Chapter Eight #3
“I loved that walk,” Elizabeth said in answer to her aunt, dreaming of fields, stiles, and muddy hems. “We could walk anywhere at Longbourn, just the girls and me.”
“It is what I wished for you to have,” Aunt Olivia said, patting Elizabeth’s hand. “Good memories to sustain you.”
Elizabeth knew what that meant. She was not foolish enough to believe she would have such peace again.
But there were many compensations for the life she had been prepared to lead.
There was freedom in being able to assist her sisters, in providing charity for those who required it.
Most of all, there was a freedom in being allowed to chart her own course in terms of her finances.
Very few women had that freedom. To have found a man she loved who would allow her to continue to do so even after they had wed?
It was beyond her dearest expectations. She had been thinking of that man all week, drawing him every day, and she very much hoped to see Mr. Darcy before dinner.
Perhaps I can convince him to stay for the meal.
“I do wish John had been more reasonable,” said Aunt Olivia, seeming to understand Elizabeth’s thoughts. “But sometimes men cannot see beyond their pride, I am afraid.”
“Mr. Darcy is not like that,” Elizabeth said defensively.
Her aunt raised her brows. “Truly?”
“Well, perhaps a little,” Elizabeth admitted, thinking of his early struggles not to fall for a woman he believed penniless and without connections. But he overcame it. “He would not have kept Georgiana from seeing her betrothed.”
“You believe that,” Aunt Olivia replied knowingly, “if it gives you comfort.”
Elizabeth frowned, and changed the direction of the conversation. “Uncle Phillip was not like that.”
Aunt Olivia laughed. “Oh, he most certainly was.”
“Uncle Phillip?“ Elizabeth asked, surprised.
Her aunt smiled. “Do you think your uncle was a perfect man, my dear?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together before speaking. That was exactly what she thought. “He was, nearly.”
Aunt Olivia patted Elizabeth’s knee. “He was a very good man, my dear. But he was far from perfect.” She chuckled. “I worked on him for many years before you met him.”
“He freed all of his father’s slaves before you began courting,” Elizabeth reminded her. “I think that speaks to my point.”
Aunt Olivia nodded slowly. “That was a critical experience in his life.” She clasped her hands together and laid them in her lap. “I would not have married the man I knew before he left for the West Indies.”
“Whyever not?” Elizabeth inquired.
Her aunt paused, her eyes closed. Then, just as Elizabeth was about to repeat her question, Aunt Olivia began to speak.
“Phillip was determined to be a wealthy man. He was tired of being the poor cousin to the family of a duke. He had seen good success but had grown utterly conceited. He was obsessed with making money.” Aunt Olivia stared ahead, a wistful expression transforming her features.
“Not so that he could marry or do good with it, mind you—he had not yet considered what to do with his earnings.
He simply wanted to feel that he himself was not so very far below his relations.
“ She shook her head. “I always enjoyed our conversations. For all the faults I saw in him, he was never condescending to me. But I could never have married a man so absorbed in all the wrong pursuits.”
“But then he went to the West Indies,” Elizabeth prompted when her aunt paused again.
Aunt Olivia nodded, her thoughts far away. “But then he went to the West Indies.”
The day was unusually sunny and warm for December. Darcy prayed the cheerful weather boded well for his discussion with Bedford. The fact that the man had even agreed to the meeting he interpreted as a good sign. He patted the pocket inside his jacket. He had a letter from Devonshire to share.
Apparently, Bedford had arrived not long before them, as they passed his empty carriage when they entered the square.
It was nearly one in the afternoon, and Darcy had spent most of the morning trying to suppress the hope that he might be able to see Elizabeth after his meeting with her cousin.
When they entered the house, however, they heard Bedford’s angry voice down the hall.
They were shown into the study where the duke whirled from his position at the window and promptly accosted them.
“Did you encourage this, Darcy?” he demanded. “This idiocy?”
“What are you talking about, Bedford?” Darcy asked, his impatience with being kept from Elizabeth clear in his tone. “I am here for my appointment.”
Bedford dropped into the chair behind his desk and rubbed his forehead. “They are gone.”
“Who is gone?” Richard asked.
“Elizabeth has gone to Kensington,” Bedford said, still upset. “And she has taken Olivia with her.”
Darcy grabbed the back of a chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I was willing to be separated from Elizabeth, Bedford,” he growled, “only because I did not wish to cause problems between you and I thought she was safe here. How could you let this happen?”
