Conundrums & Coincidences (Mr Darcy’s Dilemmas)

Chapter 1

1

THE LETTER OF THE LAW

T he guard was clad in livery and armed with a blunderbuss, two pistols, one timepiece, and a yard of tin—a long horn with which he alerted others to yield right of way. Beneath his feet, the letter was secured within a canvas sack in the coach’s rear boot.

Sporting the words ‘Royal Mail’ on its doors, the vehicle was on an exact and demanding mission, stopping only for deliveries and collections at Enfield and Broxbourne before arriving in Meryton at several minutes past midnight. There, the sack was thrown down and landed with a thump at the feet of the waiting postmaster, who tossed an outgoing post-bag up to the guard and bid him Godspeed.

Mr Clark then locked the sack inside a safe in his office at the market town’s coaching inn, The Copper Kettle.

Seven and a half hours later on that early-May morning, Mr Clark was back at his employment, opening the post-bag, sorting correspondence by family name, and completing a tedious but necessary written record of each item before placing it in its assigned pigeon-hole on the back wall. Being the inquisitive sort, he lingered over one particular letter addressed to a local girl in care of her father. Holding it up to sunlight streaming through a dingy window, he could distinguish the names on an enclosed card. “Odd. Her own uncle is an attorney. Why would Miss?—”

The sound of the bell interrupted him. With a start, he shoved the letter into its slot and turned towards the jarring clangs.

“Good morning, Mr Clark.” One of the Longbourn maids, either Patty or her sister Rose, smiled sweetly at him while setting down the heavy hand-bell. “Is there aught for Longbourn today?”

“Aye.” The postmaster fetched four items from the Bennets’ compartment. “These three look like mercantile invoices from tradespeople wanting accounts settled.” He winked while handing them to her. “No doubt the result of Mrs Bennet’s shopping on tick for fripperies in London, eh? And”—he paused, holding back the final piece—“this here seems intriguing.” Before relinquishing the letter, he extended his other palm and waggled his fingers. “That will be sixpence per item, missy.”

The maid hesitated. “Mr Bennet might gripe about paying for post from a stranger.”

Leaning in, Mr Clark whispered, “I think it could be of great importance.”

She passed him the necessary coins before snatching the letter from his hand.

Thankful that Colonel Forster’s militia regiment would be on its merry way to Brighton within a fortnight—taking Mr Wickham with it—Elizabeth hummed while lightly tripping down the stairs on a mid-May day. Upon reaching the bottom, she was met by her father, who had just come out of his library. “Good morning, Papa. You seem puzzled. Is aught amiss?”

“Ah, Lizzy, I was going to look for you. Come into my room.”

She followed him thither, and her curiosity to know what he had to say was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the sheets of paper in his hand.

Once they were settled across from one another in matching armchairs with faded upholstery, Mr Bennet held up the foremost page. “This letter has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns you, you ought to know its contents.”

Upon discerning the close, masculine penmanship, Elizabeth placed a hand over her heart and felt the rhythm of its pulsations quicken. With the writing resembling his, she was convinced the letter was another from Mr Darcy.

Since virtually memorising the missive he had written to her in Kent, and understanding—if not entirely agreeing with—his way of thinking, her animosity towards the gentleman had softened into something like esteem. But what might be his current opinion of her? Did he still wish to make her his bride? Had he the audacity to apply to her father first? With mixed sentiments over such a probability, she prayed the letter instead contained hope for Jane and Mr Bingley.

“Ahem, Lizzy. You have not attended to a word I just said, have you?” Peering over his spectacles, Mr Bennet tut-tutted. “I said that about a fortnight ago I received this letter. Today I opened it, thinking it might require immediate attention—an astute assumption on my part, seeing as it is from a Mr Monroe of Pemberton he had made her an offer but was flatly refused.

Setting aside the missive and card, Mr Bennet observed his favourite daughter. “Your colour is exceptionally high. Have you a fever?” Leaning in, he aimed for her forehead with the back of one hand.

Batting away his fingers, Elizabeth said, “I am perfectly well, other than being in a fever of expectation about the letter’s contents.”

“Burning with curiosity, are you? Here,” he said, handing the pages to her. “Mr Monroe may provide a measure of palliative but, sadly, no immediate remedy.”

There was a slight tremor in her fingers as she read the attorney’s tidings. In essence, she had been named as a beneficiary in the will of Miss Phoebe Armstrong, who had died in February. At their earliest convenience, and no later than the twenty-ninth of the month, she and her father were to meet with Mr Monroe of Pemberton & Monroe on Chancery Lane in London. A timely response, the attorney wrote, would be appreciated.

Elizabeth gave a huff of petty annoyance. “A timely response. Good grief, Papa, this letter was penned on the thirtieth of April.”

“Yes, yes. But have you any idea who this Miss Armstrong was? Or has Mr Monroe committed some sort of clerical error? ”

“It is rather peculiar. I was somewhat acquainted with Miss Armstrong, and I am grieved to learn of her death. She was the dear old lady from Buckinghamshire whom I assisted in Cheapside over a twelvemonth ago. At the time, she enquired where correspondence might be directed to me, and I subsequently received a very nice thank-you letter from her. Remember?”

