Chapter Fourteen #2
“All will be well, I am sure,” was George’s opinion, and Hugh nodded.
“Pemberley meets its obligations.” Hugh echoed George’s rough-toned emotion, and accepted the coffee George handed him. He met Darcy’s gaze square on, and lifted his chin. “We will all be there.”
Darcy smiled at him. The lead melted away. For the first time since his return, he was not entirely hopeless of achieving some sort of amity with his father’s second family.
The Sparrowhill house had once been the hub of a tenant’s land before the land itself had been absorbed into the home farm a generation or two back, and the house given over to be the residence of the estate’s steward.
A typical Derbyshire stone-built farmhouse of two storeys, it was set under a slight rise, gaining shelter from the westerly winds often surging down from the Peaks.
“It is a comfortable house, and I am glad to have the use of it,” George said when Darcy commented on how neat it looked.
They left their horses in the stable-yard at the rear.
They would not be there long; no more than ten or fifteen minutes.
“I doubt he has the fortitude for anything longer, and as you will recall from your earlier visit, he is too soon overset,” George had explained when they had set off after the noon meal with the tenants had ended.
Darcy had agreed at once to make this only a brief visit.
The man who greeted them at the door was broad and stocky. Should Mr Wickham’s distress ever take a violent turn, the footman’s long, strong arms and stout body were equal to the task of restraining him.
George presented the man formally. “Mr Darcy, you remember Jim Denny, who was a footman up at the big house? At least, he was until my father’s illness, when he was sent here to be the mainstay of our household.
Jim and I were boys together on the estate.
He is named after my father. Old Mr Denny was head gardener, and so our fathers were friends. ”
“Aye.” Denny gave a bow. Unlike most footmen, he was not in livery but wore the plain serviceable garments favoured by the grooms and gardeners. “Da’s in a tied cottage now, too old to work regular. Rheumatics, you see.”
“One of the estate’s pensioners,” George explained. “It was one of the last things my father did before he was felled by the apoplexy.”
During Darcy’s yearly visits to Pemberley, George must have abandoned Jim Denny to keep company with the ‘young master’.
Darcy did not remember Denny, though he must have been one of the young lads in the background of the estate and home farm, but he had lively memories of the gardener.
“Your father was very proud of his raspberry canes, as I recall, and often chased me from the fruit garden. I was too fond of his berries for his liking!”
Denny’s grin widened. “That’s my Da. Yours, Mr George, is in the parlour. It’s a good day with him. He had his powder earlier, and he’s quiet today.”
“We will not be long, Jim. Mr Darcy wishes only to pay his respects.”
“Indeed I do. And please convey my respects to your father, Denny. I will ask Mrs Reynolds to make sure he has some fruit sent down from the big house.” Darcy smiled. “Including some of the autumn raspberries.”
Denny laughed, a great noise coming from that barrel of a chest, gave another short bow and stepped aside, disappearing into the household offices—kitchen, scullery, servants’ hall—at the back of the house.
Darcy watched him go. A year or two their junior, Denny had something of the look of George about him in the shape of mouth and eyes.
Shorter than George, by some margin, but still the smile and the way he cocked his head were similar.
North Derbyshire had a type, perhaps, that was bred into its men.
Perhaps.
George’s mother had been a forceful woman, brisk and distant in manner, unsympathetic in nature. It would not be surprising if the older Wickham had sought solace elsewhere.
George caught his arm, breaking this fruitless train of thought and holding him back a moment.
“Fitzwilliam, I beg of you not to correct my father in any misapprehension he may have. He will better remember something from forty years ago than what happened yesterday, and grows distressed if told he is mistaken. Sometimes he thinks my mother alive again, for instance, and to be told she is not causes him to feel all the shock and grief anew, as if told for the first time of her death. It is a small deception, but ensures his comfort.”
During his first, abortive visit to the former steward, Darcy had gained a greater insight into George’s life and responsibilities than he had had hereto. Darcy could only hope the pity he felt was not discernible in his tone or expression as he agreed to abide by George’s admonition.
George led the way into a well-proportioned room lined with books.
A woman watched over Mr Wickham from a chair set in the wide bay window, her sewing in her hands.
Mr Wickham himself occupied one of a pair of sofas set facing each other, a small table between them.
He studied a large leather-bound book laid out on the tabletop.
It was only when Darcy reached him and bowed, that Darcy saw the book was upside-down.
“Papa.” George’s tone was gentle. “Here is Mr Darcy to see you.”