Darcy’s cousin shot him a warning look.
The duke was not used to being questioned—that was clear enough in the scowl he gave the men. “It is not as though she asked permission, Darcy. She left this morning while I was out. She wrote me a letter.” He scoffed. “A letter.”
“Did they have an escort?” Richard asked, his face stoic and his voice even.
Thank heavens one of us has his wits about him, Darcy thought gratefully.
“Yes,” Bedford said, drawing out the word. “It is the only reason I am not chasing after them like a lunatic.”
“Then perhaps we should proceed with our meeting, Bedford,” Richard suggested. “Afterward, Darcy and I will travel to Kensington, if you will be so good as to give us the direction.”
Bedford appeared as though he was about to protest. Darcy leaned over the back of the chair, his voice clipped but even. “I suspect she is far more likely to receive us than you at the moment, Your Grace.”
“Besides,” Richard said with a grim smile, “we have some interesting news.”
Elizabeth walked to the windows in Aunt Olivia’s room and threw back the curtains. “The last time I saw this room, it was all peeling wallpaper and rough-hewn floors,” she said, pleased with how bright and airy the room felt even in December. “It is beautiful now.”
“I will not say that I was correct about the color,” her aunt said haughtily.
Elizabeth laughed. “I believe you just did,” she teased.
Aunt Olivia was not in the least disconcerted. “Perhaps, and if I did, I would be in the right.”
“I shall beg pardon and remind you that I was all of sixteen when we were choosing the coverings,” Elizabeth pointed out. “I hope my taste has improved since.”
“You were almost seventeen by then,” her aunt said tartly, but Elizabeth caught the amusement in the older woman’s upturned lips. She moved to help her aunt remove her pelisse. Aunt Olivia sat on the bed.
“The floors are wonderful, too,” Elizabeth said, reaching down and pulling up a rug that covered the finished wood.
“The windows are full south,” Aunt Olivia pointed out. “I knew it needed a cooler color.”
Elizabeth shook her head fondly. “Is this the room you prefer, then?” she asked.
Aunt Olivia sat at the vanity and placed her gloves neatly on the table. “Is the pianoforte still in the sitting room?”
Elizabeth peered around the door into the adjoining room.
There, snug against the inner wall, was the Broadwood Square her uncle had purchased for her aunt.
There was a music room with a larger, finer instrument downstairs on the first floor, but this one had been intended for Aunt Olivia’s personal use.
“It is still here, Aunt,” Elizabeth reported as she felt a tug at her heart.
“Then this is the room I choose, dear,” Aunt Olivia said, satisfied. “Please call my maid. I should like to rest a bit.”
Elizabeth gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for coming with me.”
Aunt Olivia gazed steadily at her, but it was not a stare. It was an embrace. “You are our daughter, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth recognized the declaration Olivia had made on the way to Longbourn. She turned from the bell pull and nodded. “I am.”
Darcy turned as someone entered the study.
It was the maid from the carriage who was led in, accompanied by Mrs. Eustace.
Though she was as small and slight as Susan had been, the girl before them was in every other way different.
Though clearly anxious, she did not cry.
Instead, she stood before the men deferentially but resolutely.
“Well, Mrs. Eustace?” the duke asked.
The housekeeper nodded at Delilah.
“When Mr. Fitzwilliam was speaking to me,” the girl began, “I remembered something.”
Bedford gave Richard a resentful look. “You have been speaking with my staff?”
Richard shrugged. “You did not forbid it.”
“I have not forbidden a number of things,” Bedford said, casting annoyed. “Shall you feel free to raid my pantries or examine the contents of my safe because I have not disallowed it?”
He seemed to recall the presence of the servants, then, and stopped what might otherwise have grown into a longer rant. Darcy noted Richard’s irritation as well, though it was detected by the slow tapping of his hand against his thigh rather than a grimace.
“Shall we not hear what information has been gleaned?” Darcy asked carefully.
Bedford grunted and waved a hand at Delilah. She swallowed hard.
“I never thought of it before,” she said. “Mr. Williams is a friend of Harry’s, and lately, he is here quite often.” She made a face.
“Harry?” Bedford asked, his forehead furrowing. He glanced at his housekeeper. “Footman?” Mrs. Eustace nodded.
“You do not like Mr. Williams, Delilah?” Darcy asked, earning himself a scowl from Bedford for interrupting.