Chapter 18
Darcy clenched his jaw as he forced himself to walk fully upright along the passageway to the landing at the top of the stairs.
He would no longer creep hunched over; it was time to resume his place as master of Pemberley.
But his pace was slow, and here, where he could not be seen, he could at least steady himself against the wall when he needed to.
God forbid that any of the servants — or even she — would see how debilitated he still was, so many days after his injury. He had taken a breakfast tray in his chamber each day since that one, but now he must be downstairs with time to recover himself before his appointment with Mr Reed.
He managed the stairs only with the aid of the bannister to his disgust, and turned into his study where he could sink into the chair with relief.
Everything felt wrong. The fire burned high, but the air was still chill; he ought, perhaps, to have sent Mr Maunder to have the fire made up earlier than he did. But he had not recalled it in time.
He scowled. When would he be back to how he ought to be, the capable master of Pemberley? He glanced up at the clock. It was still an hour until his steward was due, he could take the time to compose himself to competence.
But the memory of that breakfast scene two days ago — or was it three?
No matter; the memory had not left him. She had looked at him with apparent serenity, but looking back, he thought he detected fear in her eyes.
Was it fear? Perhaps it was disgust at the broken man she had been forced to marry. Worse still, pity.
Darcy shuddered; he had been determined not to lose control, but he had. The Cheapside direction had proved the last straw which had broken his self-command.
But even after having had time to think the situation over, he could not possibly let her write to her family — or anyone — without knowing what she was saying about him, and about their marriage.
He hated having been forced to wed such an unsuitable wife; but Richard had said that she had not wished to marry him.
That stung. Any woman ought to have been delighted to marry such an eligible gentleman.
He slumped down in the chair and glanced at the clock again.
She had every right to think badly of him, and she would say so in her letters.
No, he must see them before they were sent, ensure that nothing could sully the reputation of his sister or himself.
But he was ashamed that it had come to this.
He must now stay away from her, he would not wish to frighten her any more than she must be already.
A knock at the door roused him from his reverie. The butler entered at his summons, holding the salver.
“This morning’s post, sir.”
“Mr Payne.” Darcy acknowledged him curtly. It was as if his own thoughts on the post had brought them here.
Alone again, he leafed through them and scowled. Two for her, both bearing the Meryton postmark.
He could well imagine what they would be saying; that she must be miserable, must be suffering from his temper, questioning her about his behaviour, or worse, describing the gossip in that dreadful town.
He could not bring himself to read them, but he could not pass them on to her without knowing what they said. To read them would be dishonourable, but to pass them on unread? No, he could not, in all conscience, do that.
On a sudden impulse, he threw them onto the fire, which flared up instantly.
Instinctively, he reached forward to recover them, sudden pain shooting through his ribs.
But he was too late, the paper was already ash, the knowledge gone forever.
He turned away, sickened at his action. But it was too late to repent of it.
There was another knock at the door. “What now?” he barked. The handle turned and the butler came in hesitantly.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir, but Mr Reed awaits your convenience in the estate office.”
Darcy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I apologise for my temper, Mr Payne. Please have coffee sent in for us.” He turned away to push himself to his feet, glancing once more at the fire, and frowned.
He picked up the rest of the letters; he would take them through to his meeting and give the estate matters to Reed.
Darcy could not concentrate on more than those from his family.
In the estate office, he lowered himself into the upright chair. He must seem as recovered as possible for this meeting, and nodded at his steward. “Mr Reed.”
“Good morning, Mr Darcy. It is good to meet with you again and I hope you are feeling restored.”
Darcy grunted at him. “What of Pemberley? Is there much to be doing?” How stupid he must think me! It is almost Christmas. Of course there is much to do!
“I believe it is all in hand, sir. The staff have been as attentive as always, and Mrs Darcy has proved tireless in arranging things.”
Darcy raised a brow. “Is she interfering with the housekeeper? Will it cause discord?”
Reed looked surprised. “Not at all, Mr Darcy. Mrs Kerr … and Mrs Reynolds, of course … are delighted to have a conscientious mistress at the estate. I believe the tenants will be pleased with the changes she has made to their boxes. I have already introduced her at her request to the wives of the under-stewards and she conducted herself admirably.”
Darcy stiffened. She was inserting herself too soon where she could; she had gained allies where he should have precedence. Did even Reed believe she would be the better Darcy, now he was so broken? Did she even know how to be the mistress of an estate, or would she err?
