“Mr. Darcy!” a much surprised Witcher exclaimed as he opened the great front door of Erewile House to admit his master and two companions several hours in advance of when he had been expected.
“Brandy in the library, if you please, Witcher.” Darcy flung his cloak and other accoutrements into the hands of the downstairs footman and motioned his friends to do the same. “And direct whatever kitchen staff is about to see what may be had to eat.”
“Nothing for me, Darcy,” Bingley broke in. “Had enough of those dashed biscuits to founder a horse while I was entertaining Miss Cecil. Or trying to,” he added in an undertone.
“Well enough! Gentlemen, if you please?” Darcy indicated the stairs to the library and then led the way. Once inside, his friends disposed themselves in the comfortable chairs to await the ordered trays. A thoughtful silence pervaded the air as Darcy leaned down and stoked up the fire in the hearth.
“Here now,” Bingley’s straining curiosity broke the quiet. “Will someone tell me what happened that turned the soiree out into the street? My lord” — he turned to Brougham — “I apply to you, sir, as Darcy will not breathe a word of it.”
Brougham looked over to their host, his brows peaked in question. “He’s bound to read it in the scandal sheets tomorrow, Fitz.”
“True, but it is to be hoped we got out in time.”
“In time for what? What scandal is this?” Bingley looked back and forth between them. “I demand to know!”
“In time, my dear Mr. Bingley, to avoid having your initials printed in the newspaper as a participant in the bacchanalia we just left,” Brougham dryly informed him. “For you, sir, I have every hope, but for Fitz…Well” — he sighed dramatically — “it is unlikely he will escape mention. Not after having brought Brummell to his knees! Oho, I think not!”
Darcy met Dy’s snicker with a thunderous frown, but at the last bit his countenance dropped. “Brummell! I had forgotten! The blasted cravat!” He fell into a chair and nursed his temples.
“Darcy bested the Beau?” Bingley sat up straight and peered at both men, trying to detect if they were playing him a joke.
“Win, place, and show! Unmanned the trumpery fellow to the point that he retired the Sphinx! By the by, Fitz, when do you give Fletcher the news?” Darcy’s searing glare and Bingley’s guarded disbelief encouraged Brougham into further displays of mirth, which were curbed only by a knock on the library door.
“Enter!” Darcy growled, and in moments several trays of food wafted their way through the door and onto tables. He rose and poured a round as the servants quietly left, and handed the glasses to the others. “I would propose a toast, if I could think of one,” he muttered, “but at the moment —”
“To friendship,” Brougham interrupted him in a quiet but firm voice. Darcy studied him for several heartbeats; the regard Brougham returned him was both steady and warm. Under such an onslaught, it was not long before a grin reluctantly tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“To friendship, then!” he responded, and held out his glass. Brougham brought his up, and Bingley eagerly joined his to them both, vowing the same. Tossing back the contents with a laugh, the three fell upon the viands supplied by Darcy’s staff and then settled back into the comfortable depths of cushions before the hearth.
While Dy regaled Bingley with an account of the events of the evening far more humorous than he recalled experiencing, Darcy watched Charles closely. It had not gone at all well. In point of fact, it had well nigh been a disaster, and he could not help but wince at the thought of what the morning papers would bring. As Charles was alternately amused and astounded by Brougham’s narrative, Darcy sensed an underlying wistfulness in his friend’s demeanor. When he answered Dy’s questions concerning Miss Cecil, Darcy’s unease was confirmed as Charles tentatively compared the lady unfavorably with one he had but lately met in Hertfordshire.
“Hertfordshire! Darcy told me. Will you offer?”
“Dy!” Darcy warned.
“On the estate. Make an offer on the estate.” Brougham made a face at him, then turned his attention back to Bingley.
“I had been considering it,” Bingley replied, oblivious to the exchange, “and had almost made up my mind. But now I am not sure. Darcy advises me to take more time and look about.”
