Chapter Eight
The following day, still disconcerted by the previous afternoon’s call, Elizabeth braved a blustery but exceedingly sunny afternoon rather than sit through more condolences.
She knew taking a walk wasn’t good of her.
She should be in the parlor with her sisters and her mending.
Instead, she set out in a wide arch around the farm, staying clear of the remnants of her former home, and didn’t return until too late for callers.
Hem damp and touched with mud left behind by the rain the day before, Elizabeth came through the back gate.
Using a walkway in need of care, she crossed the dormant cottage garden.
Her walk had nearly ruined her slippers, and she wondered when the cobbler would finish her new shoes as she went up two stone steps and opened the kitchen’s garden door.
Men filled the small space, her father and Mr. Darcy among them. Elizabeth blinked several times, taking in the scene. Should she close the door and leave?
“It would be very helpful if you could do something in here first,” Mr. Bennet was saying. “Mrs. Bennet has been coping wonderfully, but it is difficult to work when everything is piled up in that corner.” Spotting her, he added, “Elizabeth, come meet Mr. Murphy and his sons.”
Acutely aware of her windswept, mud spattered state, Elizabeth stepped in and closed the door.
“Elizabeth, this is Mr. Murphy.” Her father pointed to a wiry, gray haired gentleman and then to each of the younger men in turn, saying, “And his sons Douglas, Gavin and Tyrone. Gentlemen, this is my eldest daughter living at home, Elizabeth.”
Mr. Murphy and his sons all dipped their heads, the elder Murphy murmuring, “Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy has kindly brought the Murphys in to do some carpentry work,” Elizabeth’s father continued. “We’re examining the kitchen and then we’ll look above stairs.”
“Should we consider the kitchen to be your first priority, Mr. Bennet?” Mr. Murphy asked.
“I believe so, but let’s finish the tour.”
Mr. Murphy nodded. “Aye, let’s see the lot, then the boys will get some measurements. Gavin can draw up some ideas for you to look over.”
“Right this way, gentlemen.” Mr. Bennet led the way from the kitchen, the four carpenters following him out.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy greeted once they were gone, breaking the silence.
Studying him from across the small room, Elizabeth replied, “Mr. Darcy. It is very good of you to help.”
“I toured this cottage with your father before you moved in. I could see the need for carpenters. The tenants must have had some furniture that they took, which you could attempt to replace, but built in storage is a more efficient use of space.”
Elizabeth gestured, the movement encompassing the kitchen. “Especially here.”
“Yes. I’m impressed your staff has been able to organize the space into some semblance of function, with only a small table and crates.”
Elizabeth tipped her chin up slightly, a strange sensation blooming inside her: pride in her mother. “Mrs. Bennet ordered the kitchen and has been preparing the meals and teaching one of the maids how to cook.”
Surprise flickered over Mr. Darcy’s features to be quickly suppressed.
Elizabeth couldn’t hold back a smile. “I didn’t believe it at first, either.”
“I said nothing to that effect.”
Elizabeth schooled the smile from her face. “Indeed, and far be it for me to presume to know your mind, sir.”
Posture stiff, Mr. Darcy said, “I did not mean to give offense.”
“I did not say or imply you had.”
Their gazes met, and locked. For all she baited him, Elizabeth believed Mr. Darcy when he said he hadn’t meant to offend, which seemed to be a trouble of his. He offended without effort or intent.
Yes, he always seemed scrupulously honest. Would he truly have used a poorly worded will to go against the wishes of his own father? Did his distaste for Mr. Wickham run deeper than his vaunted Darcy pride in dignified behavior?
The best way to find out would be to lead him into an admission. Moving forward to stand at the little table, Elizabeth said, “I have a theoretical question for you. It’s not something that matters. As my father said, it’s moot. But I would like to get another opinion.”
Mr. Darcy came away from the wall beside the kitchen door and walked over to stand on the other side of the table. “What is the question?”
“Before he died, Mr. Collins reworked his will. Mr. Phillips drafted the copies for him and had his clerks witness them. Mr. Collins took both copies with him when he left my uncle’s office and nothing survived the fire, which is what renders the outcome of my dilemma moot, but it’s still an interesting quandary.
You see, I don’t know the details, but my uncle said Mr. Collins’ will favored me. ”
“You?” A line appeared on Mr. Darcy’s brow.
Elizabeth suppressed a wince and admitted, “Yes. He believed we would marry.”
