Chapter 9
Darcy pulled the window curtains together and secured them with a pin. He turned, spread his hands, and bowed. “We are now well-equipped.”
Richard placed a lit taper on the small table. He took two steps to his left, crossing past the suspended linen. Light spilled across the sheet’s right half and broke.
“Move the candle to the left,” Darcy said.
Richard did so; the light settled and held.
Darcy laughed aloud. “That is dreadful.”
Richard grinned and shifted the candle. The edge of the shadow sharpened. Wings appeared.
Darcy tried to copy him. The shadow sagged and tore.
Richard stepped forward, caught Darcy’s wrist, and moved it a single inch to the left. He let go.
The bird flew.
Darcy smiled. “Again.”
Richard obliged. Then he moved his hand closer to the sheet. The shape collapsed into a blot.
Darcy groaned. “Cheat.”
Richard pursed his lips and shifted behind the sheet. His whole arm moved now, slow and deliberate. A taller shape rose. A man appeared, hat brim cocked, arm raised in salute.
Darcy signed, That is— and stopped, his knee striking the table. Wax touched his fingers—hot—and he hissed.
Richard stepped out from behind the sheet and held his hand before it instead. The figure shrank, fractured, and broke apart.
He tapped the linen once. Then the air. Then Darcy’s chest.
Where you stand matters.
“Master Darcy.”
Darcy started and nearly upset the candle again. “Mrs Reynolds.”
She inclined her head to Richard. “Your father would like to see you both. In a quarter of an hour.”
Darcy glanced at the sheet, the candle, Richard’s hands still lifted. “Yes, ma’am.”
“There is no need to hurry,” she added, and withdrew.
Darcy pinched the wick dead with his fingers and shook them once. He lifted the fallen corner of the sheet and laid it over the chair back. Richard caught the other end and smoothed it flat.
Darcy signed, Later.
Richard nodded.
The passage cooled as they left the schoolroom.
Darcy fell half a step behind, then quickened. Richard adjusted without looking. Their boots struck together. Once—again.
Darcy altered his stride. Richard matched it.
At the stairhead, Darcy led with his left foot. Richard did the same. The steps sounded even all the way down.
The study door stood shut. Renault—Darcy’s father’s man—waited. His mouth tightened.
Renault glanced between them, looked up and down their persons, down at their feet, then up again. He sniffed, loudly. “He is free now.”
Renault knocked.
“Enter,” a deep voice called through the door.
Richard stopped when Darcy stopped.
One wall held books from floor to ceiling. The spines stood even. None leaned. The shelves ran even from corner to corner. The chairs faced the desk squarely. The table aligned with the desk.
The window behind the desk rose tall. Light came through it in a wide sheet, pale and steady. The glass blurred what lay beyond. He could see movement, not shape.
Mr Darcy sat behind the desk, his coat laid aside. His shirtsleeves showed clean at the cuffs. He held a folded letter in one hand. He gestured towards the chairs with the other.
“Sit,” he said. “We have matters to discuss.”
Renault followed them in and closed the door. Richard took the chair beside Darcy’s. He placed his feet flat and kept his hands still.
“Matters, Father?” Darcy asked.
“Yes, matters.”
“We, Father?”
“Yes, Fitzwilliam. We.”
Darcy sat. Richard sat beside him. He placed his feet flat and kept his hands still.
“I have a letter from Matlock,” Mr Darcy said, “asking that I assist you, Richard, in the choice of your man. As Fitzwilliam must soon do the same, we may settle both matters together.”
“Sir, we manage well enough together. Until summer ends, may we not continue as such?”
“I admire the sentiment, son, but you are no longer in leading strings. The choice is yours. It will be made.”
Richard looked at Darcy. Darcy lifted a brow. Richard inclined his head once.
“When shall we begin?” Darcy asked.
“This afternoon,” said his father. “Mr Reynolds will attend you.”
His father looked down at the papers upon his desk. Renault cleared his throat.
Darcy rose. Richard stood at the same instant. They bowed and withdrew together.
Outside the door, Darcy let out a breath. “Would you choose a man like Renault?”
Richard rolled his eyes. Darcy laughed under his breath. They walked on.
A low sound rumbled between them. Darcy turned to him. “Was that you?”
Richard nodded once. “Cook.”
“Then we had best see her at once.”
Away from the kitchen, Darcy reached into his pocket.
“Please tell me Cook gave you those treats, my lovelies.”
Darcy stopped. Mrs Reynolds stood at the end of the passage.
“Yes, Mrs Reynolds, she did,” he managed.
“All of them, Master Darcy?”
Richard, chewing loudly, kept his eyes lowered.
Darcy narrowed his eyes at him. Richard waggled his brows.
