Chapter 5
For the second morning in a row, Elizabeth awoke to the incessant screeching of seagulls.
She looked at her carriage clock and groaned; it was not yet five o’clock.
Such a raucous awakening was never a problem in the country, where the gentle chirruping of blackbirds and the occasional crow of a cockerel were the only sounds to be heard with the breaking of dawn.
She hoped she might grow accustomed to the noise, but until she did, it seemed early starts were in order.
She lay abed, staring at the ceiling for a while, thinking over all that had been said the night before about her house.
The description of its disrepair had made Mrs Gardiner rescind some of her previous enthusiasm for the project, and Mr Gardiner had been concerned by the Millhouses’ warning of a dearth of respectable workmen in the area.
One thought that kept coming back to her, no matter how she tried to evade it, was what Mr Darcy would make of it all.
He had said he considered an alliance with her a degradation, requiring the utmost force of passion to overlook.
Would he think better of her situation if he knew she owned property in such a fashionable area?
Or would his disdain only increase because the house’s condition was as regrettable as her connexions?
“And more to the point, why do you care?” she muttered, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed and throwing the covers aside to sit up.
Her gaze fell upon the chunk of plaster she had retrieved from the house, sitting innocuously on her dresser.
She picked it up, turning it over in her hands.
She tried to picture how grand it must once have looked—and might look again—but she found she could scarcely even remember the room in which she had found it.
Her first tour of the house had been such a blur of excitement and dismay, all she could recall was the smashed pianoforte and the view of the sea from every south-facing window.
That decided her. She would go again, on her own, and take her time viewing the property. After a hasty cup of tea, supplied by the Millhouses’ maid, she set out across town, leaving word that she would be back before breakfast.
The house was just as imposing as it had seemed before, looming over her as she looked up at it from the front steps, although from that angle, the smashed window made it seem very much as though it was winking down at her. She grinned back up at it. “Good day. I am back to admire you again.”
With the entrance cleared of all obstacles on her visit the day before, the door opened without resistance this time, making her arrival feel significantly more welcome.
She picked her way through every room, committing to memory the layout and orientation of each.
When she reached the stairs that her uncle had advised her against climbing the day before, she could not withstand the temptation to go up.
They creaked alarmingly, and the landing, when she reached it, felt distinctly aslant, but her intrepidness was handsomely rewarded by the discovery of a roof terrace beyond the farthest door.
Her stomach reeled when she stepped out, for it was vertiginously high, but her delight at the panorama before her was as limitless as the view itself.
“And who might you be?”
Elizabeth squawked loudly and gripped the iron railings at the edge of the terrace before turning to see who had addressed her.
An older lady of perhaps sixty or seventy years was seated at a little table on the roof of the neighbouring house. She looked inordinately displeased as she pressed, “Well?”
“I…I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Never heard of you. What are you doing up here?”
Recovering from her fright, Elizabeth let go of the railing and turned to address her properly. “Inspecting the house. I have recently inherited it.”
The woman gave no response other than to frown slightly and give Elizabeth an appraising look that took in her entire person.
“Do I have the pleasure of speaking to my new neighbour?” Elizabeth asked.
“Obviously we are neighbours. Whether you are pleased to be speaking to me, only you can be the judge.”
Not particularly, Elizabeth thought, though she kept smiling benignly. “Might I know your name?”
The woman grunted once then said, “Lady Cordelia Preston. Mother to the Earl of Preston of Brighthelm Manor, but I live here now, because his wife hates me.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth said, dipping a quick curtsey. “How strange.”
Her ladyship narrowed her eyes, though her mouth moved in a way that could almost have been the beginning of a smile. “You say you have inherited this house. I take it that means its previous owner is no longer with us.”
“That is correct.”
“Well that is no great loss to anyone. Agatha Bennet was a frightful old termagant.”
Her disrespect notwithstanding, the more Lady Preston said, the more she reminded Elizabeth of her aunt. No wonder Agatha had given up coming here, for she had clearly met her match.
“She was my aunt,” she said with a hint of admonishment in her tone.
“I do not see how that exonerates her from being a perennial curmudgeon. To carry my point, she has left you this catastrophe of a house.”
“I am rather coming to like it.”
“You should not. This is a dreadful place to live.”
Elizabeth laughed incredulously. “I cannot agree, with this charming view before me.”
“Make the most of it. You will not be able to see the sea, even from here, when it is howling a gale and lashing with rain, which it is most days.”
“I shall be sure to enjoy the clement weather while it lasts.”
Lady Preston pursed her lips. “You will not be able to do that without a struggle either, for whenever the sun comes out, so do the vexatious redcoats, marching up and down with their preposterously loud boots. They are like ants. They are everywhere. You would do best to avoid them, if you can.”
Elizabeth began to back away. “Thank you for the advice.”
“I always give sound advice. Here is more—sell the house.”
“Pardon?”
“It is falling down. At its current rate of decline, it will be in the sea by Michaelmas.”
Elizabeth had stopped her retreat but knew not what to say.
“Was that not what you wanted to hear?” Lady Preston asked.
“Well, I…I confess, I have been unsure what I wished to do with it.”
Her ladyship gave a curt nod. “And now you know. You are as contrary as your aunt, I can tell. So you will keep it, because I have said you should not.”
Elizabeth could not deny that hearing it said so bluntly that she should get rid of it had helped her to better know her own mind.
“Besides,” Lady Preston continued, “if Agatha left it to you, she must have thought you capable of seeing to the business. I never knew her to overestimate anybody. She always thought less of people than they deserved.” She stood up—not abruptly, exactly, for she was too unsteady on her feet for any real haste, but rather unexpectedly nevertheless—and shuffled towards her door.
“It is grown windy. Good day, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth could not help but laugh once Lady Preston had disappeared inside, for it had been such a bizarre encounter.
Still, if her ladyship’s prediction about the weather was correct, it was unlikely they would often encounter each other up there, and if they did, she would be better prepared for the challenge next time.
Supposing she ought to return home before anyone began to worry at her absence, she made her way back down through the house.
As she descended the last flight of stairs, she received a second fright: a man was standing just inside the front door, peering around the vestibule just as she had done on her first visit.
He looked exceedingly well-to-do, his clothes finely cut, and with every fashionable manner of fob, swagger stick, and tie pin glinting about his person.
His eyes came to rest on her, and though his expression remained complacent, he pursed his lips and cocked a hip, one hand upon it. “I do hope this does not mean I have competition in securing this house.”
“Competition? No, sir, I—”
“You look too finely dressed to be the housekeeper. Are you the housekeeper?” He looked about and chuckled. “If you are, I must say the place does not speak well of your abilities.”
Elizabeth remained where she was on the stairs. He did not look dangerous, but she had no wish to test him. “The house belongs to me. I was rather wondering why you thought it acceptable to enter without permission.”
“Belongs to you? Well now!” He removed his hat, revealing a shock of luxuriant blond hair, and bowed, after which he straightened and approached her, making a strange clicking noise with his tongue. She understood it when a snow-white dog appeared.
“So, you live here, then?” he asked.
“No, sir, I do not. Might I trouble you for an introduction? Since you are already in my house.”
“Lord Saye,” he said in a distracted tone, for he had begun to peer past her up the stairs. “How many bedchambers?”
“I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“I require at least eight,” he declared loftily, moving another step closer. “Ten, if possible.”
This close, Elizabeth wondered whether they had met before, for she had the unnerving sense that his face seemed familiar, but she could not place him and did not recognise the name.
“Eight…what?” she enquired.
“Bedchambers. I mean to be here with a family party for the summer. Perhaps we might hire someone to…spruce it up a bit?”
“I do not think you understand—”
He abruptly stopped looking around and pinned her with a sharp look. “Madam, you find yourself in possession of the only unleased house in Brighton. And, happily for you, possibly the only man alive willing to lease it from you in its current state has just arrived at your door.”