“That is, in general, excellent advice; but there may be other considerations.”
“Yes,” Bingley agreed, rather too quickly for Darcy’s peace. “I thought there might be, but Darcy…Well; I could be mistaken.”
“I see…” Brougham let the thought dangle. “Quite right to be sure of your ground before charging your fences. Did I tell you about Samson, Fitz?” Brougham leaned back into his chair. “Lost him at Melton, the old sod!”
“No!” Darcy responded feelingly to the regret in his friend’s voice. At Bingley’s question, he explained, “Brougham’s favorite horse, and gotten by the same sire as my Nelson. What happened, Dy?”
“Stupid accident, really. I have been over Melton any number of times, know it like the back of my hand; save that this year one of the local landowners took his fields out of the run. I arrived too late to have a look at the new fields and, for certain ‘considerations,’ which I shall not name, rashly joined the fray.” He paused to sip at his brandy and looked solemnly across to Bingley. “There was a hedge, you see, tallest I have ever tried and, unknown to me, a ditch on the other side like to reach China. Samson took the hedge like a hero, but the ditch caught us both by surprise. We went down hard, but Samson took the brunt of it, allowing me to roll away with only a twisted ankle and a bruised shoulder. I had always laughed at the formality of Melton: the pistol and shot in the saddlebag and all that. But I tell you now, that day I was glad of it. To condemn him to hours of such pain while I dragged myself off to find a farmer…and all because of my folly —” Brougham stopped abruptly and looked down into the amber liquid in his glass before taking a swallow. “Be sure of your ground, my friends, be damn sure.”
The crackle of the fire in the hearth was all that disturbed the silence for a few moments after Brougham’s adjuration. From under lowered eyelids, Darcy observed Bingley’s response to Dy’s story and was gratified to see the thoughtful turn of his manner. He glanced then over at Brougham, nodding his head in thanks for his help.
Dy gave him an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders accompanied by a quick, tight smile and then rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, I must bid you good night. This has been a very eventful, not to mention revealing, evening. I think it safe to say we saw more of some people than we bargained for.” Groans interrupted him, but he persisted. “And were exposed” — more groans — “to some new experiences.” As Bingley chuckled over his puns, Brougham offered him his hand. “Mr. Bingley, a pleasure, sir!”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Lord Brougham!” Bingley clasped his hand and bowed over it, utterly pleased to have been granted entree into His Lordship’s interest.
“Fitz” — Brougham turned to Darcy — “I doubt I will see you again before you leave for Pemberley. You will give my love to Georgiana?”
“Have no fear!”
“Good! Send me a note when you return to Town, or I shall have to try to bribe Witcher again, much good will it do me. Oh! Give Fletcher my very best regards and congratulations. Would it puff him up too much if I sent him a token of my esteem? The expression on Brummell’s face was one I shall meditate upon with glee for days to come.”
“I am tempted to put him into your hands entirely! Charles” — Darcy turned to him — “excuse me a moment while I accompany Brougham to the door.” At Bingley’s nod, Darcy ushered his friend out into the hall, pausing only to assure himself of the click of the library door. With a jerk of his head, he led Brougham down the hall to the steps.
“Dy” — he laid a hand on Brougham’s arm — “my sincere condolences on Samson; he was a magnificent animal.”
“Yes, he was, was he not?” Brougham sighed as they descended the stairs. “As I said, ‘a hero’! It could have been me with the broken neck. Any chance of Nelson getting his like?”
“I shall look into it, I promise you.” Darcy glanced about and, seeing no servants, continued, “But I really wished to detain you in order to thank you. Your story has given Bingley pause, I think.”
“Do you really?” They reached the front hall, where Witcher and the footman on duty hurried forth with His Lordship’s outer apparel. “Interesting, that!”
“Why? What do you mean?”
