Chapter 2
2
ELEVENFOLD
S itting in his carriage on a busy London street, Fitzwilliam Darcy tossed aside the newspaper and, for the second time, consulted his watch. Growing impatient, he drummed his fingers on his thigh. How he despised idleness and being left alone with his thoughts. Only you, Elizabeth, with so few words, could have caused such agony.
His appointment was arranged for eleven o’clock that morning, and, coincidentally, eleven minutes remained before he should sally forth. Were he the superstitious sort, eleven might be his unlucky number. Not that he remembered the incident, but at eleven months of age the young master had nearly succumbed to the measles.
When he was but eleven years of age, his beloved mother had breathed her last. Eleven years later, his father had died. In July of the year eleven, Darcy had installed his sister, Georgiana, at No 11 Chapel Place in Ramsgate. He should have known better. Her stay there nearly ended in a scandalous disaster.
Then, just five weeks past, on the eleventh of April—after the woman Darcy loved had scathingly refused his offer of marriage—he had left Rosings Park a mortified, bitter, and heartbroken man.
He had not been expecting it. He had thought she and he had come to an understanding and that everything had been going swimmingly. Every detail of how their life together would unfold had been carefully planned. But those castles he had built in the air had fallen to the ground and shattered like glass on stone.
Following that disappointment, he had fled to Pemberley and had intended to remain there for most, if not all, of the summer. Curiosity, not avarice, about Miss Armstrong’s bequest had lured him away from his estate. Wishing he was in Derbyshire still, Darcy consulted his timepiece for the third time before tucking it back into his fob pocket. Listlessly, he watched passersby on the street without really seeing them until…
“By Jove!” Lurching forwards, he craned his neck for a better view down Chancery Lane. Is that? He thought he had seen her and her father entering a carriage farther down the street. But seeing Miss Elizabeth Bennet was nothing extraordinary; he saw her wherever he went.
Easing back against the squabs, Darcy closed his eyes. Never is it really her. No matter. He had shifted for himself perfectly well before meeting the young lady, and he would shift well enough again without her in his life. Surely he would. Some day.
Taking up his walking stick, he stepped out of his equipage and stood then on the street, watching the carriage in question—which very much resembled Mr Bennet’s—pull away from the kerb. Longing to peer inside, he was disappointed that the only glimpse he could catch was of a gentleman, hat pulled low, sitting on the rear-facing seat. Darcy turned towards the building and, as he climbed them, he counted the steps to the entry.
Eleven. Of course.
At precisely eleven o’clock, he was greeted by Mr Monroe of Pemberton & Monroe and invited into his office. Five minutes or so later, after tea was served by a young clerk named Stevens, Mr Monroe folded his hands atop the desk and dispensed with chit-chat. “Now then, Mr Darcy, as reported in my letter dated the thirtieth of April, Miss Phoebe Armstrong became physically infirm and unable to care for herself in January of last year. God rest her soul, she died this February, and you, sir, have been named as a beneficiary in her will.”
“I presume you speak of the Miss Phoebe Armstrong who was born in the Northwest and later came to reside in Buckinghamshire.”
The attorney responded in the affirmative and made it known he had served as Miss Armstrong’s man of business for just over two years. “She wished to bequeath something to you in thanks for”—he opened a document case—“your kindnesses in the year nine. As I understand it, you learnt of the difficulty she encountered on her southward journey from Carlisle.”
“Yes. She had planned to stay two nights in Lambton, but the inn had been damaged by fire. Accommodation was provided at Pemberley for a number of inconvenienced travellers during the closure.”
Mr Monroe continued reading the document. “It was not only that, sir. Three years ago, you performed another kindness.” Looking up, he smiled. “And each time I visited the ailing Miss Armstrong at Oakwood Manor, I was enthusiastically greeted by her beloved Biscuit.”
Darcy was surprised to find himself smiling in return. Of late, such an expression occurred but rarely. “Ah yes, the Pomeranian pup she grew attached to during her stay at Pemberley. Whatever happened to Biscuit when his mistress died?”
“He was left in the care of the old butler, but the silly creature dashed out onto the lane and was crushed beneath the wheels of a neighbour’s recklessly driven carriage. The dog, that is, not the butler who, by the bye, is no longer employed at Oakwood. It is conjecture, of course, but it is assumed poor little Biscuit thought the carriage was bringing his mistress back home, and… Well…” Leather creaked as Mr Monroe shifted in his chair and rather needlessly shuffled papers about on his desk. “At any rate, my client wanted to show her gratitude for your good deeds. Unfortunately, such kind acts were rarities during the lady’s life. Her servants were a slovenly lot, and she had few friends. Miss Armstrong once told me that the more she dealt with people, the more she became disenchanted. She much preferred plants and animals. Dogs particularly. Horses not so much.”
They both turned at a sound from the office door.
“Ahem, Mr Monroe.” Stevens apologised for interrupting. “Your next appointment has arrived, sir.”
Glancing at his watch, the attorney gave a brusque nod. “Thank you. I shall fetch him anon. Now, Mr Darcy, back to business. There are conditions attached to your bequest. But first, I have here a token bestowal.” Mr Monroe disappeared beneath his desk. When he emerged holding a large parcel, his eyes conveyed something like an apology. “I am afraid Miss Armstrong was rather eccentric.”
Darcy wondered whether the man’s face was flushed from embarrassment or from the exertion of lifting the bulky bundle from the floor .
