Chapter 2
TWO
As May turned to June, the gardens were in full bloom, the bright yellows, pinks, and lavenders of their blooms seeming a betrayal of the sombre atmosphere inside Pemberley.
Its door remained bedecked with black crape, the servants continued to wear their armbands, and Darcy’s melancholy persisted.
Letters from Georgiana beseeched him to take care and avoid high-strung mounts; those from his friends spoke of their adventures in town or abroad.
Missives from Bingley raised his spirits.
As ever, his friend’s handwriting was a disaster, inky blotches and scores marring his distinctive broad loops.
No one, not even his old, arthritic uncle, wrote so poorly.
Darcy’s name and the direction were legible, but once unfolded, every third or fourth word of the letter was smeared or blotted.
Sighing, he lifted the quizzing glass to his eye and began to read.
Darcy,
I hope you do not remain too sombre and will not resent me for sharing happy news.
My sister Louisa is to be wed to the gentleman I mentioned—Robert Hurst, the son of my late mother’s cousin.
He is a bit of a swell, with a mean hand at cards and billiards, and quite fond of Louisa, thank goodness.
My father is pleased with the engagement. ..
Darcy knew Hurst’s elder brother, also ‘a bit of a swell’ and as dedicated to his mistress as he was to his estate in Devon. Was Bingley’s father unaware? He peered closely at the writing. Bingley truly was slapdash with a pen.
In need of a stretch, he rose and strolled into the corridor towards the morning room, where he knew a warm breeze, fragrant with garden blooms, would greet him.
“Not me, Mrs Reynolds! It must’ve been Millie who broke the thing!”
“Millie?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
Darcy turned quickly into the blue parlour where Mrs Reynolds and a maid stood, pieces of shattered vase at their feet.
Reluctant as he was to involve himself in household affairs, hearing the name of his gamekeeper’s niece invoked as a wrongdoer caught his attention.
Nodding at his housekeeper, he glanced at the young housemaid, whose defiant expression faded under his scrutiny.
It was Hannah, the girl who had mistakenly entered his study a few weeks earlier to light the fire.
He gestured at the porcelain shards littering the tiled floor.
“An accident, sir, whilst Hannah was cleaning.”
“Weren’t me, though, sir,” the girl said defiantly. “It was Millie.”
Mrs Reynolds appeared stricken. “There is no need to cast blame when a vase is knocked down by accident, Hannah. I am puzzled, however, that the vase was broken but a moment ago and there is no sign of the maid you say is at fault.”
“She ran, ma’am. That way.” Hannah gestured towards the door, where a footman now stood.
Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “And yet I was in the corridor and saw no one emerge. Did you, Frederick?”
“No, sir.”
Noting the maid’s anxious glances behind her, he stepped towards the hearth, where a slim door was concealed by a panel.
He and Wickham had hidden themselves there many times after discovering a passageway behind it, blocked off by long-ago renovations.
When he slid it open, a young man clutching a bulging cloth sack stared back at him.
“Step out,” Darcy commanded, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Mrs Reynolds, do you know this man?”
“No, sir.”
“And you?” he asked the maid.
“Never seen him before, sir!”
Darcy eyed the fine cut of the man’s threadbare jacket and the wild look about his eyes. “Your name?”
“Potter.”
“You are on my property. My footman will inspect your belongings.”
Potter’s eyes darted furtively past him, towards the maid, before he handed the bag to the footman.
Frederick pulled out two silver candlesticks, a small gold clock, and a pair of silver bon-bon dishes before Darcy held up his hand and sighed angrily.
“I wonder how it is you entered my home, and who might have directed you here.”
“He be working with Millie. I saw them,” muttered the maid.
“Who be Millie?” cried the man. “You said there was gold here.”
“I never seen him before!”
His patience at an end, Darcy lifted his quizzing glass to peer at the maid. Her apron, which had appeared a pristine white, was now a blackened grey, as was the air around her. The alteration clearly was not caused by ashes.
‘Its gaze may pierce the veils of men.’
Startled, he lowered the quizzing glass, a sense of unease flooding through him. He directed an angry glare at the maid; her apron was again white, but her cheeks were aflame.
“I shall not reward thievery or malice with kind words. You have attempted to rob from my house and blackened the name of an innocent maid for the crime. Frederick, take this man to the west antechamber and keep watch on him there until the magistrate arrives. John,” he said to a heavy-breathing footman who had just arrived, “escort Hannah to the kitchen and have her room searched and belongings packed.”
The girl’s eyes widened in shock as she was led away, but Darcy could feel no satisfaction in expelling a dishonest servant.
Had he truly determined the truth of the situation—of her character!
—by what was visible only through a quizzing glass?
He was a rational man. This was the stuff of fascination, of sorcery.
“Sir?”
Mrs Reynolds’ soft voice broke into his thoughts. Exhaling deeply, he gave her a grim smile. “Millie’s loyalty to Pemberley was never in doubt.”
“I am sorry for the trouble. I should have dismissed Hannah after she entered your study. She has been here not yet a month—”
Darcy waved dismissively, his mind elsewhere. “And she had been instructed as to her duties and chose twice to disobey them and allow a thief to enter my house. She will receive her wages, but no letter.”
