Page 24 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“Looking to lease a property, he says,” Mr. Philips said. “I must say, he had excellent references.” Of course he did. Wickham had always been skillful at obtaining whatever he wished. “He has expectations of an inheritance. Seemed quite confident in his prospects.” Mr. Philips opened the door and, with a few more parting words Darcy was too preoccupied to distinguish, he departed.

Confident in his prospects. Wickham’s presence here right now could only mean one thing: he knew about the will. About the marriage arrangement. About Elizabeth.

CHAPTER 11

Elizabeth spun slowly in place, seeing her father’s study as it must look to Mr. Robinson. She sighed, wishing she could have cleared away some of the clutter before his call. The wealth of collected knowledge contained within its shelf-lined walls, once a feature she admired, was now a burden. The toppling stacks of books, piles of papers, and rolls of maps inspired her, not with wonder, but with dread. She would have to move every volume, peer at each letter, sort through every nook and drawer under the cautious eye of Mr. Robinson in search of evidence to prove her father’s case. If only Papa had done what her uncles had urged him to do!

An ugly sentiment crept around her gut. Her father sat quietly in his chair, his eyes on the newspaper he had been reading earlier rather than on the shelves. Even now, he would rather ignore reality than make himself useful. Swallowing down her frustration, she encouraged him to help. “Papa, where do you recommend for us to start?”

He looked up from the paper, sheepish and contrite. Elizabeth felt her ire deflate enough to regret the harshness of her thoughts. Anger would not help her find the documents any sooner. Setting his newspaper aside, he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pile of assorted odds and ends, dropping them on the wood surface. “Surely, if such an important document exists, it is more likely to be in my desk than anywhere else.” With more enthusiasm than was his wont, he pulled another armload from the drawer, its contents spreading over the desktop.

Elizabeth smiled at him encouragingly, though the expression wilted when her gaze wandered back to her writing desk, where Mr. Robinson sat penning a letter, his back to her. Shame flamed anew in her cheeks. What must he think of her father? Of her? As though the debt were not embarrassing enough, Papa had to mention the odious Darcy Arrangement. Perhaps Mr. Robinson had not heard the mention? One could hope.

All discomfort aside, she was glad to have his help. As soon as her uncle left, Mr. Robinson had wasted no time penning letters in a bold, elegant hand. He must have known precisely what to write and how to say it, for his hand did not pause mid-thought as hers would have done. Her confidence in the value of his assistance continued to grow.

He spun in his chair, his eyes meeting hers and catching her mid-stare. “Is the houseman trustworthy to carry out strict instructions?”

“Yes,” she replied shortly, coloring to her ear tips.

Mr. Robinson was on his feet and through the door, sealed letters in hand before she could think to summon Mr. Hill.

She shook her head. What was wrong with her? Mr. Robinson was a man of business, a gentleman’s secretary. No doubt, he had dealt with worse matters. He sought facts and evidence, and she would do well to focus on the same. Facing the shelf, she plunked her fists on her hips and planned her attack. The wisest course would be to start at the top. She would need a ladder for that.

Eager to see to her task, she twirled around and spun into Mr. Robinson’s chest. His hands, already out to prevent a collision, reached around her arms, steadying her with a grip that was as gentle as it was firm. He smelled of bergamot and citrus. Lemon or orange? Decidedly foreign. Slightly mysterious. Invigorating. She breathed in the pleasant scent, tilting her chin to see her bearded bastion looking at her with some concern.

At that point her good sense returned, though she could not claim the same of her balance. Bravely, wobbly, she stepped away before she could make any further observations about Mr. Robinson’s person.

He spoke before she could mumble anything regrettable. “Shall I start in this upper corner?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, returning to her previous post and fixing her vision on the mess of papers and tomes there. “Yes, please do. If you can reach the items on the top shelf, I will begin sorting.” She glanced at her writing desk, conveniently away from Mr. Robinson, to compose herself and ensure there was enough space for her purpose.

Papa had found another newspaper, one yellowed with age, and was reading it, chuckling under his breath. Elizabeth sighed and turned back to the shelf.

Without a word, Mr. Robinson moved the pile atop the library step onto the floor and pulled it closer to the shelf. The study seemed smaller with him in it. Or was her father’s library smaller than she had realized? Elizabeth had never been in a grand library with vaulted ceilings and shelves equipped with sliding ladders, but she imagined them often enough. Beautifully bound tomes and first editions lined on polished oak, orderly and cataloged. Cushioned chairs clustered around windows. The chairs in her father’s study were solid and worn, and the only cushions adorned the chair upon which sat Longbourn’s master, who slouched over the old newspaper. She shook her head to focus on the task at hand.

Carefully, methodically, Mr. Robinson removed ledgers, books, loose papers, and drawings Elizabeth and her sisters had given to their father over the years. Each was handled with respectful delicacy, though the sheer number of them slowed their progress. Determined that he not regret his choice to stay on, Elizabeth quickly sorted everything into categories of origin, date, and type of document.

The largest pile consisted of poorly drawn horses, disfigured faces, and lopsided landscapes—a stout portfolio encompassing all their work from every tutor and master her mother had secured for their education over the years. Memories wrapped around her, made all the sweeter in the knowledge that her father had kept every artistic attempt. A few times she noticed the corner of Mr. Robinson’s mouth twitch at a particularly horrendous sketch, usually hers. She had been too busy calculating seed-to-soil ratios and adding ledger sums to give much attention to her sketches. Now, she wished she had tried harder.

By the time they had emptied and sorted through the uppermost shelf, the room was too warm. She removed her wrap and set a window ajar, pausing to let the stiff autumn breeze cool her cheeks before she continued sorting. Mr. Robinson consulted with Papa on what might be burned in the fire and what must be preserved. Old leaflets and outdated pamphlets were discarded; her artwork and that of her sisters were returned to their place on the shelf.

There was a great deal more to be done, but that half-shelf gave her hope. It signified progress that would have taken much longer had she been working on her own.

“Mr. Robinson?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, Miss Bennet?”

She glanced at her father, who was too engrossed in his reading to look up from the page. “Thank you.”

His eyes seemed to ask For what?

“For helping us.” She gestured at the shelves. “This must seem… overwhelming.”

He regarded her for a long second. Did he regret his decision? She twisted her hands, wishing she knew what to say and hating that she felt the need to weigh every word lest he think worse of them. Her father would be of little help, and while she was tempted to believe she could sort through all the papers alone, she was realistic enough to know she could not.

“It is no trouble.” His low tone vibrated through her, smooth and calm. “I am glad to be of assistance.” The way he emphasized glad made it sound as though they were the ones doing him a favor. Of course, he had been seeking employment, so perhaps they were as beneficial to him as Elizabeth suspected he would be for them. Feeling the disparity lessen between them, the tension she carried in her shoulders lightened.

She decided she would ensure he did not regret staying at Longbourn for one minute. It would be her personal mission to see to his comfort, and she realized he should know something of the family with whom he would reside for the following weeks. “I ought to warn you that my younger sisters will be overjoyed with your presence at Longbourn. They are eager to prove they are mature enough to come out in society and will see you as a means by which to prove their case.”