If possible, Mr. Darcy’s frame became more rigid. “I’m sorry for the loss of your betrothed.”
“He wasn’t my betrothed. He not only hadn’t asked me, but I would have refused if he had.” She didn’t know why, beyond the vague feeling that it embarrassed her to have Mr. Darcy believe she would have married Mr. Collins, but it was important for him to know she would not have.
“Then it came as a surprise?”
“The will, yes. That he planned to ask me to marry him, no.” She grimaced.
“I was trying to discourage him but wasn’t succeeding.
He was rather stubborn in not seeing that.
” Her words trailed off at the end, losing momentum as sorrow on her cousin’s behalf hit her.
He’d come to Longbourn to survey his future home and select his future wife, and instead he’d died.
Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “What, then, is the quandary?”
She refocused on Mr. Darcy. “Why, whether or not it would have been correct of me to accept what he left me, knowing he wrote the will while believing I would wed him, when I know I would not have.”
“As you said, it is moot.”
Did he seek to avoid a discussion of the legal wording of a will versus the author’s intent? “But I am curious. Would I be right in taking whatever it was he left me?”
“Assuming it was legally left to you, you would be.”
“But it was based on a mistake.”
“His mistake. Not yours.”
Was that how Mr. Darcy justified denying Mr. Wickham the living? That his father had made a mistake in the wording of the will? Elizabeth decided to try a different tactic to learn more. “Theoretically, should I consider who would receive the money if I didn’t?”
Mr. Darcy became thoughtful. “You could, but I do not believe you need to. Mr. Collins had the right to will his property any way he wished. Even if his wishes were based on a false assumption, his holdings must still go where he desired.”
That had got her nowhere. Perhaps she should be more to the point? “Suppose, theoretically, that a will was sloppily written. That the intent was clear, but the poor wording meant the executor had legal room to interpret the will to the disadvantage of someone, even though he knew better.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you suggesting Mr. Phillips wrote a sloppy will?”
“Definitely not,” Elizabeth said, frustrated by Mr. Darcy’s inability to realize she alluded to his treatment of Mr. Wickham. “I’m simply exploring possibilities.”
Mr. Darcy shrugged. “If the will were ambiguous and the executor knew what was intended, it would be his moral duty to go with the intent.”
How could he say that with no sign or remorse or understanding? “In all cases?” she pressed.
Mr. Darcy nodded sternly. “First and foremost, the law must be followed, but if the executor finds an ambiguity, and knows the intent, he must honor that intent. If he is uncertain of the intent, he must obey the words as written.”
The tromp of footfalls heralded a return of the other men, so Elizabeth put on a pleasantly neutral expression and nodded. “I believe we agree on that, sir.”
The kitchen door swung open, the younger Murphy men shuffling in, measuring tools, slate, and chalk in hand.
Elizabeth smiled at them. “I’m so pleased you’re going to set this kitchen right, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me, I will move out of your way.” She circled the table, pausing to dip her head to Mr. Darcy. “Please, give my best to Jane.”
He nodded and Elizabeth escaped the kitchen and the confusion of Mr. Darcy.
She passed the parlor door, where her parents and Mr. Murphy were talking about shelving.
As she neared the front door, she heard a commotion without, and easily identified Lydia’s loud, high voice.
Wishing for a moment of peace to contemplate her interaction with Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth hurried through the entrance hall and up the narrow staircase.
At least her shoes were dry enough for walking through the cottage now.
Once she gained the questionable seclusion of her room, she dropped to sit on the edge of the bed she shared with Mary and frowned.
Mr. Darcy seemed wholly oblivious to her oblique references to Mr. Wickham’s situation, and she didn’t believe his obtuseness feigned to cover guilt.
He simply didn’t understand her reference to the abuse Mr. Wickham had suffered at his hands.
This seemed hardly possible. Mr. Darcy had his faults, but a lack of intelligence was not among them.
It almost seemed as if, insofar as Mr. Darcy knew, the offense of which Mr. Wickham spoke had never happened.
“Lizzy.” Kitty burst into the room. “I thought I saw you at the top of the stairs. Where have you been?”
Elizabeth took in the bright glow to Kitty’s cheeks and the sparkle in her hazel eyes.
Both might be the result of time outdoors, but Elizabeth guessed Kitty’s exuberance had a different source.
She put aside the annoyance of Mr. Darcy to smile at her sister.
“I’d rather hear where you’ve been. When I left, you were all in the parlor mending. ”