The sergeant affected a look of feigned innocence and did an approximation of standing to attention without rising from his chair. “I am not saying anything, Mrs Reynolds. I know how you Pemberley folk despise gossip.” She must have made a face of her own because he capitulated straight away. “Very well, yes, he did.”
Mrs Reynolds stared at him. “You must be mistaken, sir. I would know if Mr Darcy were engaged.”
“I did not say he was engaged.” He drew deeply on his pipe and smoke billowed from his mouth as he added, “Miss Bennet was not inclined to accept his offer, apparently.”
“But he is the master of Pemberley!”
“That did not seem to matter to her.”
Mrs Reynolds gripped the back of a chair and squeezed her eyes shut against the clamour of her doubts. ‘There are very few people with integrity enough to turn their noses up at all this’—so she had overheard Mrs Gardiner say. She had taken it to be an acknowledgement of how tempting Pemberley’s luxuries were, and Miss Bennet’s intention to acquire them by nefarious means. Had she, instead, meant to credit her niece for refusing that temptation, for refusing the chance to be mistress of Pemberley, for want of the proper feeling for Mr Darcy? In which case Mrs Gardiner was right: people with that much integrity were uncommon indeed. She knew barely any. One of those few was Eleanor’s goddaughter.
“They would have been well suited,” Sergeant Jeffers said.
“Miss Bennet and Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Mr Bingley’s man replied.
“No, she and Mr Darcy.”
“You might be right. She seemed to have come around to him on this visit. But then, he went to extraordinary lengths to give a better account of himself this time. Morning calls, dinners, picnics—quite the gallant.”
“Is that so? Ha! The colonel will like to hear that.”
“Do not tell him you heard it from me.”
“He will know it came from you. All the best gossip usually does. I say, are you perfectly well, Mrs Reynolds? You look as though you are going to fall over.”
She did not answer. She only made a vague, dismissive gesture with her hand and left. Horrible, gnawing certainty eroded her composure further with every step. By the time she reached her sitting room and locked the door behind her, she was shaking from head to toe.
Neither she nor Eleanor had children, but they had each been blessed with a younger soul to cherish. She had Mr Darcy; her friend had her goddaughter. Through their constant correspondence over the years, they had shared all their news, hopes, and pride for both, until each was as fond of the other’s charge as they were of their own. It was not unsurprising, therefore, that a tacit wish should have arisen for Dorothy and Mr Darcy to one day meet. Eleanor had often remarked that Mr Darcy would make an excellent husband for Dorothy, and little in the world would have given Mrs Reynolds more pleasure than for Mr Darcy to meet a lady with as fine a character as Dorothy’s. The prospect that they had met, that they had loved each other, and that she had torn them apart, was too dreadful to contemplate.
At the back of Mrs Reynolds’s cabinet were several bundles of Eleanor’s letters. Not every communication warranted keeping, only the most diverting or meaningful, but there were still plenty. She took them out and began running her eye over the pages for references to Dorothy. Mentions of her abounded—as did allusions to her home, which Eleanor referred to as ‘Bedlam,’ and her mother, whom Eleanor had never called anything other than ‘the Termagant’. For the first time in their longstanding acquaintance, Mrs Reynolds rued her friend’s delight in giving everyone and everything she encountered a ridiculous name. She could find no hint, anywhere, of Dorothy’s surname, nor where she lived, nor any salient information at all.
What she did uncover, was the letter Eleanor had sent in April, bemoaning the detestable man—dubbed ‘Starch’—who had proposed to Dorothy in the most contemptible, hurtful manner imaginable. Mrs Reynolds recalled very clearly the reply she penned at the time, decrying the blackguard’s conduct, and begging Eleanor to keep her goddaughter safe from all such heartless men. It had not been dissimilar to Eleanor’s recent advice to keep Mr Darcy safe from Miss Bennet. She set all the letters aside and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
There were a thousand incongruities—unexplained acquaintances, mismatched locations, ambiguous remarks—but Mrs Reynolds asked just one question of her friend: Who is Dorothy? She did not explain why she wished to know. She could not bring herself to admit it, but she knew. In her heart of hearts, Mrs Reynolds knew that she had ruined, perhaps forever, that which she had devoted almost half her life to preserving: Mr Darcy’s happiness. Dorothy’s, too—and possibly Eleanor’s. Potentially that of all Dorothy’s relations as well. And Miss Darcy’s. Probably even George Wickham’s. She sealed the letter and shuffled painfully to put it out for posting.
The grand dinner passed in a blur. Mrs Reynolds had never felt so old or so ill, and she retreated to her bed as soon as proceedings permitted—though, not to sleep. She did not think she would ever be able to sleep at night again.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
A RARE AFFECTION
“Lydia, you do not seem to understand what we are telling you. One-hundred pounds a year between two people is barely enough to get by. One or both of you will have to find work.”
“I do not see why. Plenty of people live on a lot less.”
“Not people who need to employ a cook because they have never learnt to make their own supper. Or people who wish to travel twenty-four miles to show off their wedding rings. Do you even know how much your fare from London cost?”
Lydia shrugged. “Two shillings?”
Mary closed her eyes and shook her head, but Elizabeth persevered. “One pound and sixteen shillings.” Seeing her sister was unmoved, she pressed, “That would be doubled for a return journey. If you visited Longbourn three times a year, that would be over a tenth of your annual income spent on travel.” She realised her mistake when her sister’s eyes grew vacant. She changed tack. “You will not be able to afford to make long journeys.”
“Then I shall make only short ones.”
“And you will not have the use of a carriage whenever you want it, as you are used to.”
“Then I shall ride.”
“You will not have enough money to keep a horse.”
