For Darcy, the worst thing about this news was not the cost, nor the way Fitzwilliam looked at him, as though concerned that he, too, might begin to crack under the strain of such devastating news. It was that this event, more than any other, made him feel Elizabeth’s absence most keenly. He fancied he could weather any difficulty, bear any bad tidings, if she were by his side. He craved her companionship more than anyone else’s he had ever met—more so after those few, sublime days when she had seemed equally pleased with his society. Being without her was unbearable. Yet he knew not how, or whether, he would ever win her back.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
FOUNDED ON MISTAKEN PREMISES
Very rarely did something happen that Mrs Reynolds had not witnessed before in some iteration or other in her sixty years. This was perhaps why, despite her dearest wish to believe she had acted in the master’s best interests, her misgivings lingered. Had Mr Darcy’s behaviour resembled, in any way, what it had always been before; had his conduct mirrored that of other men, even, Mrs Reynolds might have been easy. Yet his strange sort of melancholy was unfathomable to her. Her initial apprehension that he was neglecting his responsibilities had altered to a concern that he was instead applying himself with uncommon—and unnecessary—industry. Her worry that his slight disappointment was persisting overlong had been replaced by the certainty that he was profoundly unhappy.
Several days earlier the news had arrived that the cause of subsidence had been determined. The incident of Mr Mason slipping on a ‘torrent’ on the north slope the night he was caught poaching had prompted the groundsman to investigate the area. A hitherto unidentified natural culvert had been found—and moreover, revealed to be blocked. Nobody knew how long it had been directing rainwater down towards the house rather than away to the vale beyond, but the resulting movement in the substrate suggested it must have been many years. Nevertheless, it had been discovered and could therefore be remedied, preventing further damage to the house.
This wondrous news—received to much fanfare and celebration amongst the rest of the household—had not lifted Mr Darcy’s spirits by even the slightest margin, and Mrs Reynolds was no longer able to pretend that the problems at Pemberley were the cause of his suffering.
She tried to convince herself that, regrettable though his evident heartache might be, it was preferable to the lifetime of misery to which he would have been condemned had she not intervened to prevent him being Miss Bennet’s dupe. Yet her doubts had received an unlikely exponent the previous day: a letter from Eleanor, containing the most distressing news—both in its very nature and in its unnerving familiarity.
With what violent indignation do I write to you this day! It is my turn to beg of you some wise counsel, and a large measure, if you will, of that practical advice which is your particular forte. Dot, my precious, undeserving goddaughter, has been dealt the most unjust and injurious of blows. Her youngest sister has eloped! Or attempted to, at any rate. It is no surprise that she fudged the undertaking since the thoughtless, empty-headed peabrain has disappointed in every conceivable way since arriving on this Earth.
About three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, the fool girl appears to have fallen into an Ann Radcliffe novel and stolen away with the most useless man to hand at the time. She left a letter of no little triumph for her friend, openly stating her intention to travel to Scotland, which has placed the secrecy of the whole affair in the hands of a bored army wife—not ideal, I am sure you agree. The rapture with which the note was written did not outlast the second change of horses, however, for the pair made it only as far as London before apparently forgetting their purpose entirely.
In town they languished for over half a month; God knows how or where they lived, but we all know what they were doing. Their memories, it seems, were rudely jogged when they ran out of funds. Only at that juncture did it occur to the halfwits that they might be better off if they were, in fact, married—but rather than trouble themselves to complete their flight to Scotland, where the affair might have been concluded both simply and legally, they instead took it upon themselves to pull the wool over the eyes of the Lord and the law, and claim an authority they did not have—to wed in England. It is now a matter of official record that they marriedwithher father’s permission—a fact that cannot be refuted without drawing attention to the disparity between the date of the nuptials and the date which all her friends know her to have run away.
You are wondering, I suppose, why I am not pleased that the marriage did at least take place. I might have been, had the bottlehead thrown her lot in with a man worth having. Alas, she abandoned all her friends and family in favour of a penniless soldier. Indeed, not even a soldier, for he has resigned his commission. I cannot see that there is any point to him at all now. The daft peacock has no title, no profession, no money—and according to Dot, no scruples whatsoever. One must suppose he is pretty, else there can be no reason but lunacy for the sister to have behaved in such a way.
