“My aunt says she only left because when she realised her mistake, she was too ashamed to stay. She was devastated to have injured you when she only meant to protect you.”
“It was never her place to protect me. She was my housekeeper, not my mother!”
“No, she was not your mother, but she was devoted to you. If you would read the letters I found, you would see that.”
“I will not condescend to reading someone else’s correspondence merely that I might forgive a servant their misdemeanour. Have you any letters belonging to the larcenist we dismissed last week that I might read and absolve her of all guilt, too?”
Elizabeth’s countenance lost its cajoling aspect and took on a more reproving turn. “Edna was a petty thief who worked at Pemberley for less than eighteen months. Mrs Reynolds was a devoted housekeeper, who served this house and this family faithfully for quarter of a century before making one mistake, for which she has been trying to atone ever since.”
“In what possible way can she claim to have been trying to atone?”
“That is what I am trying to explain. She is with my aunt Wallis, who has been the source of every piece of invaluable counsel I have received since you proposed to me. It has all been Mrs Reynolds! Every decision, every suggestion, the rapprochement with Lady Catherine, even Mrs Lovell’s appointment, it hasallbeen her. I could never have made such a strong beginning as mistress without so much help. I am indebted to her, but I do not think for a moment she did it for me. It has all been done out of affection for you.”
“Then she has betrayed a degree of presumption equal to her perfidy.”
“It would be more accurate to say she has betrayed a degree of dedication that is heart-warming. She could have chosen to have nothing more to do with Pemberley. Instead, she has helped write several letters a week with advice on how to run it.”
Elizabeth began fighting with the folds of her gown in search of something. “My aunt writes that she wept when they received my letter with news of the collapse. She has sent a whole list of places you might look for information about the estate that might help.” She pulled a letter from her pocket and flicked hurriedly through its pages. “Yes, here. Two specific crates from the library, an old picture on the wall in Mrs Wickham’s cottage, and some documents in your mother’s writing desk in the Chesterfield room.”
She looked up. “Do you see? She is still trying to help you.”
Darcy wished profoundly that Elizabeth would desist, but he would not be uncivil—not on account of Mrs Reynolds. He had nothing kind to say, however, so he said nothing at all. That turned out to be a mistake, for Elizabeth seemed to take it as a softening of his resentment. She lowered the letter to her lap and adopted a gentler tone.
“And do not you think, that if Wickham’s mother should be allowed to live in comfort at the expense of the estate, then Mrs Reynolds might, also?”
“What are you suggesting?” he demanded, disgusted.
“That we invite her home.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
He was positively itching with discomfort, his collar too tight and his face burning. “Elizabeth, I beg you would let this matter drop.”
“But you would not have her be destitute, would you? She spent her entire fortune, if it could be called that, attempting to keep you safe. I cannot believe you would more willingly give money to the Wickhams than to the woman who has served you faithfully your whole life.”
“I do not have time for this—I have a house to rebuild. Send her the blasted money if it pleases you, but pray do not mention her name to me again!”
He left, barging directly past his aunt, who was hovering about outside the door, without stopping to speak to her. Throwing his coat at James as he exited the house, and rolling his sleeves up as he walked, Darcy went to join the line of volunteers, of the opinion that he would be far more agreeably engaged hefting about the ruins of his house after all.
CHAPTERFORTY-SEVEN
A LITTLE PERSPECTIVE
Elizabeth watched with dismay as Darcy stormed out of the room. Her heart sank further still when Lady Catherine sauntered ominously into it and settled herself with exaggerated state in a chair.
“That was quite a display. Had you envisaged that my nephew would be overcome with sentiment for a former housekeeper who used him infamously and then abandoned her post?”
“I merely thought it might please him to discover that her actions were not as disloyal as we believed,” Elizabeth replied tightly.
Lady Catherine shook her head, her lips pursed. “Mrs Reynolds was a servant. Your concern for her is absurd. This is not the way to put my nephew’s interests first—this is the way to inconvenience and embarrass him.”
“That is your ladyship’s opinion. It ismyopinion that this will give him comfort. I know he was distressed by what appeared to be Mrs Reynolds’s treachery.”
“Insolence in one’s inferiors is always distressing. It should not be mistaken for apprehension about her future living arrangements. She is nothing to him. I may have praised your compassion, but you must be careful not to confuse liberality with radicalism.”
Elizabeth gave an incredulous laugh. “I am not trying to incite a revolution, madam. Only to recognise a very real attachment between two thinking, feeling people.”