Brougham slipped on his cloak and placed his beaver jauntily atop his head. “Because the story was for your benefit! There is more to Hertfordshire than you have told me, old friend. I know you wish to do Bingley a service in this affair, and he may well be in need of it, but ’ware yourself, Fitz. Make sure of your ground and doubly sure of the nature of your interest.” Brougham clapped him roughly on his shoulder. “Good night, then, and Happy Christmas! Witcher” — he turned a broad smile upon the old man — “my compliments to your lovely wife, and a Happy Christmas to you as well.”
“Thank you, Your Lordship, and a Happy Christmas to you, sir!”
As Witcher closed the door upon Brougham, Darcy climbed the stairs back to the library, distracted by Dy’s parting remark.
“Darcy.” Bingley’s sudden appearance from the shadows at the top of the stairs sent Darcy’s thoughts skittering. “It is getting rather late. I believe I shall take myself off as well.” Darcy turned, and they both descended the stairs. “What an evening!”
“Agreed, and one I intend never to repeat!” Darcy rejoined. “I shall take my chances at Drury Lane to hear L’Catalani in the future.”
“Oh, that’s right, we never did hear the diva! But really, Darcy, I have never seen such opulence and elegance in my life! Everything was in the height of fashion and taste. Although there were more than a few whom I would not hesitate to call ‘high in the instep,’ many were quite amiable. And Brummell, Darcy! To think you cast him in the shade!”
“Yes, well, the less said about that, the better I will like it.”
“As Lord Brougham said, there is not much likelihood of that! He is a great gun, is he not? Such condescension.” They reached the bottom, and Bingley took his things from the footman. “Great pity about his horse. Makes one think, does it not?”
Darcy looked steadily into Bingley’s now sober countenance. “Making sure of your ground before you take the fence?”
“Yes…quite.” Bingley took a deep breath. “I begin to see the wisdom in your counsel. I was rushing my fences, not sure of the ground, and disregarding the warnings of a friend,” he confessed. “I must think about Miss Bennet rationally, as you have advised me.”
Darcy ruthlessly suppressed his elation at Bingley’s words. “That is all I could wish for, Charles,” he responded quietly. “Proper reflection on the matter will, I am certain, yield a satisfactory answer.” Although the smile Bingley returned him was weak and wistfulness had returned to shadow his eyes, Darcy allowed himself to hope that his campaign was nearing a triumphant conclusion. If Miss Bingley could add to his counsel a suitably disinterested testimony corroborating Miss Bennet’s indifference, the matter would be resolved, he was sure of it. A note must be sent immediately.
“Good night then, Darcy. Dinner at Grenier’s on Sunday?”
“Make it Monday after I beard Lawrence in his den, and I shall be there.”
“Lawrence!”
“Yes, I intend him to paint Georgiana when I bring her back with me after Christmas. The next morning, I hope, will see me set out for Pemberley.”
“Then it must be Monday! Good night, again, Darcy. Mr. Witcher.”
Darcy waited until Bingley had climbed into the hack summoned for him and the driver urged his horse forward before turning from the door.
“Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?” Witcher asked, recalling him from his bemusement.
“Yes, Witcher. Dismiss the staff to their rest and have breakfast ready at ten, I think.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I ring Fletcher?”
“Yes, do so! And Witcher” — he stopped the butler as he reached for the bell pull — “I shall have a note ready to send round early in the morning. No answer is desired.”
“Yes, sir.” Witcher pulled on the rope, and Darcy once again mounted the stairs to discharge two last duties. The first was a note to Miss Bingley; the second would be a confrontation with his now celebrated valet. When Darcy finally gained his chambers, it was to find his nightclothes neatly laid out upon his bed, hot and cold ewers of water standing at the ready, and his toiletries lying in neat ranks upon the washstand. Gone was every stitch of the clothing that had been marshaled for his inspection earlier that evening. Unappeased by Fletcher’s meticulous industry, Darcy closed the chamber door with decided force and strode quickly to the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, summoning a grave look upon his face. The dressing room door sprang open almost before he had settled his features.
