Chapter 12
From: F. Darcy, Royal Canal Co.
To: E. Bennet, Child my heritage, Pemberley, is held ransom to it.
Take care of my home, for I have entrusted you with its security and, perhaps more precious to me, the well-being of my sister.
Of course, she is not your direct concern, but I am glad you are there.
I am indebted to you,
Darcy.
Both Elizabeth and Georgiana were taking tea on the terrace overlooking the garden when Winthrop brought them the mail.
She broke the seal on the large packet, handing Georgiana the letter addressed to her.
Darcy had included the canal accounts for the past week, and Elizabeth carefully placed them in her folio for later review.
The accounts would tell the complete story, detailing all the major expenses.
He had also included a letter addressed to Bennet, his hand well-formed, sloping forward, always precise.
Yet she saw that his pen often slipped; sometimes the ink was faint, as though he had forgotten to dip his pen—a sign, perhaps, of fatigue—working late into the night.
Georgiana laughed at some observation her brother had made.
“Oh, Elizabeth,” she cried. “William describes the most ridiculous conveyance, a jaunting car, where the passengers sit with their backs to each other and their legs hanging over the side. Can you imagine travelling in such a vehicle? I should, likely as not, fall off, particularly when it runs over a rut. What a wonderful time he must be having to see such oddities!”
Elizabeth felt like a fraud. Mr. Darcy had confided in her—in reality, he had confided in Child beyond was the graceful home park, deer and sheep peacefully grazing.
Could anyone give up such a place? She had been only here a scant few weeks, and had already begun to fall in love with it.
“Oh, Lizzy! You foolish girl—for, once this time is past, you must return to London. Please, guard your heart, my dear, and your integrity—for if Mr. Darcy were to fail, then the bank would, with all the law on its side, break up the estate to recover its investment. If that were the case, you would be complicit in his, and Georgiana’s, desolation. ”
She set aside both letter and accounts, determined not to let her spirits be overcome by a future that was, as yet, uncertain and unmade. “It is not for me to decide the fate of Pemberley, but only to act with honesty where my duty lies,” she mused, but the words rang hollow.
Georgiana, still clutching her letter, had grown quiet, her gaze fixed on the distant peaks.
“Elizabeth,” she said at last, “do you think my brother will succeed? While his letter is full of cheerful anecdotes, I fear he is keeping the truth from me.” She sounded so young, so entirely unlike the composed young lady she appeared to the world.
Elizabeth reached across, taking Georgiana’s hand in hers. “I believe that Mr. Darcy will do all that can be done—and more. He is not the sort of man to give up what he loves, nor to abandon his duty.”
* * *
They sat together for some moments in companionable silence, until they were interrupted by the man Elizabeth least wished to see.
“Miss Darcy, Mrs. Elizabeth, what a lovely scene to enjoy on such a pleasant day.” Mr. Wickham came forward from around the house, stepping briskly along the gravelled path.
“Mr. Wickham, we have not seen you for some days—we’ve so missed your company.” Georgiana gave him a broad smile. “Please take tea with us. We have just finished reading letters from William.”
“And how does he fare? Does he intend to stay much longer? For he has been away for above six weeks.” Wickham sat while Georgiana poured tea from a fresh pot, which had just that moment been placed on the table by a footman.
Wickham’s eyes fell on Elizabeth’s folio, where she kept the accounts for the Royal Canal; beneath was another with Pemberley’s accounts for the past month.
There was nothing to reveal, yet he cast her a studied smile.
“Oh, he did not say when he should return,” replied Georgiana, glancing quickly at Elizabeth. “William seems to be enjoying himself immensely. He described a jaunting car—have you heard of it? For certainly, I have seen nothing like it in England.”
“Is that a cart where the passengers sit sideways? I was told of such, but have never seen one.”
The conversation moved on. After a short while, Mrs. Younge joined them.
Elizabeth had received no reply to her enquiry to the bank’s agent, apart from a brief note saying that their investigator would attend to the matter as soon as he had returned from Manchester.
Thus, she ensured that her address to the gentleman was civil, even though his manner unsettled her.
He seemed, perhaps, too much at ease with Mrs. Younge, though they claimed a previous acquaintance, which likely explained their familiarity.
“If you will excuse me,” she said, as she needed to read the accounts before replying to Mr. Darcy. “I have some letters to attend to. Perhaps later, we could take the walk by the far side of the lake. I am told it is very beautiful, and the woods adjacent are exceedingly fine.”