Darcy laughed. “No, Mrs Reynolds, not all.”
“Master Darcy!”
“We were hungry, and dinner was so far off.”
“Thank you for your honesty. You will apologise to Cook. Then you’ll meet Mr Reynolds and me in the schoolroom.”
“Yes, Mrs Reynolds.”
They obeyed, muttering apologies before racing up the stairs. In the schoolroom, Mr Reynolds stood by the door. “Christopher, send in the first prospect.”
One by one the applicants entered—boys, youths, and a few men with careful speech and polished boots. Darcy tried to keep count but lost it after the fifth. Each gave an account of himself and withdrew.
When the eighth was gone, Mr Reynolds looked up. “What do you seek in a valet?”
Darcy leant towards Richard. “What do we want?” he whispered.
“Not Renault.”
Darcy trapped his bottom lip between his teeth. He still snorted. Richard nodded. He had meant it.
“Someone who will not tell tales,” Darcy said.
“Excellent, masters. That is a sound premise.”
The next prospect stepped in—a boy scarcely older than themselves, all grin and freckles.
“Me father served as a man to the Quality,” he began before anyone could speak. “’E made sure to learn me not to cry rope on no one.”
Mrs Reynolds glanced at the ledger in her hand. “You are quite fortunate to have had such an upbringing, Mr Bartholomew.”
“Barty, mum.”
“Excuse me?”
“It be Barty, mum. Me full name be the mouthful. Takes too much time.”
Mrs Reynolds’s brows lifted a fraction, but the corners of her mouth softened. “Indeed.”
Darcy tilted his head. “I believe Barty will do.”
“Will he, Master Darcy?”
“Yes, mum.”
Richard allowed a short, quiet laugh through his nose.
Mrs Reynolds made a small notation in the ledger. Mr Reynolds inclined his head. “Welcome to Pemberley.” He gestured towards the door. Barty gave a quick nod and went.
Six more applicants came and went before another boy entered. His coat was neat but worn at the seams, his boots well-blacked, his face pale beneath the summer light. Richard watched him cross the room and stop.
Mrs Reynolds consulted her ledger. “Mr Michael Villiers,” she read. “Fifteen years of age, from Stoke-on-Trent.”
Darcy looked up. Richard glanced at him. Darcy nodded.
Mr Reynolds turned to them. “Fourth son of Mr Gerald Villiers. Left Eton early, but the rector of Kympton speaks well of him.”
Villiers bowed slightly, then straightened. His shoulders were broad as his chest, his arms hung unusually low, the fingers near brushing his knees.
Richard straightened. “Were you set upon often?”
Darcy focused on Richard; Richard ignored him.
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“And you stood?” Richard did not look away.
Villiers grimaced. “I did, regrettably.”
Richard inclined his head. He turned to Mrs Reynolds and nodded.
Reynolds said, “Welcome to Pemberley and Matlock.”
Villiers gave a quick nod and went the way Barty had. Christopher reached in and closed the door.
“Your two lads will serve as second footmen for a fortnight,” Mr Reynolds said. “Once they are settled to their duties, I shall oversee their instruction myself, to ensure they understand your particular needs.”
“And if they begin polishing boots with starch and cologne?”
Mr Reynolds’s mouth twitched. “Then they shall answer to me, Master Darcy.”
“Not Renault, then.”
Mr Reynolds resumed his natural, stony facade. “No, sir. Most assuredly not Renault.”
* * *
The windows stood open to the hot, humid, still August air. The curtains did not stir. Darcy sat at the table with a book braced open in both hands. His collar lay loose. Damp marked the paper where his thumbs rested.
Outside, nothing called them. No hoof struck the yard. No voice rose. The air pressed close and stayed.
Darcy paused, wiped his hand on his breeches, then turned the page. Richard leant back and lifted his hands. Darcy glanced up, kept reading, and signed between lines.
Richard corrected him once. Darcy tried again.
They did not speak for a time.
The book closed at last. Darcy set it aside and did not reach for another.
Richard watched the door. Then the window. Then Darcy.
Darcy looked back and signed, slower now. Soon.
Richard nodded.
Darcy did not turn back to the table. He stood a moment where he was, then crossed to the shelves. He did not stop at the books he had already used. He reached higher.
The volume came free with a dry sound. Dust lifted and settled. When he opened it, the spine cracked. He read aloud:
“Veni, vidi, vici—I came, I saw, I conquered.”
“Alea iacta est—The die is cast.”
“Carpe diem—Seize the day.”
“Cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I am.”
“Acta non verba—Actions, not words.”
“Non est dubium—Doubt not.”
“Yes.” Richard threw his thumb forward, signing, yes.
Darcy looked up. “Non est dubium.”
“Doubt not, cousin,” Richard said. “Ever.”