“Mr. D —”
“Fletcher, I wish to have a word with you!”
At Darcy’s tone, Fletcher’s eyes at first went wide and then quickly lowered. “Yes, Mr. Darcy, sir.”
“I distinctly recall warning you that I had no wish to compete with Mr. Brummell nor to occasion any undue notice on anyone’s part.” His indignation rekindled, Darcy warmed to his subject. “I believe those were my exact instructions, were they not?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Fletcher, you have failed me, then, on both counts.”
Fletcher’s head came up, expressions from guilt to uncertainty and on to caution passing over his features in quick succession. “In truth, sir?”
“In excruciating truth, Fletcher! You have made me the ‘glass of fashion and the mold of form,’ and I do not thank you for it! As it happens, I should have liked to have passed unnoticed at Melbourne House this evening; but, thanks to this blasted cravat, there was no chance of that. I find myself now in a most disagreeable position.” He began pacing the room. “ ‘Measure for Measure,’ you said. Little did I realize that you meant Brummell! Were you aware that he knows you by name, man?”
“I had heard rumors…” Fletcher’s face blanched white, in guilt or surprise, Darcy could not tell.
“Rumors! I wonder you are not in direct communication! They were laying bets, Fletcher, bets!” Darcy stopped only a pace away from his valet, whose eyes had once more returned to the floor. “I will not have it, Fletcher, I absolutely will not have it! If you desire to valet a fashion card, you have my leave to find one who delights in preening before Society. But if you will continue in my employ, you will content yourself with my simpler requirements.” He turned away, sat down on his dressing chair, and growled, “Now untie this infernal thing.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher approached him carefully and with expert fingers began disassembling the intricate article. “Mr. Darcy?” he asked after working out the knot.
“Yes, Fletcher?”
“If I may, sir…Exactly how grievously did I fail you tonight, sir?”
Darcy looked at him measuredly. Anxiety and pride waged undisguised war on a countenance that was usually closed to him. Fletcher’s excellent control was in near shambles, and given his intimate relationship with the man, Darcy had to consider the reason why. That he had succeeded in intimidating Fletcher he dismissed out of hand. No, the answer was not to be found in his anxiety; therefore, he must look to the man’s pride. He cleared his throat. “The Sphinx is retired.”
Fletcher’s hands trembled. “That grievously, sir!” He, too, cleared his throat. “Please allow me to offer my most humble apologies and beg you would not ‘think too precisely on the event.’” The offending neckcloth lay now in a limp heap on the dressing table.
“Humph,” Darcy snorted, and looked askance at his valet. He had guessed aright; Fletcher had succumbed to the siren call of his art, and by bringing the celebrated arbiter of fashion to heel, he had unquestionably achieved the pinnacle of his profession. A wave of understanding and sympathy for Fletcher’s pride in his art swept through Darcy, but it was soon tempered by the remembrance that the success had been won on his unsuspecting and unwilling person. Fletcher appeared truly chastened, and the inconvenience of securing in a new valet…He shook his head. The man had been with him since he finished University, and he could not imagine instructing a new one in all those preferences that Fletcher comprehended so well. Firmness seemed to be what was called for and, perhaps, an olive branch.
“I suppose ‘things without all remedy should be without regard. What’s done is done,’ but, Fletcher, do not serve me this kind of trick again. ‘More matter and less art.’ Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The relief in Fletcher’s voice and mien was palpable.
“Do not imagine that I am entirely mollified,” Darcy continued as he rose for Fletcher to help him out of his frock coat. “Until some fellow trumps your Roquet, I will be forced to suffer any number of fools wanting to know how it is done. Thank Heaven I leave for Pemberley soon.”
“ ‘The quality of mercy is not str —— ’” the valet began, quoting the Bard with sincerity.
“Yes, well, I beg you will not allow this triumph of yours and its attendant notoriety to interfere with your duties or those of the rest of this household.”