“Mmn?” James Wickham looked up from his study of the book. “Mr Darcy?”
He studied Darcy with as much intensity as he had given his book, head tilted onto one side, his smile one of great sweetness and innocence.
He was thin and looked frail; his left arm, most obviously affected by the apoplexy, lay limply in his lap.
His eyes were not as sharp as Darcy remembered them, but had a vagueness that spoke of the damaged mind living behind them.
He did not seem to see Darcy properly, not at first, although his wide, unblinking gaze wandered over him.
“I am very pleased to see you again, Mr Wickham.” Darcy mimicked George’s quiet tones. “I hope you are in good health.”
Mr Wickham frowned slightly, looking over Darcy from head to foot.
At last his expression cleared, and the sweet smile reappeared.
“Cousin! It is… I think…” He shook his head, as if to shake the confusion from it, but his speech was remarkably clear.
“You look hale and hearty, Robert! How is Lady Anne?”
Darcy blinked. “Lady Anne?”
“I hope she continues well. I rejoiced greatly when you told me your good news… was it yesterday?” Mr Wickham shook his head again, but he was smiling and this time his tone was one of fond indulgence.
“You are quite right, cousin, when you remarked that your greatest care was for Lady Anne’s health.
You cannot be too careful with these young matrons at this time!
I was the same with my Mary.” Mr Wickham’s gaze wandered over to George.
“My brother Nathaniel here will bear me witness.”
Darcy managed a smile, remembering George’s injunction to leave Mr Wickham’s delusions uncorrected. “She is in very good health…” A minute pause, and he overcame his natural respect for an older man, and added Mr Wickham’s name as easily as he could. “…James. How are you, though?”
“Oh, I am always well, you know.” Another small frown. “Did you wish to discuss the dispute with the Lackenbys over the Sparrowbeck water rights?”
“Not at all. I merely came to visit for a few minutes.”
“So kind.” Mr Wickham looked down at his book, frowning. When he glanced up again, the innocent smile was back. “Robert! How pleasant to see you! How is Lady Anne? Does she continue well?”
Pity filled Darcy for the incisive legal mind that had once lived behind the dreamy, unfocused gaze, now gone forever. “She does indeed, James. I will give her your regards, and you must be assured of hers.”
“She is a fine lady. So good, and kind.”
“Yes, she is,” said Darcy, of the mother he had never known. She had died two days after his birth. “Now, I shall leave you to your book and be off to Frith House. Rest well.”
“Oh, I am always well. Always.”
And with that, Mr Wickham turned his attention back to his book, and the nurse, who had industriously sewed her way through the last few minutes, looked up to nod reassurance at George, and, in the bright tones adopted by a woman speaking to a child, suggested she call for “A nice cup of tea for you, Mr Wickham, to wash down your next powder, and some cake to go wi’ it. You’ll like that.”
Mr Wickham’s enthusiastic head nodding indicated that he would, indeed.
“Thank you, Mrs Taylor,” George said.
“’Tis no trouble, Mr George. He’s no trouble. He be as gentle as a lamb.”
The nurse smiled and, George promising to order the tea on his way out, they withdrew without Mr Wickham noticing. They did not speak until they reached the stable yard, and the servant ran up with their horses.
“Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”
“Your father was always kind to me when I visited Pemberley as a boy.” Darcy swung up into his saddle, and thanked the boy, pressing a couple of pennies into the lad’s hand.
“I am glad I saw him, George, because now I understand better some of the responsibilities that lie heavy on your shoulders. When Dr Barrow comes tomorrow, he must see your father, too.”
“Thank you. It will save me a trip to Buxton to obtain more of the Chinese powder. I go monthly.”
“Is that not what my father used? He mentioned it in a letter.”
“Yes, it is the same thing. Barrow calls it ‘mafeisan’, which I can only assume is some Chinese word. Papa today was composed and tranquil. Some days he is not, and he can lash out and become frenzied. Denny is strong enough to manage him, but the powders usually calm him.”
Gentle as a lamb with sharp teeth, then.
“I look forward to meeting this odd doctor. He sounds quite the eccentric.”
“He is, but he is greatly trusted by his patients, and with good cause. Now then, I do not know about you, but a gallop will shake the fidgets out of Pigeon here,”—and George leaned down to pat his horse’s neck—“and shake this fit of the blue devils out of me. Shall we?”
“I would like nothing better,” agreed Darcy, and two minutes later they were thundering up the Frith road in a neck-or-nothing gallop.
It shook the blue devils out of both of them. Darcy had no idea how it affected Pigeon.