“Is that your father’s quizzing glass?” Mrs Reynolds stared at the item in question dangling round his neck.
“Ah, yes.” Somewhat self-consciously, Darcy revealed he had found it useful in deciphering badly written letters and some of Pemberley’s maps and ledgers.
His explanation only deepened her interest—and concern. “You, a young man? Your eyes cannot be failing you already.”
“Not at all.”
“You are working too hard, Master Fitzwilliam,” she said, using his childhood name as she sometimes did when worried about him.
“There is work to be done,” he replied, shrugging as if he’d been caught with a stolen tart.
Mrs Reynolds had been his mainstay at Pemberley for so long, helping tether him to memories of his mother and the house, and now of his father; she was likely to be his sole source of information on the quizzing glass.
Could he explain what had just occurred—or would she think it was his mind, not his eyes, that had weakened?
Although uncomfortable with her scrutiny, he asked, “What can you tell me of the quizzing glass?”
The housekeeper’s hand lifted, as if to touch the object, before she drew it back to her side. “It is a valuable piece.”
“Clearly it was valuable to my father.”
“Oh yes, sir. He did not permit anyone to touch it. As to its provenance, I believe it came from Mr Darcy’s grandfather, given to him when he inherited. He is wearing in it his portrait—”
“In the south gallery.” Darcy knew the painting well.
His tall, imperious ancestor, standing on Pemberley’s front steps, his piercing stare levelled at the artist, one hand on the balustrade, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
He tapped the quizzing glass on his palm.
“My blessed father had no issue with his vision. He was a masterful shot, and could point out a stag or pheasant fifty yards away.”
“He could indeed, and spot a broken fence post while cantering.” The steward, Mr Tompkins, stood in the doorway, a sheaf of papers in his hand, taking in the scene. A maid carrying a brush and pail drew past him and began cleaning up the broken vase.
Darcy quitted the room, gesturing at Tompkins to accompany him.
“I remember my father keeping the glass in town. He seldom used it, but I recall him taking it to his clubs, to Tattersall’s on occasion,” he said quietly.
At the time, he had thought a horse auction house was an odd place to take a dandyish object.
His father had married the daughter of an earl but shied away from the sorts of affectation and pretensions common among the ton.
Had he carried it under the delusion it improved his judgment?
Reliance on such a thing seemed a weakness to him, and difficult to believe.
Yet, had he not seen something odd when he looked through it at the maid?
Something telling of her character? How—?
Remembering he was not alone, he glanced at the steward. “I did not realise he brought it to Pemberley.”
“Aye, I recall how large his eye appeared through the thing when I first arrived to assist Mr Wickham. On occasion he carried it to meet with a neighbour or tenant. Light is often lacking inside a tenant’s cottage, and the glass lent some opulence to such humble places.”
Darcy could admit to being blind to any failings in his father—be it eyesight, his health, or imprudence to Wickham’s behaviours. But the affectation of a man as staid and dignified as George Darcy infrequently carrying a quizzing glass was puzzling, unless he also knew—and employed—its power.
Of course he did, you fool. Hence he kept it locked away and forbade you to touch it. Could it be, perhaps, that he also tried to forbid himself to touch it? To avoid it?
After completing his meeting with Tompkins, one in which his mind wandered far too often, Darcy sank into a chair in his study and examined the quizzing glass closely.
The lens was slightly curved, forming a smoothly rounded edge; could the shape have captured a light and thrown it onto the maid?
While dim candlelight might have explained the shadows the first time he had looked at her, the incident earlier today had occurred in bright sunlight.
She was light, then dark, depending on whether he was looking at her through the lens.
No, it reflects something else, and my father, who taught me to scoff at magic tricks, had believed in it. Used it. Relied on it to evaluate the estate and its people. When did he determine good judgment was not enough? Had he wished to avoid mistakes?
With a start, he looked round the room. Is this quizzing glass the reason our coffers are full, our lands so fertile, our servants exemplary, and our stable so good?
No. His father had been an intelligent man, who had managed it well with a steward he trusted.
More likely, he had used it sparingly. Darcy thought of his father’s expert eye for horse flesh and his enjoyment of racing.
Perhaps there he relied on it? It was a crushing thought.
His own popularity at Cambridge had been boosted by his deep knowledge of racing, but it was Wickham who truly enjoyed the sport—and profited most with bets and wagers.
Darcy cursed under his breath, recalling his former friend’s crowing over his winnings.
Blackguard. The elder Darcy had been a judicious master and his horses well cared for, but his understanding of his godson had been less thorough.
He should not have needed assistance to know what a scapegrace Wickham had become—had truly always been.
I knew. Pemberley’s servants all knew. Had he never thought to raise the quizzing glass to his eye and see George Wickham for who he truly was?
Did he ever use it to look at me?
The thought was untenable. He knew my worth and qualities and respected me. He expressed his pride and belief in me as Pemberley’s future master.
No, he was certain his father had used it only rarely, on those he did not know and could not yet trust, on those whose true characters needed illumination.
As shall I.