Chapter 6 #2
Footmen carried the bundles of documents from the study and placed them on the long dining table.
Darcy, together with his steward, Baxter, began sorting them into categories: letters, bills and invoices, investments, agreements, and contracts.
They covered the whole table with scattered piles, a jumble of different paper sizes, folios tied with linen string, some vellum scrolls so out of place among the modernity of hot-pressed paper.
“Once we have searched, we shall search again—you take my place, and I’ll take yours, so we check each other.
” Darcy began the tedious task of reading every piece of correspondence, starting at one end of the table, Baxter at the other.
Somewhere, in the middle, they would cross and repeat the search.
“The documents we look for are likely printed certificates, dating from 1789,” said Darcy, taking the top sheet from a pile.
“As you know, my father dabbled in all sorts of joint-stock companies and other similar investments. I had thought that I had discovered them all, but recently, I received a note from my solicitor that a call had been made on shares in the Royal Canal Company, held under his name, and now passed to me. I had never heard of it—surely, he sold the certificates many years ago. So, we are searching for the share certificates, a receipt for their sale, a transfer certificate, or the like. Also, bank records—perhaps in a ledger—recording the transaction.”
“I take it, Mr. Darcy,” acknowledged Baxter, “that such certificates might have been lodged with other documents, perhaps bundled up with receipts and suchlike. Many such bundles were taken into the basement archive, filed away in the dead-storage, secure from fire. Should we not search those also?”
“Let us search these first, for the study is the most likely place they were kept. But my father’s business affairs were in some disarray when he died.
Indeed, he could have papers we seek stored away.
I suspect we should also include Mrs. Reynold’s household ledgers in our search, for I recall as a boy that my father and Lady Anne often shared a desk together.
Also, you will have inherited many bundles from old Wickham, your predecessor.
” Darcy furrowed his brow. “I suspect, unless the deeds or certificates are found quickly, we are in for a long search.”
“Is there none who can assist us, sir?” asked Baxter, aware of the enormity of the task.
“Unfortunately, much is confidential,” said Darcy.
“It would be unwise to allow any of the staff, apart from yourself, Winthrop, and Mrs. Reynolds, to know the details of the estate business. And both Winthrop and Mrs. Reynolds cannot be spared from supervising the household, the stables, and the grounds.”
Baxter nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “Then we shall do our best, sir. I shall send for a pot of strong tea—best to fortify us, but I fear we may be here for more than a few hours, perchance well into the week.”
Darcy offered a brief, grateful smile, but his eyes did not leave the papers before him.
He tugged at the nearest bundle, untying the linen string and spreading the contents wide.
The room was silent save for the soft rustle of parchment and the distant clatter of servants in the hall.
Hours passed in this fashion, the sun shifting westward as shadows lengthened across the polished floor.
Every so often, Darcy would pause, brow furrowed, lips moving silently as he read an old letter from an unfamiliar hand or a faded invoice for timber from Derby or hessian sacks from Dundee.
Baxter moved methodically, his hands practised from years of managing Pemberley’s labyrinthine records.
“William, you must eat—you have been at your task since breakfast!” Georgiana stood at the door.
“Come, you must, at the very least, allow Baxter his dinner. And while I can tell the urgency of your task, you will burn all the candles in the house if you continue into the night. I will not have it!”
“Perhaps, sir,” said Baxter, “Miss Darcy is correct. I find my eyes are fading, and were we to miss the document in our weariness, our continued search would be in vain. Shall we not recommence early in the morning? I shall have the boxes from the dead-storage brought up—perhaps to the great ballroom—and also any records from the steward’s offices. ”
Darcy realised that both Georgiana and Baxter were correct—fatigue was affecting his concentration.
They would resume in the morning. Now was the time to dress for dinner, relax afterwards in the family parlour, and then retire early—ready to assault Pemberley’s daunting store of records spanning two decades from the century before.
The following morning dawned grey and heavy with the promise of rain, but Pemberley’s household was already awake.
Servants, at Baxter’s direction, ferried stout wooden boxes up from the basement archive and set them in the vast, echoing ballroom, the parquet floor now serving as a battlefield for Darcy’s campaign against the disorder of his father’s affairs.
Mrs. Reynolds had commandeered a cadre of maids to dust and arrange the room, and even Georgiana, usually so reserved, appeared at the door, determined to be of use.
Darcy stood at the threshold for a moment, surveying the assembled chests and the towering stacks of ledgers.
He felt the weight of stewardship shift uneasily on his shoulders, heavier now than ever.
There was something almost archaeological about the endeavour: each bundle of invoices, each yellowed memorandum, seemed a relic of a vanished world, the choices and burdens of a man long dead.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether his father had intended to leave such mysteries behind, or whether they were no more than the inevitable legacy of a life lived busily, if not always tidily.
“Shall we begin here, sir?” Baxter gestured to the nearest box—a battered trunk, its brass fittings tarnished with age.
Darcy nodded, and together they knelt, carefully removing layers of documents.
The air was tinged with the scent of old paper, wax, and a faint hint of camphor from sachets tucked between folios—a housekeeper’s touch, no doubt, in some long-ago spring cleaning.
As the hours slipped by, their conversation grew sparse, broken only by the occasional discovery: a letter from Lord Matlock, a forgotten bill for a consignment of Madeira, an agreement with a Yorkshire ironmonger.
Darcy’s mind spun through the possibilities, each new document a tantalising clue or a maddening dead end.
Georgiana, watching from across the room, could not help but marvel at her brother’s resolve.
His brow was set in determination, yet there was a gentleness, too, as he handled the artefacts of their family’s history—a respect for the past, even as he sought to impose order upon it.
She wondered if he realised how much of their father’s character lived on in him: the same diligence, the same capacity for care, the same stubborn refusal to give up an answer once the question had been posed.
By late afternoon, with the rain drumming steadily against the tall windows, Darcy finally leaned back, stretching his cramped fingers. “Nothing yet,” he murmured. “But we are not finished—not by half.”
Baxter nodded grimly, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “We are closer, sir, than we were yesterday. I feel certain the document is somewhere in this house. It is only a matter of time—and diligence.”
Darcy managed a tired smile. “Then let us proceed tomorrow. Pemberley’s secrets cannot remain hidden—with time, we shall ferret them out.”
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