“No, sir,” replied his valet. The sapphirine waistcoat was eased from Darcy’s shoulders, and as he turned to watch Fletcher’s careful folding of his clothes in preparation to quit the room, it was plain that the man’s equanimity had been overbalanced this night. The entire month had been far too unsettling for both of them.
“Fletcher,” Darcy called as his valet moved toward the door, “Lord Brougham desired me to extend his congratulations.”
“He did, sir! Lord Brougham is most kind.”
“He wished you to know that the expression on Brummell’s face as he surveyed his defeat at your hands will entertain him for days to come. And Fletcher,” he ended, “my guarded congratulations as well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher bowed deeply.
They bade each other a good night, and Darcy turned to readying for bed, devoutly praying that his task of dissuading Bingley was near an end and that nothing would stand in the way of a speedy withdrawal to Pemberley. Both of them might there recoup their balance. Everything would return to the way it had been.
Darcy shook out the pages of the Morning Post and methodically refolded the paper before finishing a last piece of buttered toast and draining his cup of morning coffee. The news he had missed while in Hertfordshire was shocking and disturbing, the latest incidents of public disturbance chasing the reports of the scandal at Melbourne House off the front pages of the Post and making him all the more eager to complete his business and quit London for Pemberley as soon as possible. He consulted his pocket watch; it still lacked three-quarters of an hour before his business agent was due in the library. Not, Darcy sighed as he returned the watch to his pocket, that there were not more personal reasons than alarm at the rioting of weavers in the Midlands to cause his disquiet with his situation in London.
He pushed back his chair and, rising, walked over to the window overlooking the greensward of Grosvenor Square, now blanketed with snow. The trees of the park were dark sentinels against the whiteness, save for the upper branches, whose thready fingers were delicately encased in ice that sparkled in the midmorning sun. Darcy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, covering one of the window’s chill panes with vapor that hardened to frost on the pane, so cold was the day. He ran his finger up through the ice, drawing a tiny Punch against the starry backdrop of frost. How many years had it been since he had drawn frost pictures for Georgiana? Ten? Every bit of ten, he was certain.
He curled his fingers into a fist and with its side obliterated the clown and the stars as he finished his review of his campaign thus far. No, the necessities that bound him to London chafed sorely, but no matter in what manner he examined the problem, he was fairly caught between his promises to Miss Bingley and his own concern over his friend. He was obliged to see it to a conclusion.
The meeting with his business agent proved blessedly short, and Darcy found himself free to indulge in the one activity in his short visit to Town that he had anticipated with pleasure: the selection of Christmas gifts for his sister. As the heavily swathed James and Harry argued up on the box over the best route to Piccadilly given the early morning’s snowfall, Darcy turned his attention to the coming season and all its attendant responsibilities. Both Mr. Witcher in London and Mr. Reynolds at Pemberley had received funds for gifts for the staff under their respective rules. Hinchcliffe would countenance for himself nothing more personal than a holiday purse each year, which, Darcy suspected, he had by now parlayed into quite a nest egg. Fletcher’s Christmas gift had always been the same as well: transportation to his family’s home in Nottingham for a week and a tidy sum to lighten the hearts and ease the lives of his aging parents. Quite a tidy sum this year, if the weight of Dy’s tribute to Fletcher’s genius, which had arrived this morning, was any indicator. Darcy snorted to himself as the carriage pulled to a stop at Hatchards. Harry had the door open and the steps down almost immediately.
“It be a cold ’un today, Mr. Darcy, sir.” He shivered despite his coat and muffler.
“Indeed, Harry! Tell James to keep the horses moving, and you may come with me.”
“Thank ’e, sir. James!” Harry went over to the box to give the instructions and hurried back to follow Darcy into the establishment. The bell on the door rang merrily as they entered, bringing Mr. Hatchard’s eyes up from his counter.
