She earnestly did so and left with a lighter step, and I went back to my ledger with even more to think about. I knew instantly the rumour was indeed circulating, having heard Mr Darcy’s steward mention Scotland obliquely in conversation twice that week. He had done so with his bluff and hardy guffaw, pausing to look at me to see if I caught his joke. Of course, I did not know he was being provoking because I did not know Mr Darcy had an estate in Scotland, nor was I privy to the prevailing speculation that the master would not return home until he was rid of me—hence notions of my ultimate dismissal from Pemberley. I was thus able, through ignorance, to withstand his jibes with laudable aplomb. I hoped I would not burst out laughing if he had the temerity to continue to tease me, for Scotland, I reasoned, could well prove to be an improvement.
39
FITZWILLIAM DARCY, MANCHESTER
Journal Entry, February 15, 1812
The human misery I have seen in Manchester has astounded me. My own misery fades instantly into the background to witness the grinding poverty and violent scrabbling for the meanest work. I stay with Harold Greenly in a townhouse on the high side of the town. He came here after Cambridge and set to work, becoming elected at a young age as MP for his father’s borough. Harold, being political, knows everyone from the lowliest lamplighter to the Duke of Manchester, and he mixes with all.
Through his connexions, I soon found the displaced farmworkers I sought—a small group who came down from Durham where crops have failed two years running from flooding rains. This mixture of society is utter chaos to me. Last night we dined with the returning Governor of Barbados, and tonight we go to the lecture hall to hear a tradesman talk of importation and exportation. I am ananonymous figure here. The established norms of hierarchy are purely abstract, tended to when in London, but lost in the frenzy of industry and the clashing of those who eat against those who starve. This is the war I feel coming on, the premonition of change that haunts me. Of all times to be driven up the aisle by a mercenary woman!
The crowd at Liberty Hall was not fashionable. Before me sat a sea of identically clad men, dressed in the uniform of merchants, mill owners, tradesman, bankers, and agents—black coats, simple cravats, woollen waistcoats—all decent, functional, and efficient. There was an air in the room of great urgency, a drive to innovate and to catch the oncoming wave, whatever it may be. Perhaps that is why I, too, was there. We are ‘the workshop of the world’, claimed one speaker, and we must begin to harness and develop the power of our labourers to stay dominant. Wishing to engage this man in a direct conversation about my ideas for diversification from my estate’s purely agricultural income, I whispered to my friend Greenly. We proceeded to an informal reception and mingled with men of business until the opportunity arose for an introduction.
“Mr Gardiner,” Harold said, “may I introduce my friend from Cambridge, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”
The strangest look crossed Mr Gardiner’s face. He met me with a searching look and a stiffness that took me aback. He seemed neither friendly nor hostile, but I sensed he was taking the measure of me. I spoke to him at length, and he listened to me, responding with his opinions, which seemed very knowledgeable, and I began to wish for something more from him. Mr Gardiner, however, did not give the impression of openness. Greenly was pulled away to speak tosomeone I did not know, and sensing he was unlikely to invite me to a club for drinks and a continuation of our conversation, I thanked the man in preparation for taking my leave of him.
“Mr Darcy, do you have any idea who I might be to you?” he said abruptly.
If I had not known better, I would have thought his tone rather confrontational. “To me, sir?” I replied coldly.
“I am Elizabeth Bennet’s uncle,” he said in a slightly victorious manner. “I bid you goodnight, sir.”
Greenly returned to see me standing alone, facing a wall. “Are you well, Darcy?”
I mumbled a reply, and we departed the lecture hall.
“Are you sure you are well?” After the fifth time my friend asked me that question, I was tempted to be candid and admit that no, I was not entirely well. Instead, I assured him in a deadened voice that I was perfectly well but perhaps a little tired. I wished for a month to ponder what had just occurred, but an evening alone in my room had to suffice.
I could not understand why I felt ashamed and found wanting. The conversation ran in a continuous loop around my head. Apparently, I was not well regarded by my wife’s uncle, though in truth I should have been. I married the woman, did I not? I was agentleman,and he was atradesman.I could have squirmed my way out of Meryton and left his niece to her ruination, for God’s sake.Shecompromisedme!
Instead of absconding, I had elevated her to a position she could hardly have aspired to without resorting to treachery. She was not mistreated, she was allowed to associate freely with my sister and my people, she was given every advantage, including generous pin money. By rights, Mr Gardiner should have been the one feeling the hot flush ofembarrassment, yet I feltmyface alternate between the pallor of shock and the heat of mortification.
Days ran together. Not knowing where to turn, half fearing a chance encounter with the offended uncle of my unwanted wife, I was almost relieved to receive a note from Johnson asking me to return to Pemberley to consult on a ‘delicate matter’ that had arisen. My refuge in Manchester no longer appealed, but I would rather not have been summoned to Pemberley.
What has she done now?I thought to myself as I grimly issued instructions for travel.
40
I arrived at twilight. The ladies of the house were in their rooms, I presumed, as no delegation of welcome met me. In fairness, I conceded I did not send word ahead of my coming, and I was happier not to speak to anyone in the mood I was in. After a wash and change of clothes, I retreated to my study and summoned my steward. We spoke for half an hour before I summoned Mrs Darcy.
She was prompt, no doubt warned of my arrival by then and expecting a reckoning. I had never seen her look so fierce. Her eyes glinted with black fire. Her hair was pulled back in a perfunctory way, and she wore a serviceable wool dress with a plain fichu up to her chin. She certainly did not strive to influence my judgment through the expedient of comely looks.
“Mr Darcy,” she said with a curtsey. As she straightened, she looked at my steward and nodded. “Mr Johnson.”
“Will you not sit, ma’am?”
“I think not. Clearly, I am here for a reprimand. If wemight accelerate the inevitable, we will then be at leisure to part company.”
“If you wish.” I stood behind my desk suddenly feeling fairly unnerved by her lack of trepidation. “I understand you have roiled the entire neighbourhood.”
“Apparently so. On a very icy afternoon, I was returning from Curate Hodge’s house and saw a bedraggled family at the side of the open road. I stopped the coach, shuffled them inside, returned to the parsonage, and begged shelter for them in a room beside the stable. I then selected clothing and blankets from the poor box, went to Swanson’s for meat pies and such, begged Miss Hodge for milk, saw them settled, then stopped at the carter on the edge of Lambton and paid him to drive the family to Sheffield to catch the Yorkshire stage in the morning with the fare I gave them. That is my account of it, but I am sure you know all this already.”
To her credit, she did not glare daggers at Johnson—the tale bearer—who stood with his arms crossed.
“You were aware they were Irish, were you not?”
“I suppose so, though I had no reason to think twice about where they came from. They had with them a child of not two years, another just out of leading strings, and two more besides. Their father attempted to sell me his seed potatoes in desperation. They were half frozen and would not have survived the night, having walked ten miles from Clarkston and finding themselves done for in that deserted stretch between Lambton and the Maunders’ estate.”
