Eleanor was right; Miss Bennet’s connexion to George Wickham was a cause of the deepest concern. He was a reprobate of the worst sort. Mrs Younge was not the first person he had embroiled in a scheme to injure the master, and Mrs Reynolds would be in no way surprised to discover that he was making another attempt, with another conspirator. The presence of his name in one of Miss Bennet’s letters, coupled with her unashamedly rapacious behaviour, was more than enough justification for alarm.
What the letters revealed was an even uglier connexion than Mrs Reynolds had suspected. Ugly enough that she could no longer sit back and obediently observe her station in life while misfortune and misery careened headlong towards the master. Reminded by Eleanor’s words just how profoundly she regretted not acting to protect Mr or Miss Darcy from Wickham before, Mrs Reynolds resolved not to fail them again.
Instead of returning the letters to Miss Bennet, therefore, she instead returned them to her pocket and set out to visit somebody she had not seen for an exceedingly long time and would have preferred never to set eyes upon again.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
ONE GOOD DEED
She let herself in to the little cottage when her knock was answered with a thin, reedy voice, telling her the door was open. It was dark inside, and her old eyes did not immediately adjust to the gloom.
The occupant was at no such disadvantage. “Look at what the wind blew in.”
Mrs Reynolds peered into the corner of the room to where a vague form filled a chair, though swathed in enough shawls and blankets as to better resemble a pile of laundry than a person.
“How long has it been?” came the same, quivering voice. “Four years? Five? You look much older.”
“You look the same as always.”
“What do you want, Agnes?”
Mrs Reynolds chafed that she should presume to still use her name, but she let it pass. That was not the battle she had come to fight. “I need to find George.”
There was a pause, followed by a wheezy cough. “Now why on earth would you want to do that?”
Mrs Reynolds did not answer.
“You cannot expect me to help you without knowing why.”
“It matters not why.”
“You may think not, but I cannot agree. I am sure I can think of no good reason why you should wish to renew the acquaintance of a person you make no secret of despising.”
“Why are you protecting him? For heaven’s sake, he tells people you are dead.”
“You’ve not changed a bit, have you?” came the sullen response from the mountain of blankets. “Does it give you pleasure, lording it about the place, belittling the likes of me for what we’ve lost? Well, it gives me none, so take your Pemberley airs and leave me alone.”
Mrs Reynolds bit back several rejoinders, not least that Mrs Wickham had lost very little that she and her son had not themselves squandered. Instead, she pulled a chair out from the table beneath the window and sat down defiantly. “Believe me when I say that I take no pleasure in this errand whatsoever, but it must be done. Your son has persuaded a young girl of but fifteen years to leave all her friends and run away with him. You and I both know she will no longer be intact, yet he is refusing to marry her.”
“Can’t say as I blame him. She sounds wanton.”
“Then they ought to be well suited,” Mrs Reynolds retorted without thinking. Then, hastily, she added, “Lucy, please. Her whole family is in disgrace. Can you not see, George must be made to marry her.”
“What is this girl to you that you care so much?”
“My interest in the matter is irrelevant. A young girl’s life is about to be ruined, and you have the opportunity to do something good for a change and save her.”
Mrs Wickham made a clicking noise with her tongue and leant forward in her chair. “Agnes Reynolds, I don’t care how important you think you are, but there is plenty you do not know, and you have seriously miscalculated here. It makes no difference that George has forged his own path away from me, nor that he is imperfect. He is still my son. You could not possibly comprehend a mother’s love, being childless yourself, but I’ll not give my boy up to goodness-knows-what-fate just because you’ve waltzed in here and demanded it without explanation or inducement. Either you tell me why it matters to you that he marries this girl, or my lips will remain shut.”
The childless slur never failed to wound; Mrs Reynolds sat quietly until the sting faded. At length, and with waning energy, she said, “I have reason to believe the girl’s sister is close to securing an offer of marriage from Mr Darcy.”
“Oh? And since when did Pemberley’s exalted housekeeper involve herself with the family’s private business?”
Mrs Reynolds baulked. Mrs Wickham was right; it was not her place. Never in all her years serving them had she presumed to interfere in the Darcys’ private affairs. But it was simply unthinkable that Miss Elizabeth Bennet should be mistress of Pemberley! Over her dead body would she allow the master to ruin himself over such a woman, from such a family! Regrettably, that did not leave her much time to act. “She does not love him. She has drawn him in with her arts and allurements. I would ensure he is not ill-used.”
Mrs Wickham crowed disdainfully. “Now it becomes clear! You believe that if George marries the one sister, your lord and master will have nothing to do with the other, and by that means, he will be kept safe from her money-grabbing schemes.”
Mrs Reynolds made no attempt to deny it.