“Mr. Darcy, so good to see you, sir!” He advanced upon them. Darcy nodded Harry’s dismissal to the servants’ waiting room before returning the greeting. “And how have you enjoyed the volumes sent to you in Hertfordshire? I trust they arrived satisfactorily?”
“Yes, you are most obliging, Hatchard. Anything more in that line?”
“No, sir, not even a whisper. Wellesley’s in winter quarters in Portugal, you know. Perhaps, between parties and balls, someone may find the time to scribble a few lines. I look for a number of manuscripts to arrive in the spring and will certainly keep you apprised.”
“Very good! I am looking for something for Miss Darcy today. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Miss Darcy! Ah, there is so much, despite what Mr. Walter Scott may think.” Mr. Hatchard led him over to an alcove furnished with a table and chairs. In a few moments a stack of volumes were set before him. Darcy paged through the selections, his nose wrinkling over most, if not giving them a frown, in statement of review. Settling on Miss Porter’s The Scottish Chiefs and Miss Edgeworth’s latest volume of Tales from Fashionable Life, he set them on the counter to be wrapped and sauntered down an aisle to browse.
“Darcy! I say, Darcy, what good fortune!” Darcy looked up from the shelf he was perusing to see “Poodle” Byng coming toward him, his trademark canine companion trotting in his wake.
And now it begins. Darcy cast a beseeching glance toward Heaven.
“Darcy, old man, what was that knot you was wearin’ at Melbourne’s last night? Dashed complicated thing. Had the Beau in a snit for the rest of the evening. Bit off poor Skeffington’s head over his waistcoat, don’t you know.” Poodle’s genial smile transformed into one of unwarranted intimacy as he continued. “S’fellow told me it was called the Roquefort, but I told ’im I didn’t believe it. ‘It ain’t the Roquefort,’ says I. ‘Roquefort’s a cheese, you muttonhead.’ It was Vasingstoke said it; everyone knows he was kicked in the brainbox by his pony when he was first breeched. ‘Roquefort’s a cheese,’ says I, ‘and I’ll lay anybody here a monkey that Darcy’d never wear a cheese round his neck,’ didn’t I, Pompey?” He addressed his dog, who yipped obligingly. In firm conviction, they both turned expectant eyes upon Darcy.
“No, Byng, you are quite right. It is the Roquet. And don’t,” he continued hurriedly, “I beg you, ask me for instructions. It is my valet’s creation. Only he can tie the thing.”
“The Roquet! Aha, just wait till I tell Vasingstoke. ‘Strike ’im out of the game,’ is it? Well, no small wonder Brummell was in such high dudgeon! But a hint only, my good fellow, is all I ask. No wish to compete, mind you; just tweak Brummell’s nose a bit.”
Darcy reached behind him and grabbed a book from the shelf. “Please accept my apologies and assurances that I cannot satisfy your request, Byng. I was paying no attention when Fletcher tied it and cannot begin to hint you upon the proper course. You must excuse me and will understand that I cannot keep my cattle waiting outside any longer in this weather and must take this” — he brought forward the volume — “to Hatchard.” He nodded him a bow, stepped around the dog, who followed his movements with a growl, and walked quickly to the counter.
“Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?” Hatchard’s eyebrows then went up in surprise as Darcy laid his subterfuge atop the other books he had chosen. “The new edition of Practical View! I was not aware you had interests in that area!”
“What? Oh…just wrap it with the rest, if you please, and ring for Harry.”
In seconds Harry was at the counter and accepting the package Hatchard had carefully wrapped. Darcy followed him out the door, unwilling to wait inside until the carriage was brought and risk further importunities from Byng and his canine confidante.
