I watched her cross the room. At least her dresses were no longer milkmaid rags. The rust-coloured silk of her bodice and sleeves, I noted with a critical eye, lessened the brownness of her skin and made her appear almost cream-complexioned.
“Is Miss Darcy with them?” she asked quietly.
“She is, ma’am, but Mrs Annesley is in bed with the headache at the moment.”
“That will never do. I will join her directly. Thank you.”
She left the room. I stood and ambled in a posture of innocence towards the table where her work remained in its interrupted state. Glancing once at the closed door, I leant over the table and examined a drawing she had made from one of the more ornate, hand-coloured pages—a copy of the battle of Portland of 1653. She had painstakingly reproduced the flanking ships and was now apparently at work on the patterned flourishes which indicated the currents of the English Channel. A letter sat to the right of this work. I knew I should not read it, but my eyes took it in nonetheless.
Dear Papa,
I am well and hope you are in health. Mr Darcy’s library must be the eighth wonder of the world. I have come across the Annals of the Anglo-Dutch Wars, and I recall you often wished to possess the work after discovering it in your favourite London bookshop. Having seen it firsthand, I now comprehend why it costs a small fortune. I have reproduced the battle of Portland as best as my poor skill allows, since I knowyou were quite enamoured of Admiral Blake’s tactics when you were a boy.
I trust Mama is no longer keeping to her bed and that my younger sisters are benefiting from Mrs Dolby’s academy. Jane writes, of course, but not often. I believe Aunt Gardiner keeps her much occupied.
I will not distress you by writing of my feelings of estrangement from you, but then, I suppose I have just done what I said I would not do.
Forgive me, Papa. I love you always.
Estrangement! I shook my head and put half a room’s distance between myself and the table. I could not account for Mr Bennet’s treatment of his second daughter. Any other threadbare gentleman with a few acres and a tumble-down estate would delight in a daughter with sufficient acumen to snag Darcy of Pemberley in an inescapable trap. By rights, her father should have lavished her with wedding clothes and a reticule full of pound notes when he sent her off newly married, suddenly rich, and most advantageously elevated in status.
Apparently, Mr Bennet was none too pleased with his daughter’s stunning achievement. I could not remotely conceive of why. The knowledge was extremely insulting, in fact. But having made a complete hash of a perfectly respectable day with my ungovernable, adolescent temper, I shrugged off this puzzle, summoned Harrison, and ordered my carriage. Rather than cause one more regrettable scene at Pemberley, I intended to spend the evening in Derby gathering news of the grain markets.
19
Wednesday dawned, and from my window, I spied Mrs Darcy being driven out of the yard in one of the gigs. She was on her way to the Travers’ cottage, then to the Derby market on pretence. I wondered just how believable her ‘new-found interest’ in poultry would be on the estate.
As I stood there pondering, it occurred to me with a jolt that she would most likely be seen entering the town doctor’s house with Mrs Travers. The gossip that seemed inevitable now thundered into my head. That woman perpetually managed to throw an invisible blanket of fog over my thinking brain. I had agreed to her stupid plan without a single objection!
I considered cancelling all my plans to follow her to the town to make her aware of the danger, but Darcy of Pemberley went nowhere unremarked in the radius of fifty miles. If anything, my intervention would spark any number of sordid conjectures about my wife, such as I trailed her into Derby where she was caught in a tryst with some rakehellfrom London. Gossip never required anything remotely resembling facts.
Time, being unmerciful, gave me no quarter. But since November brought with it a post-harvest agenda—and in order to distract myself from my presentiments of disaster—I tackled those tasksen masse. All the home farm equipment required maintenance. The scythes must be taken to the Lambton blacksmith for sharpening, and the handles should be clean and oiled. The stockpiles of grain and fodder needed to be inventoried and stored in the dry barns. The marauding rodents of winter must be thwarted by the local rat catchers. There were roads to repair, fences and pumps, carts, drays, and the mules that pulled them all requiring maintenance after a season of hard use. Everyone at Pemberley knew their business, and it was far from my purview to manage these details, yet by enquiring minutely into them, no one dared to shirk their duties even after the exertions of the harvest. Johnson discretely wiped his brow after the sixth hour of our frenzied canvassing of the estate to oversee the work remaining undone.
As we came down the rutted track from the eastern pasture, I at last spotted my wife’s gig by the small column of dust that followed it on the long road from the spinney. After dismissing my steward, I galloped back to the stable before having to witness Mrs Darcy being fawned over by my traitorous grooms. I stormed in the side entrance, washed, changed, and went to the library.
The room boasted several tables. My wife had staked out one for her own use and left it in a continual state of clutter. Walking past the table deliberately on my way to a nearby bookshelf enabled me to conduct a covert inventory of her current fascinations. A stack of references on chickens andducks was pushed to one side. The naval history remained open. She was now embellishing the battle map with watercolours. The Irish poet was there, too, a constant companion to her. Glancing once at the door, I reached out and opened the slim volume to the bookmarked page.
Alone in crowds to wander on
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved…
I could read no more. A snort of pure exasperation escaped me. Tragic, melancholy drivel. What world of pains and troubles hadsheto mourn? A sound startled me from this furtive foray into her private business, and I quickly stepped to the bookcase nearby, where I pretended to browse the section on the British monarchy.
Mrs Darcy stopped to curtsey and walked swiftly to where I stood. Could she not walk at a stately, feminine pace?
“Forgive my tardiness. Would you prefer to go straight in to tea?”
“In a moment, madam. I have been in expectation of this appointment for the entire day, having become concerned that your visit to the doctor in Derby would be much remarked upon. We are not unknown in that town.” My tone was stern, even condemning, and I congratulated myself for it.
“In that case, I will put your mind at ease. My plan was—as you concluded—flawed. I was blissfully unaware that, as you say, I am not an anonymous figure. However, Mrs Travers was quite conscious of the need for discretion.”
“Was she? I am glad to hear it. How did you achieve suchdiscretionmight I ask?”
“After a cursory look around at the chickens, she pulledme aside and said she would just slip away for her consultation and that I best not be seen in company with her. I had already determined where the doctor was located, and we had begun to walk in that direction.”
“And how did you while away your time without looking suspiciously as though you awaited someone, madam?”