Without a word, the attorney advanced and thrust the package at Darcy before sitting behind his desk again. “Go on,” he said, gesturing with an upward tilt of his chin. “Open it, if you want. Or perhaps you would prefer to do so at a later time.” Mr Monroe appeared most eager for that choice. “I do have my next appointment waiting, and I have not yet informed you of the greater bequest or its conditions.”
Setting aside the cumbersome parcel, Darcy was quick to respond. “By all means, let me not detain you any longer than necessary.”
Succinctly, Mr Monroe told him that four other beneficiaries had been named in Miss Armstrong’s will. Each would receive, or already had received, a small token of her appreciation. “All of you, however, must compete for the lady’s legacy—namely, Oakwood Manor in Buckinghamshire and fifty thousand pounds in assets including nine thousand pounds in gold guineas. I am told it took four stout men to lift my client’s iron money box.”
Darcy could hardly conceal his astonishment, and he knew not what to say until overcome by both inquisitiveness and a measure of caution. Resting both elbows on the chair’s arms, he steepled his fingers. “The beneficiaries must compete, you say. How, exactly?”
“As mentioned, Miss Armstrong was an eccentric old dear. Some questioned whether she had full control of her mind towards the end, but I can attest to her compos mentis . Weak in body but mentally strong, she spent her last months devising a tournament of sorts. All I am able to impart at this time is that the five of you must spend, at most, a se’nnight together at Oakwood Manor and participate in a game of skill—nothing of the physical sort. The victor will inherit all.”
When Darcy enquired what would happen should none succeed during the seven days, Mr Monroe replied, “In such an event, Oakwood Manor and the fifty thousand pounds will pass to a young man of business whose plan is to undertake—no pun intended—the creation of a pet cemetery within Oakwood’s spacious park, complete with headstones for dogs, cats, birds, and such.”
Darcy thought that a rather bizarre and unnecessary enterprise. His ancestors had set aside an area of Pemberley for the burial of beloved family pets, of which there had been many. Biscuit’s own predecessors were interred there.
Mr Monroe continued. “On the morning of Thursday the eleventh of June, participants are to report to Oakwood Manor between the hours of nine o’clock and twelve midday—no earlier, no later. Barring elimination from the contest or a personal emergency, they are to remain on the premises until someone successfully completes the contest—which will end at the stroke of midnight on Wednesday the seventeenth of June. I assume you never visited Miss Armstrong at Oakwood, sir?”
“No.” Shaking his head, Darcy regretted he had not.
“It is a lovely place, and Miss Armstrong insisted the tournament occur while the blooms in her beloved gardens unfold. This being Friday, you have until this coming Monday to inform me of your decision.”
Darcy took a sip from his cup, but the tea had grown cold. “I assume my valet will be welcome.”
“Sorry, no. But a coachman and one footman per contestant can be comfortably accommodated in a dormitory at a nearby estate. Speaking of servants, for various reasons, we found it necessary to dismiss in March all previous employees of Oakwood Manor. Competent replacements have been installed, and none of them will provide assistance to competitors. Neither conspiracies nor bribes will be tolerated. Such attempts will result in immediate dismissal of the employee, and the guilty beneficiary will be eliminated from further participation.”
The attorney continued placing marks beside items listed on a document. “Gentlemen will share the services of two footmen capable of performing the duties of a valet. Likewise, ladies will share two maids. There is, of course, a housekeeper, a butler, a very good cook, et cetera, et cetera. I shall be staying at Oakwood as host, overseeing the proceedings. In any dispute, my impartial judgment will be the final word. Also, we have hired a chaperon for the ladies—a strict spinster who once served as governess for a prominent family.”
“Ah,” said Darcy. “Ladies. So, at least two. May I be advised of the other beneficiaries’ names?”
“You most certainly may not.”
“I venture a guess that one of them is your next appointment.”
The attorney huffed in annoyance, then, gaining his feet, spoke in a brusque manner. “If there are no further questions, sir, I really must fetch that next appointment. I shall look forward to hearing from you on Monday, if not sooner.”
Darcy stood and thanked Mr Monroe for his time. In the outer office, clasping the bulky bundle against his side, Darcy collected his hat, gloves, and walking stick from Stevens.
A nervous young man with a shock of fine coppery hair and a bouncy leg was seated against the wall. Darcy gave him a nod, and the fellow smiled widely at him. Good grief! He could be Bingley’s twin.
As he walked out of the building, Darcy contemplated whether or not to participate in the competition. He was not one for tomfoolery, but he did enjoy chess. Perhaps that was what Mr Monroe meant by a game of skill.
As for the legacy, if he married and became a father, Oakwood Manor might be a nice inheritance for one of his children. Marry? Ha. I am too particular to settle for a marriage that is less than I desire or deserve. However, fifty thousand pounds would more than recoup Georgiana’s dowry if ever she weds.
Descending the eleven steps to the kerb, Darcy thought the tournament might, if nothing else, keep his mind off Miss Elizabeth Bennet for a se’nnight. By Jove, I shall do it.
Turning on his heel, he marched up the steps and back into the outer office of Pemberton & Monroe. The copper-haired fellow was gone in with the attorney, but Stevens remained and asked whether he could be of assistance.
“Yes. Please be so kind as to inform Mr Monroe that I shall be at Oakwood Manor on the eleventh of June.” Of course it would have to be the eleventh.
In the carriage, Darcy shed his hat and gloves, untied the twine from round the strangely shaped parcel, and carefully peeled back the brown paper. “Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered.