“I say no more than the truth, and what everybody will say that knows him,” Mrs Reynolds replied, affronted. “I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”
“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master,” Tea Caddy remarked.
Mrs Reynolds was aware of this and said so. “If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up, and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”
“His father was an excellent man,” Daffodil observed.
“Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed.” As pointedly as she dared, Mrs Reynolds added, “And his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor.” She met Clarabelle’s ill-concealed disbelief with an innocuous smile, then turned away to lead them into the next room.
She regaled the party with her usual rote of information as they traversed the music room and then the saloon. Four-and-twenty years had provided her with a wealth of knowledge about the house. There was not a painting whose artist she could not name, an artifact whose provenance was unknown to her, nor a window or fireplace whose dimensions and cost she could not recite. It was information that more commonly occasioned expressions of admiration, even awe from visitors. Clarabelle could not have shown less interest and only trailed, subdued, behind her companions. They, at least, seemed impressed.
“The family has certainly benefited from their ancestors’ tastes,” said Tea Caddy when they reached the principal stair hall where the Beaumont collection was hung, and exquisitely carved statuettes filled the numerous alcoves built into the stairwell.
“That they have, sir, and the present master has continued in the same vein. Nothing is brought into the house nor done to alter it that is not in the same elegant style. And the greatest of consideration is given to conserving everything that is here already. It is nothing less than such a house deserves, of course, but in my experience, there are few masters who give the same attention to these matters.”
“It is clear you think very highly of him. Your commendation far exceeds any I have heard at other houses about other masters. Yours must be a rare creature indeed.”
“He is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but themselves.” Still smarting from Clarabelle’s previous disdain, Mrs Reynolds cast a glance over her shoulder to see what effect this avowal had upon her, but other than listening intently, the young lady betrayed no other emotion.Let her listen, then, Mrs Reynolds thought, for a lady of leisure was never likely to comprehend for herself the value, nor the rarity, of a decent employer.“There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will give him a good name. Some people call him proud, but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”
Tea Caddy made a noise of approval but was distracted when he reached the bust occupying the next alcove. It was while Mrs Reynolds answered his questions about it that she overheard a most distressing exchange between the two ladies behind her. “This fine account of him is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend,” whispered the older lady to the younger, who replied that perhaps they had been deceived. “That is not very likely,” was the answer. “Our authority was too good.”
A lifetime in service was barely enough to keep Mrs Reynolds from releasing the indignant objection that leapt to her tongue. It was confirmed, then, that they thought ill of the master; that they had come to Pemberley, obtruded into the very heart of his family home, with naught but ill will towards him. And on whose ‘authority’ was this enmity founded? Recalling the manner in which the pair had cooed together over George Wickham’s miniature, she was momentarily appalled, though she soon reasoned herself out of such a supposition. It was too much to imagine that they should be friends of his.
She scarcely knew what other information she reeled off as she led the party up the stairs and across the lobby into the Chesterfield room. She wished that the wretched tour be over and regretted promising to show them the gallery afterwards.
“This is another very elegant room,” Daffodil remarked.
“As I said, ma’am, there is nothing done to the house that is not in the finest taste. The master was quite explicit in his instructions on how this room was to be fitted up.”
“It was done recently, was it?”
“Just lately, ma’am. The master had a fancy it would give pleasure to Miss Darcy, for she took a liking to it when she was last here.”
“He is certainly a good brother,” Clarabelle mumbled as, yet again, she walked to the window without properly looking at anything that had been done to the chamber.
“We are all anticipating Miss Darcy’s delight when she first enters the room, for she has no notion to expect the alterations the master has made. And this is always the way with him,” Mrs Reynolds replied pointedly. “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”
“He is better to his sister than I ever was to either of mine,” Tea Caddy said with a chuckle. “I considered it my duty to plague them at every opportunity.”
Mrs Reynolds gave a desultory smile and hastened the party into the picture gallery. She did not trouble herself to impart the usual intelligence about whose face was whose and left them to explore without commentary—until Clarabelle stopped in front of the master’s portrait, whereupon a wave of protectiveness spurred her to give a rush of information about some of the other paintings to draw her away. It worked for but a short time; the young lady soon returned to gaze up at Mr Darcy.
“That one was taken in his father’s lifetime,” Mrs Reynolds told her stiffly. She received no answer and was obliged to wait uneasily until Clarabelle had looked her fill.
She limited the tour thereafter to only one of the principal bedrooms, after which she delivered the party, with as much haste as was seemly, into the waiting hands of the head gardener. Tea Caddy tipped her two shillings on his way out, and for that, she resolved to adjust the sketch of him in her next letter to Eleanor to something marginally more charitable than she had planned. Her depiction of the two ladies would not deviate from that which she had already composed in her head. It was an account she fancied would entertain her friend admirably.
CHAPTERTWO
A STATE OF DISQUIET
Mrs Reynolds did not linger to wave the visitors off and left to resume her duties before James had closed the door behind them. She had not made it across the hall before being forestalled a second time, on this occasion by Pemberley’s steward.
“Mrs Reynolds, I am glad to have caught you.”
“Mr Ferguson. Can I be of assistance?”
“I am looking for Mr Darcy. Is he arrived yet?”
“No, sir. He is not due until tomorrow.”
