Chapter 7
“Excuse me, ma’am, there’s a Mr. Darcy waiting in the vestibule—he has an eleven o’clock appointment.”
“Thank you, Peter,” Elizabeth replied, accepting the card from the front desk clerk.
The awkwardness that had marked her first encounter with Peter—was it really nine months ago?
—had since eased into mutual respect, though Elizabeth’s position as Lady Jersey’s private secretary placed her high within the bank’s ranks.
“The meeting is in the Oak Room. I’ll see to him in just a moment. ”
Mr. Darcy stood at the window, gazing out at Fleet Street beneath a dull, rain-threatening sky. He turned as Elizabeth entered, his brow furrowing when she set her journal and a folio on the table. Without comment, she moved his document satchel from its place near the window to the other side.
Darcy’s frown deepened. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you not touch my satchel. I have no desire to sit facing the window—the glare is quite oppressive.”
“My apologies, sir,” she answered, her smile polite. “Lady Jersey, who will be joining us, has particular preferences about the seating. It’s one of her quirks, and we all accommodate them.”
He gave a short huff and turned back to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Coffee, please. A little cream, one sugar.”
Elizabeth stared at his rigid posture. From Miss Darcy’s remarks, she’d expected him to be courteous, certainly civil—not imperious or overbearing.
But perhaps this was how he behaved with those below his own social standing.
As the owner of a large Derbyshire estate and nephew to an earl, Mr. Darcy certainly commanded respect.
He was tall, and aside from the frown that shadowed his features, undeniably handsome.
Tolerable, perhaps, but not so handsome as to excuse such rudeness.
Elizabeth, dressed in a dark green woollen spencer over a sprigged muslin gown—appropriate for her role—wondered if Mr. Darcy had mistaken her for a servant.
She resolved to be cautious; her first impression was of a proud, disagreeable man.
Yet she understood something of his discomfort.
Coming to Child clearly, he had thought she was a domestic servant.
“Harry, have we called for coffee or tea?”
“Mr. Darcy wishes coffee, a little cream and one sugar.” Elizabeth smirked as a tray of tea and coffee was placed on the table by a housemaid, who quietly left the room.
“Let me pour,” she said, placing tea with a slice of lemon before Lady Jersey; she poured Mr. Darcy’s coffee to his taste, tea with one lump of sugar for Mr. Smith, and coffee for herself.
“Well, the niceties have been dealt with. I suspect you are a busy man, Mr. Darcy; let us not take up too much of your day. How might Child the image reminded her so very much of her sister Jane—exactly herself, size, shaped face, features, and sweetness.
Elizabeth returned her attention to the matter at hand.
If Mr. Darcy could make a case for his business with the bank, then, though his character appeared rude and judgemental, she caught glimpses, beneath his haughty demeanour, of a man of sense and integrity.
“But there is more, is there not?” Harry Smith asked, leaning forward in his seat. They had come to the core of the matter.
“The Capital Stock of the company was ￡200,000—the estimated construction cost of the canal, ￡197,000.” Darcy had no need to refer to his notes, for he had come to know the finances of the Royal Canal Company in great detail.
“Of this, ￡134,000 was raised by subscription, and the remaining ￡66,000 was granted by Act of Parliament.”
Elizabeth handed a pamphlet to Lady Jersey, who gave it a cursory glance.
“I am well aware of the period, Mr. Darcy, for the first stone of the first lock and bridge of the Royal Canal at Phibsborough in Dublin was laid by my father, the Earl of Westmorland, when he was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Though but a child, I remember the event very well.”
“My apologies, your ladyship, but the figures are central to my narrative. In particular, the Act stated that for every two pounds the company expended on the canal, the government would pay the company one pound.”
“We should pause for refreshment,” said Lady Jersey, taking the time to peruse the notes handed to her by Elizabeth, who arose to summon the housemaid for more tea and coffee.
She attempted to keep her expression neutral, for she had learnt that facial expressions were often mistaken by clients; they grew angry if her smile was interpreted as acquiescence to their requests rather than as mere politeness and courtesy.
Darcy tracked the young woman as she walked to the door.
Young indeed, perhaps not more than one and twenty; her figure was light and pleasing, and her countenance was uncommonly intelligent, notwithstanding the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.
What was he doing? Staring so when he should be focused on the matter at hand.
He glanced across the table—once again Lady Jersey was looking at him with amusement.
Was his interest in her companion so transparent?
Confound it! He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was not usually so easily unsettled.
“Please continue, Mr. Darcy.” Harry Smith resumed the meeting after Elizabeth had poured fresh tea and coffee.