Chapter 9 A Foray Into Cheapside
CHAPTER NINE
A FORAY INTO CHEAPSIDE
Mr Charles Chegg had been, in earlier years, an auctioneer, roaming the countryside in search of literary treasures from estates in arrears and the like.
Such was his reputation that, although he had given up the auction side of his business, people yet contacted him when they had books to sell.
As such, his shop was often the place to find early editions or books out of print.
Darcy delighted in not knowing what he might find when he visited.
Books were never of much interest to Bingley, and as was his custom, he flicked disinterestedly through a random selection of tomes before announcing, “I think I shall toddle off and see what I find in the bake shop.”
Darcy smiled and waved him off. About a quarter of an hour later, Darcy concluded that Chegg had nothing that Darcy had not already seen. He was about to leave when the man told him, “Sir, it might not suit you to look at them, but I do have several boxes yet unpacked in the back room.”
“Indeed?”
“I expect some exciting things from the boxes, in truth. The gentleman whose estate sent them was not unknown to me. His tastes in reading were excellent and wide-ranging.” Chegg paused.
“Of course, it is hardly befitting a gentleman of your status to be amid the back storeroom, so if you would care to return in another few days—”
“No, no,” Darcy assured him, his interest having been piqued. “I am not so elevated that I cannot open a box now and again.”
“I will send my boy back there to assist you,” Chegg promised.
Darcy had already turned and was moving in the direction indicated. “No need,” he said over his shoulder.
The storeroom was almost as large as the front of the shop and was neatly organised although crowded with wares.
A woman was already within, standing with her back to him, her head bent over an opened box.
When he entered, she gave a little jump and whirled round to face him.
Her eyes went wide and she gasped; he froze, his pulse immediately thundering through him.
He took a lengthy step towards her. “Is that you?”
“I… I…forgive me, I ought not to be in here.” She glanced towards the back door.
The light of day revealed to him that no, his impressions in the dark room at the Merry Fox had not been incorrect; she was all things lovely, even if she appeared mildly panicked by the sight of him.
“I have longed to see you again,” he said urgently.
She wrinkled her brow, pausing to study him. Did she not recognise him? Then her brow cleared and very hesitantly she enquired, “Mr D?”
He nodded, his eyes not leaving her face, roaming her countenance hungrily. “I had begun to wonder if I had dreamt you.”
She laughed, lightly, and looked at her feet. A pause fell between them. A frustrating pause. She was here, in the flesh, this lady he had dreamt of lo these many months, and he was a tongue-tied green lad before her. He had so much he wanted to know about her, he hardly knew where to begin.
Then she truly shocked him. She curtseyed, quick and shallow, and said, “Pray excuse me but I—”
“Wait! You must not go,” he said. “Please.”
“I must,” she said with a little flash of a smile. “It is not proper for me to be back here with you, particularly as I am rather trespassing anyhow.”
“Then let us go out,” he urged. “We will find a bench somewhere.”
“A bench? It is rather cold, do you not think it so?”
“I wish to speak to you,” he said urgently. “I will give you my coat.”
Again her brow wrinkled. “But…why?”
“Because…” He was unsure what to say. Her reaction informed him that unlike him, she had not spent the months since the assembly thinking of that night. “I would like to know you better.”
She edged backwards towards the door. “Sir, I must remind you that we are not acquainted.”
He smiled in what he hoped was a charming way. “Then tell me your name and I shall tell you mine and we will be thusly acquainted.”
“I do not think that is how it works,” she replied with a little laugh that lit her eyes and brought pink to her cheeks. “With no one to vouch for your character, how am I to know you are not a rake?”
“I am not a rake, but if you wish to maintain our anonymity, then we shall. No names,” he said agreeably. “No names, no places, no friends or connexions…simply talking. On a bench where anyone might see us.”
“With me wearing your coat?”
He nodded. “It would be ungentlemanly for me to permit you to be cold while I was warm, too warm in fact.”
She considered him, tapping her toe beneath her skirts and pressing her lips together. Finally, after a veritable eternity, she nodded.
It would be, forever, curiosity that was her undoing.
After all, unless she was sorely mistaken, this was the infamous Mr Darcy of whom she had heard much.
