Page 40 of Affectations of Candour

He had considered converting the villa to a hotel but did not see it as a sound business venture. The one farther up the Somerset coast in Weston-super-Mare was closing its doors due to lack of custom. However, if I commit to improving the roads hereabouts, that would make Wyman’s Cove more attractive to prospective buyers and certainly safer for travellers. He would give it serious thought, but he had little desire to oversee a property so far removed from both Derbyshire and London. He already did enough travelling between those two points.

So, after seeing to the road improvements, he would put Strandsmere up for purchase and hope for the best. Mr Wright might not have been entirely wrong when he said that no one in their right mind would choose to live here, but there might be more interest in Somerset’s coastal property in years to come. If I can entice a buyer, then a bride’s lack of a dowry would be less of a concern.

As for affection, he had an abundance of it for Elizabeth and none for Miss Wright, who had not been blameless in the mishap at the pond. Nor had she ever treated Elizabeth with due respect. Were it not for Georgiana’s close friendship with Miss Althea, Darcy might have ordered the entire Wright family to pack and begone. His whole purpose in being at Strandsmere was to raise Georgiana’s spirits, and banishing her friend would undo all that had been achieved.

The room having grown increasingly warm, he removed his coat. About to resume his correspondence, he sighed when there came a knock at the door. “Come.”

One of the ladies who had been on his mind entered, but she was not the one he most desired to see. “There you are!” she cried.

“Yes, I am aware of my own whereabouts.” Rising from his chair, Darcy donned the coat he had just shed. Miss Wright dropped a curtsey and wished him a good morning. Regretting his earlier mocking tone, he smiled and offered her a seat.

With a tattered piece of paper, she fanned her face. “I trust I am not interrupting anything important.”

Sitting behind his desk, he glared at the stack of legal documents requiring his signature and that of a witness. “Not at all. What may I do for you, Miss Wright?”

“It is not about what you can do for me but rather what I am about to do for you.”

The triumphant gleam in her eyes giving him pause, Darcy took his time setting aside the pen and sanding the letter he had been writing. “And what might that be, madam?”

“A distressing piece of communication has come into my possession, and I could do naught but bring the matter to your attention.”

Miss Wright came round his desk, bringing with her an odd aroma of mint, lavender, vinegar, and other odours Darcy could not discern. Fanning herself again, the strange fusion wafted about, and his eyes watered.

“Prepare yourself, sir, for something disgraceful.”

“I am unafraid, madam.”

“Before I show you this, have you ever known Miss Bennet to be called Lizzy?”

“Yes. It is the name used by her family.”

“And what is the name of that family’s estate?”

“Longbourn.”

“And does Miss Bennet have a sister named Jane?”

“Yes.” Distressing communication. Something dreadful. Longbourn. Jane. Darcy feared the worst. “Miss Wright, kindly cease this inquisition and explain yourself.”

“This is from Elizabeth Bennet’s loving sister Jane, and it is self-explained.” Handing him the worn paper, she pointed to a paragraph, which he then silently read.

I shall not say that your beloved Mr Morse is dying, Lizzy, but I am afraid he may not be long for this world. I fear, dear sister, that your pleasurable nights will never be the same again. Return to Longbourn with utmost haste before it is too late to bestow one final tender embrace and bid your favourite a fond farewell.

Casting his eyes over preceding and succeeding paragraphs, all Darcy saw were prosaic mentions of the health of flower beds and family members. Placing the paper upon his desk, he slowly smoothed its creases.

“Salacious, is it not, sir? Surely you cannot doubt as to what that passage alludes.”

“I have a perfect comprehension of what you believe it means. However, I have some questions to ask of you. First, how did this page come to be in your possession? Second, there is no signature, so how do you know it was written by a loving sister Jane?” That question made Miss Wright’s eyes grow wild. “Third, where, pray tell, is the rest of this letter?”

“I found that page, and only that one, hidden on your punt.” Rubbing her arms, Miss Wright spoke in fits and starts. “It was tucked between the…the…um…runnel? And the thwart. I, um, only assume the identity of the sender, because Miss Bennet told me recently that she was expecting any moment a letter from her dearest sister, Jane.” Her hand shook as she reached for the incriminating paper.

Darcy slapped his palm upon it.

“May I have it back, please? Goodness, it is warm in here, is it not?” Miss Wright reached again for her makeshift fan, but his hand remained firmly in place. “Are you not disgusted by all of this? Is it not incredible?”

“Oh yes, I am disgusted and incredulous. But you have not conclusively ascertained that this Lizzy”—he tapped a finger on the page—“is anyone we know.” Notwithstanding the fact that Longbourn has only one Lizzy. Or does it? What is the given name of Mrs Bennet? Darcy rubbed his forehead in an attempt to banish that outlandish thought.

When Miss Wright left in a huff, Darcy busied himself, reading everything that needed to be read, writing everything that needed to be written, and signing everything that needed a signature, all the while giving sidelong glances to the crumpled page upon his desk.