Page 39 of Affectations of Candour

Miss Darcy requested that the carriage be brought round. “Miss Hughes, Miss Bennet, you and the Bakers must dine at Strandsmere soon. After consulting with my brother and Mrs Carter, I shall send round an invitation on the morrow stating the date and time.”

“Capital! Capital!” Miss Hughes had affected a deep, masculine tone of voice, then she turned to Miss Bennet. “Was that not a good impression of Sir William Lucas?”

Whatever was henceforth said went unheard by Hannah. Capital! She felt the blood draining from her face and thought she might swoon. Somehow, she had to find a way to take the letter from her reticule and return it without anyone witnessing her doing so.

When they reached the vestibule, she knew it would be impossible. The factotum, Tom—whose name had inexplicably come to her—was stationed there, waiting to assist them. Beside him was his employer, Mr Baker, with one letter in his hand. The console table was empty.

Pacing in her bedchamber while awaiting her younger sister, Hannah scratched at her arms. What to do? What to do?

“Hannah?” Margaret slipped into the room. “My dear sister, you look poorly. Are you unwell?”

“I am both conscience-stricken and, I fear, as good as dead.”

“Surely whatever the problem is, it cannot be as dire as all that. Have your bites become infected?” Margaret rolled up Hannah’s sleeves and gasped at all the angry welts. “I am accustomed to watching grooms add poultices to a horse’s limbs, but I have never done such a thing myself. I shall instruct Mrs Carter to see to the preparation of something for your poor arms. Lavender, chamomile, and diluted camphor or peppermint. She will know. For now, though, I shall apply cold cloths and hope for the abatement of your discomfort.”

“Do not fuss, Meg. These bites are but a trifle in comparison to what I fear is to come.”

“Please do not keep me in further suspense, Sister. Tell me now, for surely this curiosity will be the death of me.” Margaret busied herself at the wash-stand, pouring water from a ewer onto cloths, then gestured for Hannah to sit upon the bed. “Here. The water is cool rather than cold, but it may be somewhat soothing.”

Once the cloths were applied, instead of confessing her crime, Hannah simply handed the purloined letter to her sister.

“I do not understand. This is addressed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Why do you have it?” Margaret turned the letter over. “The seal is broken.”

Hannah wailed, “Yes, I know! I stole it, then tried to put it back but could not. As soon as I returned here, the temptation was so great that I opened another person’s letter and read it.” Hanging her head, she wept. “Meg, stealing post is a capital offence.”

“Then we shall burn the evidence.”

“Destroying post is also punishable by death.”

“How can they prove anything if we reduce the letter to ashes?”

Hannah jumped to her feet and paced about the room. “I do not want to destroy it. The letter is from her ‘loving sister Jane’, who must be a dependable source. And within is information that will ensure Mr Darcy shuns Elizabeth Bennet forevermore.”

“Show me.”

Heads together, they unfolded the letter, and holding it close to the window, Margaret silently read the section to which Hannah pointed.

“Do you comprehend the significance of this, Meg?”

“Yes. You must show it to Mr Darcy.”

“And what would you have me say to him? How can I possibly explain having that Jezebel’s letter in my possession? I cannot admit that I stole it.”

“Keep this page and fold it as many times as you can. I shall burn the rest. Tell Mr Darcy you found the paper on his punt, tucked between the gunwale and the thwart. Say that you discovered it while sitting on the boat, waiting for him to rescue Miss Bennet. He will think she hid it there.”

“Slow down, Meg. I know what thwart means. But what is a gunnel?”

“The gunwale is the topmost edge of a boat’s side. The thwart is the plank one sits upon.”

“Oh. I thought thwart was what I intend to do about Elizabeth Bennet’s designs on Mr Darcy.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Staring into space, Darcy twirled his fountain-pen. He had been replying to his steward’s report regarding the final accounting of midsummer’s quarter day and realised he had been at it for quite a while.

‘What is your definition of “quite a while”, sir?’

Thoughts of Elizabeth turned to thoughts of a wife and of how dearly he wanted to marry a woman for whom he had a great deal of affection—and she him. But there was the problem of Elizabeth’s lack of dowry. Strandsmere Park produced no income, and one could hardly afford the expense of maintaining an additional property that might be occupied only infrequently.