“Come now, Mr Vaughan,” Chef coaxed. “It is just us. None of the young girls or boys are here to listen to what we say. You can tell us what has got into Mr Darcy,non?Est-ce cette jeune femme?”
Mr Vaughan replied in French, and whatever he said did not please Chef, who returned to his kitchen with a snarl and a spattering of other foreign phrases muttered under his breath.
Mr Ferguson stood and retrieved his coat—still sodden—from the chair in front of the fire. “We had better summon the magistrate. Howes, will you join us?”
The head gardener agreed that he would, and the three men trudged unhappily from the room to return to the rain.
“You had better make amends with Chef before you go back upstairs, Mr Vaughan,” Mr Matthis said mildly. “You know how he likes to sulk.”
“The man is an incorrigible gossip.”
“I shall not argue. Mr Darcy ought to be allowed the odd bit of flirtation without being accused of neglect, even if he is hopelessly preoccupied. But pray, for the sake of all our appetites, make amends with Monsieur Dubois.”
The door abruptly burst open, and Hannah leant around it, her manner urgent. “Beg your pardon, Mrs Reynolds. Sarah has knocked over the scuttle trying to light the candles in the Stag Parlour. There is coal dust everywhere.”
The housekeeper was plagued by none of her usual aches and pains as she strode through the house. Indignation fuelled her steps and oiled her stiff joints; it stole her patience as she directed the maids in their work and put a sting in her voice as she reprimanded Sarah for carelessness.
Never, in all her years working for him, had Mr Darcy prioritised something or someone before Pemberley. Never had she heard his perennially loyal servants complain about him. It was all,allMiss Bennet’s doing. Every moment of doubt she had suffered these past two days since visiting Mrs Wickham was banished—she was more certain than ever that she had taken the necessary, the only possible, action.
“I think there is someone at the front door,” Hannah said hesitantly.
Mrs Reynolds did not think it likely, for it was long past the hour for calls and still pouring down outside. “James will answer it, if there is.”
“James was in the kitchen just now, having a glass of milk.”
Mrs Reynolds sighed sharply. “Keep on with what you are doing, girls. I’ll not be long.” She heard the banging herself as she exited the parlour and almost decided against answering it, thinking it might be better to fetch James or Mr Matthis if there were an angry mob to be repelled. But then she reached the hall and saw, through the glazing of the front door, that it was no violent stranger, no wild beast outside. A threat to Pemberley, certainly, but not one she was unable to deal with herself. She swept across the hall, incensed by the sheer audacity of the woman, and opened the door by no more than an inch.
“The family are not presently receiving guests, madam. I am afraid you have had a wasted trip.”
She faltered as soon as the words were said, her heart pounding and her doubt swimming nearer to the surface once more. For all her anger, it felt entirely wrong to meddle so brazenly in the master’s concerns. She ignored the sensation; little point baulking at turning away callers after the lengths to which she had already gone to banish Miss Bennet from his life forever. With Mr Lynton in London on an errand to see the marriage between George Wickham and Lydia Bennet done whatever the cost, all connexion between Mr Darcy and the rain-soaked and windswept woman presently banging at his door would soon be dissolved.
Miss Bennet looked thoroughly deflated to be refused entry. She was clutching something to her chest, and she fumbled with it awkwardly as she began to speak. “I would never presume, under any other circumstances, only something has…There is a…I find I must return home immediately. I would take my leave of the family before I go if I may.”
It was too much to hope this had anything to do with Mr Lynton’s assignment—it was too soon—but she was leaving, and all doubts aside, that could be nothing but a source of relief.
“As I said,” Mrs Reynolds repeated firmly, “the family are busy at present.”
“Is there no way you could let Mr Darcy know I am here?”
Mrs Reynolds did not need to feign her shock; such shameless impropriety would scandalise the most liberal of minds. “This is most irregular. Perhaps if you waited until a more sociable hour and called onMissDarcy?”
Miss Bennet flushed scarlet. “Or Miss Darcy—I meant that. Both of them—either of them. Forgive me, I am…This is…Please, if you would just let one of them know I am here.”
“Tomorrow would be more acceptable.”
“It cannot wait until tomorrow. We are leaving now.”
“Perhaps you could write to Miss Darcy when you reach home, then.Ifthe young lady has agreed to a correspondence, of course.”
Miss Bennet shook her head slightly, her countenance twisted with what looked like genuine pain. But then, she had put so much work into her scheme; it must be unbearable to give it up at this stage. Mrs Reynolds held firm.
“Lizzy? We must go now.”
The housekeeper started at the deep voice and peered out into the driving rain. She had not noticed the carriage at the foot of the steps, nor Miss Bennet’s uncle, leaning out of it, gesturing for his niece to make haste. She had not come alone, then, and her call was not quite as scandalous as it had first seemed. Doubt immediately crowded back into Mrs Reynolds’s mind—but no! The woman was all but in league with George Wickham! She forced herself to give a thin, unpleasant smile. “It seems you must go.”
Miss Bennet’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I do have a note for Miss Darcy. I was hoping for the chance to explain…Never mind. Would you be kind enough to give it to her? And pray, tell her how very sorry we all are that we must leave without a proper goodbye.”
Mrs Reynolds accepted the note but made no promises.
