“Every young man has been on a tramp at least once in his life,” he said. “I hope I can at least fend for myself to the extent of making tea and toasting some cheese.”
He had his back to me and spoke distractedly as he searched the sideboard and shelves. I assumed he was trying to find the teapot.
“There, by your left hand,” I said.
“Ah,” he said with a touch of annoyance as he opened the tin to find what was left of the tea. “Is there a reason this room is so dark?”
We used two oil lamps in Mrs. Jennings’s kitchen, but they had burned low over the last hour. I would have stood and gone to the alcove to find the oil to fill them, but instead, the sob that was stuck in my throat escaped and I said, “Th-Th-The candles are not fit to burn.”
To my horror, I then began to weep uncontrollably, one shaking hand clasped over my mouth as I cried. Mr. Darcy instantly crouched down before me, looking intently into my face with an expression of concern.
“I-I do not know why I am crying in front of you, Mr. Darcy,” I sobbed.
“You have had a shock,” he said once again, this time with extreme gentleness. And then perhaps thinking to redirect my thoughts, he said, “You were speaking of the candles?”
This was perhaps the wrong thing for him to mention, for the dam burst in earnest. I wailed and blubbered while every insult and injury I had endured in Lambton came to the fore, confessing all to Mr. Darcy in a mortifying, incoherent jumble.
“The chandler played a horrid trick…and the butcher enjoys tormenting me by wrapping up the worst bits…the laundress purposely misunderstands me and all the linens are yellow, and—” I placed my face in my hands and cried.
Tears dripped between my fingers until I felt Mr. Darcy’s handkerchief on my knuckles. I took his linen offering and strove mightily to stem the flow, sitting up to wipe my eyes.
“And…?” he asked, speaking so tenderly that I once again became undone.
“And,” I blubbered, “everyone is awful to me, a-and the candles are full of ash and sheep’s fat, and we are forced to sit in the dark every night to conserve the lamp oil, which is so obscenely expensive, and I have not read even two pages of any book since I got to this horrible village.” I noisily blew my nose. “And when would I? Auntie cries every night when Mr. Jennings does not come home.” I paused to try to catch my breath, but the tears would not cease.
Still crouched before me, Mr. Darcy’s face was a picture of concern. “You have done admirably…considering,” he said softly.
“By that, I assume you mean I am a failure,” I replied with a hiccough as I mopped at the flow of water from my nose. “You may as well say so, Mr. Darcy. Mama says I shall end a drudge, and Cook hates me after I ruined her best pot, a-and no one visits save Mrs. Edmonton, and she had a brothel.”
Had I really just confided so much driveling nonsense to Mr. Darcy? Apparently I had, for he put his hand on my arm in a gesture of comfort or perhaps to rouse me to compose myself. Yet, I still could not stop talking!
“The air is so dirty and so wet, and what does it matter? I only walk to fetch things, going up and down the high street to the last house while being stared at like a pariah…I-I hardly know one day from the—and tonight, I was nearly—” That thought was too disturbing, and I fell once again into my handkerchief as streams of tears came anew.
He stood up and turned away. I wiped my eyes for the hundredth time, rather staggered that I had just told Mr. Darcy of my every recent hurt and in such a stupid way! Of course he was disgusted. He must be! I certainly was. But then, there he was again, crouched before me, this time with a cup.
“Drink this.”
I tried to take the tea, but my hand—indeed, my whole body—still shook. He took the cup away from me and lifted it to my lips. After two sips of the warm, sickeningly sweet liquid, I felt equal to holding the cup on my own though I remained bewildered and sadly shaken.
Mr. Darcy shifted to sit beside me on the bench. I longed to—perhaps, I feared I would—lean on him, and I began to sway a little. We sat in stupefied silence for a few minutes as I drank the restorative he had given me. Soon, he took the cup and put it on the table behind us. For some reason, I turned and looked up into his face. I searched his eyes, and he searched mine, and I thought I might fall into his arms until my eyes fell to his mouth.
“Your lip!” I gasped.
Without thinking I lifted his damp handkerchief to dab at a small cut, but he grasped my wrist and lowered my hand as gently as he then spoke. “It is nothing. Were you hurt?”
My eyes watered mysteriously as I answered in a whisper, “No. But I am…I think I should perhaps lie down.”
“You must be very tired,” he said, lifting me off the bench. “Come. I shall help you upstairs.”
He again put his arm firmly around my waist and propelled me through the frightening hall and up the stairs. I doubt my feet touched the ground. Suddenly, I was pointing at my door, and he stood before me.
“Will you lock the house before you go, sir?” I whispered.
“You are safe. Go to sleep,” he whispered back.
Chapter Fifteen
I did not bother to undress. I loosened my sash, kicked off my slippers, and fell into a shivering heap under a pile of blankets on my bed. The squalls of shaking continued off and on with diminishing severity, and soon, I fell into a heavy sleep.