“Her conduct is not your concern, Reed! Attend to your ledgers.” He pushed himself to his feet. He could stay no longer. “We shall meet again on Monday.”
Reed stood at once and bowed stiffly. He must be offended, and Darcy began to loathe himself more for the outburst. But he dare not attempt to speak again lest he say worse.
He nodded curtly and left for his study where he could be alone.
A whisky might help. But he would get Payne to remove the decanter; he must not take more than one.
He slept heavily during the afternoon. Another sign of weakness, and he scowled as he forced himself downstairs again. He went to his study, knowing he was afraid of his temper and determined not to be in her company. He dare not. What if she asked him about her letters?
But he had not been down more than ten minutes before there was a knock at the door. He frowned, if he had remained above stairs he would not have been disturbed. “Enter!”
The butler opened the door. “Mrs Darcy, sir.”
I do not want to face you! Why do you plague me like this! Darcy heaved himself to stand.
“Madam.” He knew his voice was cold.
“Yes, sir.” Mrs Darcy's head was high. Her chin was raised. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I wish to request details of what pin money …”
A sudden rage, white-hot. “You astonish me, madam. Your settlement was exceedingly generous and already you come to me for more! You cannot possibly need …” He turned away, and drew a deep breath. “I had not thought you mercenary.” He could not restrain himself and turned back to glare at her.
She flinched, the colour draining from her features. But her voice was steady, and as cold as his. “Then I will not disturb you further.” She spun around and marched from the room.
What had he done? But she was gone. He sank into the chair, clutching his head; how had it come to this?
Had her father not explained the settlement to her?
Perhaps he had not, perhaps she thought she had nothing.
And I have done nothing to relieve her mind, have not ensured that she knows she may spend her money howsoever she chooses.
He wished he was a child again when it was not so wrong to weep. I am a despicable creature. No wonder she hates me.
He could return to his chambers. He could sit up there and be undisturbed by any except Maunder. His valet had been there, had seen all. Darcy had nothing to hide from him.
But no. He must be master of the estate; he must be strong. He could face his staff; he could. But could he face her? He sat for a long time, staring at the fire, his thoughts in disarray.
Eventually, his valet entered. “Would you come upstairs to dress for dinner, Mr Darcy?”
No, he could not face her. “No. please tell the kitchen to send me a tray in here. I will dine alone.”
He barely looked away from the fire, but he thought he saw an expression of disapproval on the man’s face. He could not castigate him, he was not sure how far he might go.
Alone, waiting for his tray, he considered her.
He had not thought of her by name or station since their marriage.
Only as her. But it was time. He must think of her as his wife, no matter what he thought of it.
Mrs Darcy. He shuddered. He must cease calling her Madam and use her name, or he might never abide by it.
He forced his temper down. He must accept this.
The marriage was done. She had not compromised him from any wish to become the wealthy mistress of Pemberley.
He must remember that. Back at Netherfield Richard had given him a blistering set-down.
She had probably saved his life; had certainly saved him from more serious injury by not waiting for the servants to follow her.
He forced himself to think of it. Perhaps it would soften his feelings towards her. Reed had said she was attempting to be a good mistress of the estate. That must be a good thing. Surely he could think better of her?
He was still in his study many hours later, the fire dying down, his thoughts awry.
Could he trust his temper not to flare in front of her?
He could hardly bear to think of the expression in her eyes when she had asked him about her pin money.
He frowned, had she really spent all she had for the month?
His butler knocked and entered, sending the thought out of his mind. “A letter, sir. For Mrs Darcy.”
His heart went cold as he took the letter from the salver and glanced at the direction. A different hand had written it to those of the morning.
He saw the man was hesitating beside him, probably waiting to be asked to bear it upstairs to her.
“Begone.” Darcy knew he sounded impatient, but soon he was alone again.
He stared at the missive. The postmark was Bishopsgate Street.
He frowned. It must be the aunt from Cheapside.
She would be answering the letter that had been sent the first day, before he came downstairs and stopped the subsequent ones.
Two sheets. He could see they were closely written; there must be much advice to her niece on her marriage.
How could he read something so personal, so intimate? Yet how could he just give it to her … to his wife ... without knowing what it said about him?
He found himself standing by the fire, the still-sealed letter in his hand. There was enough of a fire left to burn it to ash.
He did not know what he should do — or what he would do. The flickering light reflected from the glossy wax of the seal, and the smell of the smouldering oak logs drifted past him as he stood frozen in indecision.