In my humblest opinion, they deserve each other and whatever comes their way. But Dot has more compassion than I, and she cares deeply what will happen to her sister. Her father has agreed to give what little subsistence he can, but it will not be enough to keep two such ignorami in clothes and out of trouble. A more resourceful woman would find herself work, but Peabrain scarcely has the wherewithal to fasten her own boots, so we may discount any such recourse. Dot despairs of her running a prudent household, for she has not the slightest education in housekeeping. I have not the heart to point out that, if Peacock is as cruel as all that, then Peabrain’s woes will not end with an empty larder.
As to the rest of the family, their respectability hangs tenuously in the balance. The disgrace of a ruined sister appears, for now, to have been averted, although their neighbours are already whispering, and they are all living on tenterhooks for not knowing whether the original elopement or the fraudulent marriage vows will be discovered. The grief of a sister abandoned by her husband seems all too likely a prospect to me. Dot writes that her father has been made ill by it all. She fears for his heart. I fear forhers, for in her letter, in the words she used, it sounded broken. Write to me quickly, Agnes. Tell me what I can do to help her. In truth, I know there is nothing to be done, but I ask all the same, for I am powerless to do anything but grasp at straws.
Yours Affectionately,
E. Wallis
At first, Mrs Reynolds had been too stupefied to know what to think. The similarities between Eleanor’s tale and her own recent dealings were striking, yet it was impossible. Of all the people in all the world, it was inconceivable that the two sets of individuals should be the same. Nevertheless, dread had arisen in her throat as she considered what it would mean if it transpired that Eleanor’s goddaughter and Miss Bennet were one and the same.
As the seconds had ticked by, and her heart slowed to a less panicky rhythm, reason had re-established itself. Eleanor’s goddaughter was in the Lakes this summer—Eleanor had written of it explicitly, for she was eaten up with jealousy not to be going with her. Miss Bennet had been here, in the Peaks. One’s given name was Dorothy and the other’s Elizabeth. They were different people, and there was no feasible way they could be mistaken for each other. One was kind, rational, witty, and clever. The other was a cold-hearted, conniving fortune hunter, whom Eleanor herself had advised should be kept away from Mr Darcy. It could only be coincidence. Evidently there were more men like George Wickham in the world than anybody needed.
The letter had been refolded and set aside to be answered when she had more time—and time was not something she would have any more of this day. The guests were departing on the morrow, and a ‘last hurrah’ feast had been planned to see them off in style. She wished that, in between all the errands she must complete in preparation for it, the image of Miss Bennet, sobbing in the rain, would not keep darting into her head.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
DOROTHY
After checking the dining room fire had been correctly laid and patching up a kitchen maid with a cut hand, Mrs Reynolds set about allocating Pemberley servants to attend those guests whose own maids would be travelling ahead that evening. As she looked about for the correct face in the busy hall, it was the memory of Miss Bennet’s visage that accosted her, yet again, and she could not help but reflect on how unexpectedly genuine the young woman’s distress had seemed that day in the rain.
“Miss Cotton, will you have time to see to the two Miss Templetons as well as Miss Darcy tonight and tomorrow morning?”
Miss Darcy’s lady’s maid assured her the extra work would present no problem, then returned to talking to the footmen sat either side of her. “The young miss is ever so sad to see everyone go—and not just for her own sake. She is worried there will be no one but her left to keep her brother’s spirits up. It is a shame the colonel cannot stay on.”
William, without looking up from his polishing, shook his head. “I do not see why the master should need his spirits lifting. Not now the house is saved.”
“It is not saved yet,” Mrs Reynolds said. “It still needs work, and that will be costly and disruptive.”
“Yes, but even so—you’d think he’d be happy.”
“I do not think that is what is making himunhappy,” Miss Cotton said.
“What is then?” James wished to know, but Mr Darcy’s manservant cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Miss Cotton until she closed her mouth and turned her attention to her needlework.
The uncertainty in Mrs Reynolds’s breast was not so easily silenced, and before she knew she was going to say it, she blurted, “Please do not tell me it is the departure of that awful young woman!”
“Miss Bingley?” asked Miss Cotton.