The Mr Darcy who had heartlessly jilted his own cousin and had drawn Mr Bingley aside to speak against the Bennets.
It was not impossible to reconcile that man with the one she had been trapped with at the Merry Fox, for he too had been haughty to begin with.
But he had become kind thereafter, and she could not imagine he would be so very bad.
And now she was wrapped within the thickest, most luxurious greatcoat she had ever seen, trying not to be affected by his warmth which remained in it, and going off for a private conversation.
She could only hope her mother would not miss her.
Of course, if Mama knew I was off on a clandestine rendezvous with a gentleman of such means, she would likely lock me in a closet with him until we were engaged.
There was a place they might sit in a nearby churchyard, a graveyard in fact, containing a few ancient graves, but Elizabeth did not wish to reveal her intimate knowledge of the City.
Instead she set out, behaving as if mere fancy guided her steps, and exclaimed in surprise when they found the little area—secluded by walls and visited by no one—not even half a mile away.
Mr D made a business of dusting off the bench they found with his handkerchief before offering his hand to aid her in sitting. Then he took a seat beside her and, for a time, did nothing more than smile at her. It made her laugh.
“Why do you look at me so? What do you hope to find?”
“Tell me something,” he urged, a small smile on his lips. “Anything at all.”
“I thought we were meant to remain mysteries to one another?”
“Something of little importance but great interest,” he said.
“Little importance but great interest? Hmm…” She contemplated that for a moment. “I am not certain how interesting this is but…when I eat eggs, I get itchy red splotches all over me. But only for the eggs themselves; if they are baked into custard or something of that sort, I do perfectly well.”
He nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Next time we meet, I may bring you a custard, but no eggs.”
That made her laugh even as a part of her wondered what he was about. Next time? Sir, if you had any notion of who I really am, you would run back to Mayfair, or wherever you live, as fast as your feet could carry you, she thought.
“And you?” she prodded.
“I am very fond of eggs, in fact,” he replied and again she laughed.
“Badly done. I mean what interesting fact do you wish to tell me?”
After a moment of consideration, he said, “I am not a great shot.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “If I am being honest, hunting and shooting are not wholly agreeable to me. I believe I like animals far too much, see too much of people in them.”
She winced. “You will not like hearing that I am an excellent shot, then, I daresay.”
He laughed. “You are? This father of yours who allows you to read also taught you to shoot?”
“I believe it was a bet,” she said. “He and some of the other neighbourhood gentlemen wagered that I, a young girl, could never shoot as well as their sons.”
“And did you?”
She nodded, even as she felt a pang at the remembrance of Mr Bennet’s long-ago pride in her the day she had bested young William Goulding and John Lucas in a competition. “Have I shocked you?”
“You have surprised me,” he admitted. “Then again, I have always thought I would rather have a wife with more useful skills than to embroider endless pillows for the house.”
The word ‘wife’ brought a hot blush to Elizabeth’s cheeks, and Mr D also seemed to realise, a moment too late, what he had said. He murmured, “I beg your pardon,” turning his head.
Awkward silence blanketed them for several seconds until Elizabeth offered, “Knowing what you value in a marriage partner is of highest importance. If there is some defect in character, some essential misalignment, then you will forever be miserable and your partner will too.”
“So you place no stock in falling in love? Does it all come down to a list of character defects and attributes?”
He had recovered from his prior error and teased her now, and she was relieved for it. “Maybe it should,” she said, testing him a little. “I think too often that mere infatuation is mistaken for love, and by the time the parties know the difference, it is too late.”
He shifted on the bench, stretching his legs long. As he did, her eyes were drawn to the way his muscular thighs strained against the fabric of his breeches. A horseman, she thought to cover the consternation which resulted.
“Cannot infatuation be a precursor to a more sturdy love?”
She shook her head. “That would be like saying intoxication is a prelude to rational discourse.”
“You liken infatuation to intoxication?”
“From all that I have seen, falling in love confuses the mind and opens the heart, rarely for the better…as intoxication does as well. I must confess, though, I have not been intoxicated.”
“But have you been in love?”
She paused and then admitted, “No, I have not. I confess my opinions are based solely on observation. Have you?”
“Been intoxicated? Yes. Been in love?” He paused then said, “I am not sure.”