatelaine gratis, and a handful of other correspondence from the house, saving whichever of the footmen was on post duty that day from making the trip. She delivered the chatelaine and honey first, then presented herself at the post office with her letters.
The postmaster was hunched over a letter, eyepiece in hand, squinting at the address. He looked up in surprise when she wished him good day. “Mrs Reynolds! Come in, come in. Perhaps you can be of assistance to us. None of us can make out the address on this letter beyond that it says Lambton—and even that is in some doubt, for it has already been mis-sent once.”
Mrs Reynolds took the letter he held out to her and examined it. She sucked in her breath upon recognising the addressee and thrust it back at him as though it had burnt her. “This is for Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She is staying in town, though I am afraid I do not know where, precisely.”
“Well, that is a good deal more information than we had before. Madam, you are a godsend.”
She hoped all talk of Miss Bennet was done, but at that moment, the young lady herself walked past the window with her relations at her side, and Mrs Reynolds felt obliged to point them out to Mr Biggleswade.
He exclaimed at the good fortune and turned to one of his assistants. “Arthur, run it out to her quickly, before you lose sight of her.” He shoved the letter at the boy, the boy grabbed for it, and the missive crumpled between their colliding hands, the wax seal snapping in half with an audible pop.
Mr Biggleswade growled with displeasure. “Never mind. Get on and catch up with her!”
Arthur ran from the shop and out of sight after the departing trio. The postmaster sighed wearily and apologised to Mrs Reynolds, who assured him there was no need and passed him her own letters to be stamped.
“There’s another addressed to Miss Bennet here,” announced another assistant, plucking a letter from the pile he was sorting and holding it aloft.
“Any more legible than the first?” Mr Biggleswade enquired, but before the boy could answer, Arthur burst back into the office, red-faced and out of breath.
“I can’t give it to ’er now, Mr Biggleswade. Mr Darcy has just ridden into town and stopped to talk to ’er. I daren’t interrupt. I’d be horsewhipped!”
“Then get out there and wait until they have finished talking! You have broken the seal on that letter now, boy. I’ll not have open correspondence lying around my post office for any Tom, Dick, or Harry to nose at.”
“But they’re walking away! You can’t mean for me to follow them through t’ town?”
