Page 20 of Affectations of Candour

’Neath his mask, he’s corrupt and cold.

’Neath her poxed face, a heart of gold.

The author had signed his name, and the entry included the date and location, being Bath.

“Aunt, did you know the corrupt master mentioned in that verse?”

“No, dear. Neither the Wagners nor we Bakers lived anywhere near The Crescent. I assume the master and maid were merely Mr Wagner’s inventions. Now, have a look through the rest while I go and fetch something.”

While she was gone, Elizabeth and Miss Hughes admired the book’s illustrations and laughed at comical ones. In addition to drawings, the collection included dedications, quotations, sentiments, advice, and the like.

“Mary has a commonplace-book for her extracts. But what a grand idea to ask one’s friends to fill a page with whatever they may choose.”

“If you purchase one, I must warn you that my artistic skills are rubbish. I would be mortified to draw in your book, but I should like to have an album amicorum of my own.”

Miss Baker strode in. “I am delighted to hear that, Niece.” She placed upon the table two pocket-sized books with floral covers. “There. One for each of you and both completely blank.”

Enthusiastic in their thanks, Elizabeth and Miss Hughes then spent an hour concocting what to write in one another’s friendship book and then doing so while Miss Baker busily stitched more handkerchiefs.

At Elizabeth’s insistence, they each sketched the pair of them sitting together on the rickety steps to the beach. “Faces are too difficult, so picture us from the rear, my best side,” she joked. To her eventual dismay, her friend’s drawing far surpassed her own, but that was not saying much for either of them, and they laughed at their efforts.

Upon entering the sitting room, Mr Baker asked that they share with him whatever jest had just excited such hilarity. Proudly, they showed him the pages. “Well done, ladies. Although I received no inconsiderable pleasure from your illustrations, what may I ask is the significance of a pair of bonnet-wearing seagulls perched upon a pier?”

The artists protested, and Miss Baker invited her brother to do better, which he did by painting Cliff House facing a colourful sunset over the Bristol Channel, once for his niece’s book and again for her friend’s.

The man certainly had a hidden talent, and Elizabeth was pleased with the first two entries in her album amicorum. But what might the Darcys and Wrights add to her book, if asked? She was particularly interested in the possibility of an entry from the master of Strandsmere Park. What might he be capable of writing or sketching? Did Mr Darcy even know anything of drawing? More likely, he would choose to write a paragraph that would be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.

Miss Hughes gave her a slight push with her elbow and asked why she was grinning.

CHAPTER TEN

After days upon days of wet weather, the skies had cleared and tempted Hannah to stroll arm in arm with her father along the promontory. To their left was the Bristol Channel, to their right the extensive and neatly maintained lawns of Strandsmere Park.

Upon hearing a hubbub of shouting and singing from below, they stopped near the fenced edge of the grassy cliff and espied a dozen or so people on the beach, some with sickles. “What on earth are they doing down there at low water, Papa? Do they dare to trespass upon Mr Darcy’s property?”

“I am told that the residents of Wyman’s Cove have the right to harvest seaweed for fertiliser, necessary to enrich their soil. Collection is governed by community rules, so they are not trespassing.” Leaning on the weathered wooden rail, Mr Wright peered downwards. “Just look at them. Coarse scarecrows—men, women, and children alike—loading fishy-smelling seaweed into creels and carrying it away on their backs, falling further into decrepitude with every step.”

One of the ragamuffins looked up, noticed them, and waved.

“How disgusting.” Hannah steered her father away from the perturbing sight.

“Indeed, my dear. Similar to the Bakers, such people are not fit to be seen in daylight.” Mr Wright and his favourite daughter walked towards the formal gardens where no eyesores might be encountered. “So, what has been your success with Darcy thus far? Have you made progress since last we spoke?”

Shoulders drooping, Hannah wished she had some triumph to celebrate or some hopeful information to impart. How mortifying it was for her to have to admit, “No,” in a low, dull voice. That the gentleman’s previously apparent admiration had, in actuality, subsided was too shameful to confess. Squaring her shoulders, she gave a little laugh. “But Mr Darcy is not a man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short while.”

“A short while, do you call it? You have worked on him since December.” Mr Wright chose a bench near beds of calendula but far removed from the house. After seating his daughter there, he walked to and fro. “If you, the handsomest and brightest of my daughters, cannot win that foolish young man, then⁠—”

“I am not the problem, sir!” cried Hannah. “The fly in the ointment is that chit Elizabeth Bennet. I fear there is some partiality there, although I cannot imagine what a gentleman like Mr Darcy could see in her.”

“Ah hum,” her father muttered.

She gritted her teeth. Men and their baser instincts! Mr Darcy can have the chit for all I care, just not as his bride.

In addition to gaining financial security for herself and, perhaps, for her undeserving sisters, winning Fitzwilliam Darcy had become a matter of pride. She would not allow Elizabeth Bennet to win the prize. “We must put a stop to the attraction I have witnessed between them. In the meantime, I shall continue as I have been and soon shall have the gentleman on his knees, begging me to be his wife. He has something special planned for late August. I suspect that is when he will offer for me.”

Seriously turning her thoughts to accomplishment of that goal, Hannah vowed that although she would never resort to violence, if Elizabeth Bennet had designs on her Mr Darcy and his wealth, then she would be utterly ruthless. And if Margaret and Althea would not assist her, then they were welcome to find their own wealthy men to become their dupes.

“I have a plan, Papa, but first you must loosen your purse-strings and allow me new gowns. Meg and Thea may go without.”