Casting back her mind, Elizabeth recalled that November day, eighteen months ago.

On that particular morning, Mrs Gardiner had requested her visiting niece’s assistance in choosing a pair of velvet slippers for Mattie, her eldest daughter.

It had been a pleasure for Elizabeth to accompany her aunt as they strolled through the bustling marketplace. With its hurry-scurry comings and goings of people and conveyances along Cheapside’s busy thoroughfare, excursions in that part of the city left her either invigorated or enervated.

As they were about to cross the street, a terrible commotion arose to their left. Shouts of warning rang out. People fled hither and thither. Horses slipped on cobblestones, hoofs clattering. Women screamed. Handcarts overturned, spilling their goods. Out of the melee, a huge, mounted horse—ears back, eyes wild, nostrils flared—bolted in Elizabeth and her aunt’s direction.

The panicked rider seemed helpless to control the frenzied creature’s headlong course as it galloped straight for a beggarly old woman in the middle of the street. Bystanders hollered at her to move, but she seemed paralysed, staring slack-jawed at the advancing black menace .

Without a thought for her own safety, Elizabeth darted out onto the cobbles and into the horse’s path. She grasped the woman’s coarse sleeve and, just in the nick of time, gently but forcefully pulled her from harm’s way.

Over her shoulder, Elizabeth shouted to the inexperienced rider. “Use your reins!” Although no skilled horsewoman herself, she had learnt to ride under her father’s tutelage. Furthermore, she possessed more than her fair share of common sense. “Turn his head to the side! Stop forward movement!”

Leaving the shaken, trembling woman in her aunt’s care, Elizabeth approached the horse and rider. “Easy now. Just keep turning him in small circles until he behaves.”

“I am so terribly, terribly sorry!” cried the young man while carrying out Elizabeth’s instructions. “Bailey has an excess of energy to burn this morning, and I should not have brought him to such an unfamiliar, busy place. All these people, the loud noises, and other horses have frightened him.”

Once Bailey had calmed, the young man dismounted, tied his horse to a tethering ring, and joined the three women. His face was an alarming shade of red, and as he doffed his hat, Elizabeth saw a shock of copper-coloured hair and hazel eyes.

He bowed low to the elderly woman. “I most humbly beg your pardon, madam. Are you well? Have Bailey and I caused you any harm?” He fumbled about in a breast pocket. “Ah. Here is my card. My name is David Hadley. May I have the pleasure of knowing all your names?”

Mrs Gardiner provided her information as well as Elizabeth’s.

“I am Miss Phoebe Armstrong from Buckinghamshire,” said the elderly woman. “And you and that beast of yours, sir, are a danger not only to others but to yourself. However, thanks to this brave young miss”—she patted Elizabeth’s arm—“I am unscathed.”

After breathing a sigh of relief, Mr Hadley said he was comforted to hear it. “But please tell me how I may make amends for giving you such an awful scare.”

Miss Armstrong assured him there was no need for reparation. Still, he insisted on doing her a kindness at the very least, so she gave him her direction. “If ever you find yourself passing through Buckinghamshire, stop and visit me at Oakwood Manor.” With a catch in her voice, she added, “I have no one, you see.”

Bowing over her hand, Mr Hadley said he was from Eton Wick and had an older brother living there at Eastmeadow Park. He promised to call on her whenever he was in her vicinity. Then, tipping his hat, he took leave of them all.

“Now, dearie,” Miss Armstrong said to Elizabeth, “may I please have your direction? Once my hands stop shaking, I should like to convey my gratitude to you in writing.”

While providing Longbourn’s information, Elizabeth took particular notice of the woman’s appearance. Of medium height and thin and sallow, Miss Armstrong was garbed in a black bonnet and a grey woollen cloak held together with rope, both items showing signs of considerable wear. Conversely, above pattens, her shoes sported shiny golden buckles, and she carried a gold-headed cane.

A year and a half later, her father’s voice roused Elizabeth from her thoughts. “You were wool-gathering again, my dear. What would you like me to do about this letter? Shall I reply to the attorney with a polite refusal? ”

“No.” Elizabeth passed the papers to him. “Let us go to town and hear what Mr Monroe has to say. But please do not wait until the eleventh hour to reply to him.”

“Very well. The epistolary debt is on my side, so I forthwith shall reply to this drafter of documents. Never let it be said I am a negligent or dilatory correspondent.” Rising, Mr Bennet leant over to kiss the top of Elizabeth’s head. “My little Lizzy, a beneficiary.”

“Do not excite yourself, Papa. Miss Armstrong was little more than a beggar-woman…albeit one with golden buckles upon her shoes.”

“Well, child, with any luck, those buckles might be bequeathed to you. Let us hope the benefaction will, at least, reimburse me the sixpence it cost to receive this letter.”

Once seated at his desk, her father flung aside the missive and opened Critique of Pure Reason . “For the time being,” he said from behind the book, “do not breathe a word of this to my wife. No need to add fuel to the flame. Our own curiosity may burn, but were your mother to learn of the possibility of a windfall, she would go up in smoke.”