Down the street, near St. James’s, Darcy popped in at Hoby’s to be measured for a new pair of boots. There he was forced to fend off more Roquet admirers. He then directed his driver to Leicester Square and Madame LaCoure’s Silkwares Shoppe. With the modiste’s guidance, he chose three lengths of silk and two of muslin, promising to return with his sister to select the appropriate laces and ribbons. Then, it was on to DeWachter’s in Clerken-well, the jeweler patronized by the Darcys for several generations, where he chose a modest but perfectly matched pearl choker and bracelet and accepted Mr. DeWachter’s congratulations on his “triumph” with as much grace as he could. His last stop was the printing establishment from which Georgiana ordered her music. Sweeping up whatever new offerings there were of composers they both admired, Darcy allowed himself and his final packages to be tucked into the carriage.
“Mr. Darcy, sir?” Harry queried as he arranged the parcels and shook out the carriage robe.
“Yes, Harry?”
“What be this ’ere Roquet, sir?”
Darcy sighed heavily. “Fletcher’s new way of tying a neckcloth. Why do you ask, Harry?”
“Oh, sir, I’ve ’ad two gentlemen offer me a golden boy each if I was to smuggle ’em into yer dressing room to see it.” Harry shook his head. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but the Quality be a strange lot sometimes.”
Darcy closed his eyes. “Truer words were never spoken. Let’s go home, Harry.”
Upon his return from his shopping expedition, Darcy was met by Hinchcliffe with several piles of lately delivered cards and invitations entreating his attendance at a staggering number of routs, breakfasts, pugilistic exhibitions, discreet clubs, political meetings, and theatrical performances. Darcy eyed them with dismay and then threw the lot on his desk.
“Shall I send replies in the usual fashion, sir?” Hinchcliffe leaned over and neatly scooped them onto a silver tray.
“Yes. Regrets to any unknown to you beneath a baronet, sincere regrets to any above, and send the rest in to me. As it is, even should you begin immediately, I fear you will be up most of the night.” Hinchcliffe inclined his head in silent agreement and departed for his office.
At the click of the door, a sudden restlessness seized Darcy, propelling him aimlessly about his library. It lacked an hour or more until supper, and although he had planned to dine alone that evening, a perverse wish for some easy companionship gripped him. After the New Year, when he returned to Town with Georgiana, evenings such as this could be pleasantly occupied with the sharing of books and music with his sister. But even as he contemplated these future pleasures, he discovered, to his chagrin, that the prospect did not entirely answer. A gaping, unnamed discontent whose existence he had never suspected arose before him and now threatened to rob him of his satisfaction and complacency.
His pacing brought him to a bookshelf, and with hopes that the discipline involved in following the course of a battle would restore his thoughts to order, he plucked Fuentes de Oñoro from its place and dropped into a chair by the fire. Stretching out his legs to the hearth, he slid his finger along the pages and opened the book to the place held for him by the embroidery threads. As he bent to read, the words blurred in his vision, cast into incomprehensibility by the glint of the firelight on the knotted strands of silk that lay across his page. Elizabeth! How he had resisted every thought of her! His breath quickened as a flood of memories overpowered his mind: Elizabeth at the door of Netherfield, hesitant but determined; on the stair, tired but faithful in the care of her sister; in the drawing room, with arched brow challenging his character; at the pianoforte, unconscious of the grace she brought to her song; at the ball, Milton’s Eve, sparkling of eye, suffused with Edenic loveliness.
She would have laughed at Brummell’s pompous distress over a mere cravat. She would not, he was certain, have been overawed by Lady Melbourne or fainted at Lady Caroline’s scandalous display. He could almost see her in the next chair, smiling at him with that expression which, he had begun to learn, portended something delightful. His vague discontent sharpened at the thought. Uncertainty, delight, longing — they all had crept into his experience unaware, and alone in his home, he suddenly felt their effects most acutely. His fingers closed around the threads. What had Dy cautioned him? To know his ground, yes, but the other? To be doubly sure of the nature of his interest in Bingley’s affairs. How much of his interest was directed solely toward Bingley’s good? Was it nearer to the truth that separating Charles from Miss Jane Bennet was his surest defense against the confliction raised by his own heedless attraction to her sister?
