“Something from the nursery with very large print will do.”
He looked at me in commiseration. I could no longer read comfortably after my illness, and he had even sent to James Ayscough’s in London for a pair of spectacles, but they had not yet arrived.
“Hmm,” he said, combing the shelves. “How about something with pictures?”
“Better and better.”
He proudly brought me his offering.
“Mr Darcy!” I cried, closing the book with a snap. “I refuse to look at a book of sheep breeds.”
“Shall I read to you then? Who is this dreary Irish fellow anyway? Oh, here we are:By that Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore?—”
“Do not dare. Upon my word, I simply do not wish toweep today—again! Can you not produce something ridiculous likeThe Mysteries of Udolpho?”
“I am sure I could, but no, you cannot make me do it. I see we are atpoint nonplus.”
“Well, if reading is out of the question, might we talk of the estate? It is strange, but I have missed hearing news, and my minders all seem to think I am too delicate to be told anything about anyone. Have you found a steward yet, Mr Darcy?”
“Johnson’s apprentice is adequate for now. I may even bring him along.”
“Oh? Is that Mr Riley?”
“Please do not tell me he has done something horrid to you.”
“He has always been polite, in fact.”
“Then he will do very well. What else? Oh. I have a new tenant farmer to take Ned Travers’s place.” Perhaps recalling that the ordeal of Mrs Travers had contributed to my susceptibility to illness, he suddenly glanced appraisingly at me. “When was the last time Yardley came to examine you?”
We talked of nothing and said a great deal until it was time for tea. “I really do not want to be carried into the parlour pell-mell, knocking from one wall to the next. I believe I shall walk,” I said upon my dignity.
“Thank the Lord,” he said under his breath, but he supported me firmly with an arm around my waist, and with the patience of a saint, he helped me shuffle along.
We were having a delightful tea until Jane leant over to see what Mrs Annesley was sewing. “Oh ma’am, this reminds me so much of my sister Mary. She always loved to work those little blue flowers into her handkerchiefs.”
Time stopped and a chill descended down my back.
“Elizabeth, what is it?” my husband asked.
“I should rest, I think.”
“Of course. Put your arms around my neck.”
Once in my room, he set me on my bed, slipped off my shoes, and pulled the counterpane over me. I was shivering.
“Dearest, what troubles you?” he asked softly. “Do you need Wilson?”
I turned to search his face for absolution as I confessed my selfishness to him. “I had forgotten my sisters. I was in the library laughing, thinking only of myself while they are?—”
“They are what?”
“Under my mirrored tray is a key. Open the locked drawer, and bring me my letters, Mr Darcy.”
He did so, and I shuffled through a handful of envelopes and came to one of Mary’s letters. I wordlessly handed it to him, and he began reading. After a moment, he looked sharply up at me. “I do not understand.”
“I cannot say I comprehend it either. Only my father had such a shock when…” I was afraid to meet his eyes.
“When your sister Lydia locked us in the constable’s closet.”
