Mr Matthis did not quite roll his eyes, but a dubious expression came over him. “Correct me if I am wrong, Mrs Reynolds, but attending to estate matters is what a landlord pays hisstewardto do. Still, I daresay we should make some allowance for the fact that Mr Ferguson was wet through and late for dinner with his lady wife when he made the complaint.” He sipped his tea. “In any case, Mr Darcydidattend to the matter.”
“He did?”
“Indeed. Not long after the conversation to which you refer, he came looking for Mr Ferguson, and I directed him to Mr Sheldon’s cabin. And from what I hear, he did a remarkable job of placating Lord Felixstowe, who was fuming to have been called out in a storm only to be told he was not needed.”
“Why was he not needed?”
Mr Matthis leant forward with an elbow on the table, his aversion to gossip always quite forgotten whenever the information pertained to matters outside of the household. “The poacher turned out to be old Peter Mason from Edgeley Farm.”
“Whose son died last winter?”
“The very one. He has fallen on hard times since, only Mr Ferguson did not know it was him when he sent for the magistrate. Fortunately, Mr Darcy was able to persuade his lordship not to impose a fine. He let Mason keep the birds he caught, paid for the surgeon to splint his ankle, and sent him home with a warning that if there is a next time, he will see him imprisoned. You see? Mr Darcy is not neglecting Pemberley at all.”
Mrs Reynolds took a deep breath. That sounded much more like the generous, sensible young man she knew and esteemed. When she exhaled, she let go as many of her doubts as could be persuaded to release their grip on her conscience.
The conversation buoyed her to such an extent that she agreed to give a brief tour of the house to the couple who called shortly thereafter, despite it being a Saturday, when the house was not usually open to tourists. She named them Wisp and Wasp, which she thought Eleanor would enjoy, for one was balding but for the tufts of fine hair above his ears, and the other had her waist cinched so tightly as to make it seem impossible that her torso could be attached to her legs. With so many guests in the house and the east wing closed, there were few rooms she could show them, but they tipped her extremely generously nevertheless, and she headed back towards the servants’ area feeling still more sanguine.
Martha looked up from her stitches when Mrs Reynolds entered the women’s workroom. “You missed Mr Lynton. He waited for as long as he could, but he had to go.”
Mrs Reynolds’s complacency evaporated. “Did he leave a message?”
“Yes. He said the business with which you tasked him in London has been concluded satisfactorily, but that the going price was equal to what you supposed it would be. He said he would come back next week if he did not see you in his workshop first.”
“Thank you, Martha. Is everything in order here?”
All the girls nodded.
“Then I shall leave you to your work.”
Mrs Reynolds clutched the coin in her hand tightly as she made her way to her sitting room. It would not do to lose the last half crown she had to her name. Her steps were light, though, and she could not keep from smiling. The master’s future happiness was secure, and that assurance, she was perfectly satisfied, was priceless.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
FUTILITY & INDECISION
The week following Elizabeth’s unexplained disappearance hastened by in a blur. Pemberley’s east wing was gradually being reduced to a shell as every treasured heirloom and prized artifact that had been proudly displayed there was boxed and carted away. Floorboards had been lifted, scaffolding erected, and intricate plasterwork hacked off walls as though it would not cost a small fortune to reinstate. Hammering and shouting echoed rudely around the empty space, and dust settled like a second skin on everything that remained.
The rest of the house was alive with the usual bustle and excitement of a country house party, only here, it was carpets that were rolled back to enable dancing, musical performances that rang through the halls, and banquets of exquisite repast that were demolished.
For a week, Darcy existed fully in both worlds. Be it up ladders on scaffold planks, shooting game in the park, peering into holes in the ground, or listening to readings of poetry in the drawing room, life swept him along on its bow wave, demanding his attention on every matter under the sun but the one he most wished to dwell upon. Ferguson wanted to erect a tent and procure an inordinate quantity of beer for the labourers. Connelly and his cousin wanted him to come to dinner and were disinclined to accept no for an answer. Another neighbour, Lord Hutchinson, wanted his vote in the upcoming by-election. Garroway’s sister was indisposed, having wandered too close to a gooseberry bush or something equally inexplicable. His sister wanted a new gown.
Darcy could not refrain from thinking, each and every time some new problem arose, how much easier, pleasanter, better it would be to resolve it with Elizabeth at his side.
Not helping to allay his melancholy in any way, was his cousins’ shock upon arriving at Pemberley the following Monday and being shown the progress of works. Viscount Linseagh and Colonel Fitzwilliam had come for some shooting, and either Darcy’s account must have been wanting or they could not have taken seriously his report of the disruption at Pemberley, for both seemed horrified by what they saw.
“Good grief, Darcy! Your letter said a crack, not a ravine!” exclaimed Colonel Fitzwilliam as they walked towards the men at work.
Darcy shook his head ruefully. They had approached from the back of the house, where the smaller fissures were not visible at a distance. From this angle, the most shocking sight was the raked shoring, jutting out from the wall like spindly buttresses, and the sizeable channel that had been dug along the foot of the wall. He indicated for them to follow him around the corner. There, on the easternmost wall, was the original fault, still as shocking to him as the first day he laid eyes on it.
“Thatis the crack I wrote to you about.”
At his side, Linseagh blew out his breath in a muted whistle. “That is a distressing sight and no mistake.”
“Have they established, then, that it needs underpinning?” Fitzwilliam asked. “For it looks as though they have already begun.”
“That is only to expose the foundations for the architect to assess. Though, it looks more and more likely that it is subsidence.”
“On solid limestone?” Linseagh queried sceptically, echoing the doubts of everyone before him.