Darcy sat forward, his elbows on his knees, the strands cradled in his palm, and stared hard into the glowing embers. He wished his friend the greatest felicity in marriage, to be sure. At least as great as was reasonable to expect in unions of like fortune and class. His own future married state he barely thought upon except in terms of avoidance. His estates and businesses were well managed and prosperous, making a marriage of interest unnecessary and giving him the freedom to pick when and where he chose in hope of some degree of happiness. There were often times in the night that he wished for the comforts of marriage, and occasionally a face and figure had tugged at his vitals. But the reality of spending his life with and entrusting his people to one of the frail minds and hardened natures behind the pretty faces that recommended themselves to him in those dark, silent hours had always succeeded in convincing him of the folly of trading his happiness for his comfort. He knew that both were possible; he had seen it in the lives of his parents before his mother’s death and in the faraway smile that would sometimes steal across his father’s face after. But now…?
He held up the strands to the firelight, allowing the currents of air from the hearth to lift and stir the gossamer threads, weaving, then unweaving them in twists of color. Like your thought of her, he admitted to himself, weaving and unweaving. You busily unweave your connections to her by dissuading Bingley and yet reweave them when alone with your undisciplined thoughts and stolen tokens.
A knock at the door caused Darcy to start. Quickly he laid the threads once more in the book and snapped it shut. “Enter.”
Hinchcliffe took a step inside. “Mr. Darcy, there is a note here without direction and in a hand I do not know. It is addressed in a rather cryptic fashion. I though you would wish to see it immediately.” So saying, he advanced and held out a cream-colored missive with no decoration or hint as to its sender.
“Thank you, Hinchcliffe.” Darcy took the note and, nodding his dismissal, waited until his secretary had departed before opening the sheet to the lamplight.
Sir,
Your instructions are received and will be followed precisely. I have sent to B, who, as you can guess, was quite surprised at my arrival and received word he will quit his rooms tomorrow for Aldford Street. I rely on you, sir, for his deliverance, knowing how well that reliance is placed.
C.
Darcy crumpled the note and threw it into the fire. “The answer to all your ambitions,” he jeered aloud at himself. “To be Caroline Bingley’s ‘reliance’ and her brother’s ‘deliverer’! Good God, man, what office shall be next? Archbishop, surely!” He slumped back into his chair, only to be brought up again by a second knock at the door.
“Yes, what is it!” he shouted.
The door opened by the hand of a very young servant girl, who with wide blue eyes and a small voice, announced, “You…Your d-dinner, s-s-sir.” She bobbed a wobbly curtsy, her blond curls dancing, and then fled.
Darcy stared in dismay through the open doorway framing the retreating figure. “You are becoming a regular Bluebeard, frightening servant girls…”
“Is there aught amiss, Mr. Darcy?” It took but a moment for Witcher to appear at the door.
“No, Witcher” — he sighed — “nothing is amiss but my humor.”
“Maddie did nothing untoward then, sir?”
“Maddie?”
“My granddaughter, Mr. Darcy. She came to announce dinner, sir. First time abovestairs, sir.” Witcher puffed a little with grandfatherly pride. Darcy’s spirits sank another notch.
“Your granddaughter!” He went over to his desk and, opening a drawer, fished out a shilling. “Here, for your granddaughter, to celebrate the success of her first day abovestairs.” Beaming, Witcher accepted the largesse with a promise to bestow it upon the girl later that evening.
“Your dinner is ready, Mr. Darcy. Jules has prepared a lovely repast of your favorites that awaits your attention. Shall I have it served?”
“Yes, please. I will be there directly.” When Witcher had left him, Darcy retrieved his book and placed it carefully back on the shelf, stroking the ends of the silken tangle as he did so. For a moment he paused and allowed her face to arise before him. Shaking his head gently at the vision, he let his hand fall to his side. “No, you must leave,” he whispered, “for I am his deliverer.” With heavy deliberation, he turned his back to her and, crossing the library and entering the hall, closed the library door quietly behind him.