Chapter 35 The Clerk
The Clerk
“Sir, I have a man at the door who insists upon placing correspondence in your hands personally.”
Fitzwilliam Darcy found the interruption something of an annoyance, but since he was engaged in little more than brooding, annoyance might be an improvement.
His sister still suffered from a broken heart, and he still suffered from something he could not truly name.
He supposed it had similar symptoms to his sister’s malady, except a man under good regulation would never show such weakness.
Since leaving Hertfordshire, he had devoted an inordinate amount of time and worry to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but he was no closer to knowing what he ought to think of her than he had been the last time he saw her on the twenty-sixth of November the previous year, and he had little expectation of resolving the matter any time soon.
“Show him in.”
The man who entered his study seemed slightly older and better educated than a typical courier, perhaps a junior law clerk, carrying a small document.
“You are Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
“I am, as you might suppose from the fact that I am in my own study in my own house,” he said with what would easily pass for churlishness.
“I meant no offence. I was given specific instruction.”
“Can you tell me who sent this?”
“No sir. I do not refuse; I simply do not know. I was only paid to deliver the message.”
“How am I to reply?”
“You are not. I am to attempt each week to deliver it, and if I fail in a month, I am to ask your butler to post it.”
“Why such secrecy?” he asked, his interest slightly piqued. He was annoyed by the interruption, but at least annoyance was an improvement over brooding, though he ruefully admitted pursuing that notion too far might result in dinner with Bingley and his sisters.
“I cannot say, sir.”
“How will the sender know you have delivered it?”
The man looked affronted, as if he had called his basic competence and honesty into question. “They said they need not know.”
With a sigh, he held out his hand, and the young man presented what appeared to be a single sheet of paper, enclosed in an envelope rather than simply being folded as a letter typically was. He dismissed the man with a nod to the butler instructing him to provide a tip.
He had no idea what the envelope contained, so once he was alone, he handled it like a snake prone to bite.
The outer envelope was sealed with wax but had no seal or direction.
Once he opened it, he saw that it contained a letter that did have a seal, and though it was not especially distinct, he had a sinking feeling he recognised it.
He suspected he was involved in some sort of trick and resisted the powerful temptation to cast it into the fire.
Common sense told him he had already accepted it.
If it was some novel compromise strategy, the plan was already afoot.
It was better to know than to remain in ignorance.
With some trepidation, he opened the letter to see if his suspected sender had the gall to attack him obliquely.
It took but a few seconds to realise the letter was not directed to him at all. Instead, it was someone else’s correspondence! He barely resisted his second strongly felt desire to cast it into the fire, mostly because it was mid-afternoon in early March, and he did not have a fire to begin with.
With a heavy foreboding, for the first time in his life, he read an unrelated lady’s personal correspondence.
He found the first part of the message heartless and cruel, though not the least bit shocking.
The last part sent him into a towering rage!
Unable to contain himself, he rose to stalk about the study like a caged tiger until his rage abated a little.
When he tempered his impulses from murder to simple mayhem, he resolved to act.
He sat and furiously wrote several letters then summoned a few footmen to deliver them post-haste.
After that, he had to collect himself, attend dinner with his sister, and try to banish the anger from his voice.
His sister, Georgiana, was gradually recovering from her harrowing experience of the previous summer, but he had to wonder if he was addressing the matter correctly. It had been close to ten months, and he thought she should have recovered from her broken heart by then.
He wondered how long it would take him to recover from his.
“Mr Asher, sir,” Darcy’s butler announced two days later.
Those days had been spent in a furious investigation of the source of the letter. The intended recipient was obvious, as was the author. What remained a mystery was the motive, and the identity of the person who delivered it to him, which could be the recipient or just about anyone.
Asher, an investigator Darcy employed from time to time, declined brandy and accepted tea.
Once they commenced business, Darcy asked, “Well?”
“Your suppositions are correct. Both sisters you mentioned are in town, the elder since the new year and the younger a few weeks. The militiaman you mentioned has been incurring debts and blackening your name to any who would listen.”
“Anything else?” Darcy asked when he thought his companion hesitated.
“In the main, it seems the blaggard is believed. You apparently offended the delicate sensibilities of the locals while he flatters them. Hardly surprising really.”
Darcy wondered exactly whose delicate sensibilities were so offended but thought that could wait.
He reflected a few moments, but he had already decided his course.
“I grow tired of that man blackening my name, but he holds certain… leverage. A young lady’s reputation is at some risk.”
“Is he likely to have anything in writing?”
Darcy had asked the same thing and sighed. “He might.”
Asher considered a moment. “If he did have something in writing, and it accidentally found its way into a fire, could this lady weather uncorroborated accusations? Failing that, could she simply assert they are forgeries? He has been in Meryton for months, so unless the lady is a local, it seems time may have diminished any real credibility.”
Darcy had not contemplated anything as ostensibly dishonourable as searching Wickham’s effects, although he had at least considered several far less pleasant options, so it seemed that the time to be missish was probably long past.
“I hold several hundred pounds of his vowels and suspect the locals possess more.”
“That makes things easier. Almost too easy if you ask me. Do you wish me to deal with this matter? If so, do you incline towards debtor’s prison, transportation, sudden patriotism coupled with a desire to see the world, or accidents happen?”
Darcy considered a moment and decided it was finally time to act.
“How long will it require?”
“I could have him spirited away in no time. If you would like to employ some subtlety and rehabilitate your reputation in the neighbourhood, give me say… one month.”
“Done,” Darcy said, and drew a packet of George Wickham’s vowels from a drawer.
“Have you the direction for the two sisters?”
“In the report,” Asher said, handing him a few papers.
The men exchanged farewells, and Darcy wondered idly just how much his old childhood companion would enjoy being carried off to debtors’ prison in chains.
With a sigh, he addressed the report, discovered several useful points, penned a few notes, and then left to join Georgiana for yet another quiet dinner, wishing his cousin were back from the continent.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was expected within the month and scheduled to visit his aunt at Rosings with him; but it would be pleasant to have someone other than the earl or viscount, both of whom were worse confidants than Mrs Bennet.