Mrs Wickham sucked in her breath between what few teeth remained in her gums. “Very sly. Very unlike you.”
“Perhaps, but unlikeyou, I happen to think Mr Darcy is worth protecting. I ought not to be surprised that you do not. You never cared a whit about him. No matter that he was the best friend George ever had. No matter that he took beatings for your son’s wickedness. No matter that it drove a wedge between him and his father that they never overcame. All this you and your sorry husband knew, and yet you said nothing because it profited you to stay quiet.”
“Bah! Mr High-and-Mighty ought not hold grudges over childhood squabbles.”
Mrs Reynolds slapped the table angrily. “They were not children last summer! But I suppose you know nothing about what happened then, what with George never speaking to you. Your precious boy isstillscheming to ruin Mr Darcy’s happiness, so now you tell me who is bitter?”
She took a deep breath and fought for a measure of composure. In a calmer voice, she asked, “How can you not care, Lucy? Sitting here in your comfortable cottage with your widow’s pension, all courtesy of his good will.” She pointed to an upholstered chair with a scene of Pemberley embroidered upon it. “You have even furnished your house at his expense.” Indeed, the more Mrs Reynolds looked around, the more items she saw that seemed familiar. A pair of ornate candlesticks that had once adorned the sideboard in the breakfast room; a framed architectural drawing that had used to hang in the late Mr Darcy’s study; a fire screen whose twin stood in the Lady Anne room. “None of this is yours!”
Mrs Wickham’s shawls moved in a way that suggested she had shrugged. “’Tis only what he owed us.”
“He owed you nothing, then or now! But you and your son owe him everything. I am not asking much. George chose to run away with the girl—I only wish to make sure he sees it through.”
At last, there appeared a trace of hesitation in the wall of obstinacy before her.
“I cannot make him marry if he opposes it,” Mrs Wickham said grudgingly.
“I can well believe it. You could never make him do anything.”
“I do not see how you think you will manage any better.”
“At least I will have tried. But I need you to tell me where I can find him.”
“Are you going to hurt him?”
“Do not be ridiculous. I am a sixty-year-old woman.”
“Are you going to have someone else hurt him?”
“Of course not! I only want to make sure he does the right thing. The girl is a gentleman’s daughter. He will have a far better outcome than he deserves, I assure you.” She shuffled forward in her seat and poured all her fears for the master into her plea. “Do this, Lucy, I beg you. Do this to atone for all the times you stood by and did nothing. After all the misery your family have given him, will you not help me save Mr Darcy from yet more?”
Against her expectations, Mrs Reynolds left the cottage with a list of all George Wickham’s most recent addresses in her possession. They were not many, and the latest was over a twelvemonth old, but it was a start. Her parting words to her erstwhile friend were not warm, but since she was not wholly without gratitude that Mrs Wickham had, at the last, conceded to do this one good turn, she had not demanded that the embroidered chair be returned.
She hobbled slowly into town, weary in both body and mind, and after a bit of a struggle, pushed open the heavy door of the goldsmith’s.
Mr Lynton looked up from his work, over the top of the magnifying spectacles that made him look forty years older than the strapping young man that he was. “You have excellent timing, Mrs Reynolds. I finished your chatelaine not half an hour ago.”
“You are very good, sir.” Mrs Reynolds reached into her reticule and withdrew her purse.
“Now, now,” he objected. “I told you—the honey was payment enough.”
She smiled and did not attempt to prevent her fatigue from showing in it. “Yes, but I have another favour to ask of you, and this problem requires a good deal more than a trifling repair. Honey will not suffice.”
“I am intrigued. But I am thoroughly in your debt, for goodness knows you pass enough work my way from Pemberley. If I can help, I shall, most willingly.”
“It gives me great comfort to hear you say so. I wonder, sir, when your work will next take you to London?”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
LEAD BALLOONS
“Here, look—Bingley, if you stand on this corner, and Aldridge puts his foot there, then I move Ada’s chair—” Miss Ada let out a squawk when her brother hefted her chair, with her in it, two feet to the right. “There we are! That ought to do it.”
Mr Templeton’s purpose was to pin down one of several blankets, all of which had been flapping about wildly in the wind, knocking over drinks and spilling the contents of plates since they arrived. The day had dawned overcast and a little chilly, but the arrival of several cartloads of workmen at Pemberley had been encouragement enough for Mr Darcy’s guests to persevere with their planned excursion.
Elizabeth had learnt much of her own feelings by the magnitude of her relief upon receiving Miss Darcy’s note to that effect. She was further thankful to discover that the silvered skies had in no way diminished the view, either. Mr Darcy had been correct when he conjectured that she would like this spot. She was quite enraptured.
“Am I to remain here for the rest of the afternoon, do you think, Miss Ada?” Mr Bingley enquired, standing gamely to attention, and winking at the young lady.
