“Indeed, ma’am. My understanding is that Mr. Wickham does not own a horse, and that he has taken lodgings in the Lambton alehouse.” Winthrop sniffed in disapproval. “The Rutland Arms is by far a superior establishment.”
* * *
That evening, as she sat in her chamber, Elizabeth thought back over her conversation with Georgiana while they were waiting in the drawing room for Mrs. Younge, before they had gone in to dinner. Georgiana had approached Elizabeth with some nervousness.
“Elizabeth, William gave me the key to the cash box, kept in the drawer of his desk. He said that, as mistress, if the need arose, I could access it whenever I wished.”
“Oh, I am glad you told me, for I make a daily accounting, and had found five pounds in coins missing. Was that the sum you borrowed?” Elizabeth’s reply was restrained, but, to her knowledge, Georgiana had no need of such a sum—any purchases from the merchants in Lambton were made against the Darcy accounts, and, if she were to take tea in the tearoom, a footman would see to the payment. Young ladies of her rank would certainly not handle cash.
“Oh, I had not thought. I must replace it from my pin-money, though I do not know how to obtain coins.”
“Winthrop sees to the cash requirements of the household and the estate. The money is easily replaced, but it is wise to let him know. Theft of five pounds is a hanging offence, and if a servant were accused of it being missing, it would go very badly for them.”
Georgiana gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. “Is it such a large sum? George said it was only a trifle.”
“Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth went completely still.
“Oh, yes. He said he was expecting a draft from his bank, but it had not arrived. He needed the money to settle his bill at the inn.” Georgiana appeared unaware of the gross impropriety of lending money to a gentleman with no connection to her. “He said he’ll repay me Thursday next. Thereis no need for Winthrop to worry—should I leave a note in the cash box?”
Oh, the poor, naive young girl. It was certain that Wickham would never repay the five pounds. Had Georgiana lent him more? Likely, since he had been visiting Pemberley for several weeks before Elizabeth had arrived.
Should she speak of it to Mr. Darcy? He was already overwhelmed with the affairs of the Royal Canal; there was little he could achieve from such a distance. No, he had trusted her to care for his sister. And once she had her agent’s report on Wickham, she would know best how to act. At the very least, she could ask that Mr. Wickham be turned away from the estate. But she had seen how Georgiana’s eyes had lit up when he came upon them that morning. ‘Twas likely she was already half in love with the man. A dilemma indeed.
* * *
Chapter 13
Ireland, May 1813
From: E. Bennet, Child & Co.
To: F. Darcy, Royal Canal Co.
Darcy,
Communication between Thomastown and Pemberley is remarkably swift—only severe weather over the Irish Sea seems likely to slow our epistolary dialogue. Sending and receiving replies within a fortnight is singular indeed. Thank you for your thorough reports. I was particularly interested in how readily your Pemberley Pennies were accepted by craftsmen, labourers, and local merchants. Unlike many canal companies in England, which issue notes redeemable only at their own stores (a practice that breeds resentment by limiting workers’ choices), your tokens offer a far better alternative.
Do you need more tokens from the Soho Mint? With the current value of their metal exceeding their face value, I suspect the tokens might quickly vanish into blacksmiths’ crucibles—just as a conjurer makes a ball disappear under his cups. It would be wise to keep a steady supply on hand to attract men to the works, despite the cost involved.
There is one point in your report that concerns me. If I speak out of turn, forgive me—please do not take offence. You mention doubting your ability to oversee the project. This is nonsense! I hold your capabilities in the highest regard. After spending time at Pemberley, I see how significant the undertaking is—yet I have found no fault in your managementor operations that would suggest you are anything less than fully competent. No, what I observe is that you are perhaps too diligent, taking on every problem, large and small, among the men and in administration. The variable quality of your hand suggests you write your correspondence and keep your accounts late into the evening, when tiredness naturally sets in after a long day overseeing the diggings. I urge you to get enough rest at night; it serves no one if you fall into melancholy or low spirits. Surely, your daytime duties are more than sufficient—night is meant for relaxation and sleep. Did not King Henry IV complain of the same thing?—Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.
There is another matter—please forgive my involvement. Baxter, your excellent steward, brought to my attention a dispute between two tenant farmers over a boundary fence—an issue I understand you know all too well. A blockage in the nearby stream recently caused a minor flood, washing away some fence posts and survey markers. In your absence, the farmers returned to the dispute. Mr. Baxter could not persuade them to accept the established boundary, and while the land has been ploughed and is ready for planting, neither farmer will proceed unless he can be sure of reaping the benefit. It turns out these tenancies have been in their families for generations, with the original leases written in law French—a challenging language to decipher.
I discovered that the stream itself had shifted course over time. But the original documents—perhaps penned by one of your ancestors—specified that the boundary was not fixed, but rather always followed the line of the stream. When I explained this (neither man being able to read the leases themselves), both agreed that the stream, which is difficult to cross with ploughs and the like, made a fair boundary. Baxter will likely write to you about this, and I am pleased to say that plantingthe disputed land has begun. I hope I have not overstepped my bounds.
After browsing your impressive library—clearly the work of many generations—but not knowing your particular tastes, I have enclosed two books that may help you relax of an evening:The Swiss Family Robinson, a tale of castaways striving to survive on a deserted island; andThe Lady of the Lake, a narrative poem set in the Scottish Highlands, far removed from your current concerns.
Your servant,
Bennet.
* * *
As usual, Darcy took his evening meal on a tray in his room. The Argand lamp, which he had sent up from Dublin, now provided sufficient light to attend to his letters and accounts. Yet the weariness of a long day seeped into his bones. Was there nothing else to read but Rennie’s plans for the aqueduct over the Riverstown River? It was a simple structure, a single arch designed to carry the canal over the river. As with all of Rennie’s constructions, it possessed a simple and functional elegance. He had argued with the man that the masonry was too fine, that the ashlar limestone could be replaced with a cheaper stone. But as always, Rennie refused to listen, and without his engineering skills, progress on the canal would stutter to a halt—as always in such matters, Darcy had to concede to the man’s ambition.
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Donnellon, the housekeeper, entered.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mister Darcy, but Biddy—the poor daft thing—she clean forgot to fetch up yer post from Dublin.”
