Chapter 8
In spite of his natural inclination to distrust Saye’s antics, Darcy had come around to thinking a sojourn to Brighton might not be such a terrible idea.
London was doing nothing for his spirits—nor, apparently, for his waist—and it was the first time in many months that he had seen Georgiana so animated.
Since she was not yet out and he welcomed any excuse to avoid the usual obligations of the Season, they both agreed with alacrity to the suggestion to depart two weeks early.
When they arrived at the house to find its edifice surrounded by scaffolding, he began to have some doubts. Entering the vestibule wholly confirmed that he would have done better to go to Pemberley.
There must have been at least three dozen workmen careering around, getting in each other’s way and muttering obscenities as though they were going out of fashion—all of them indifferent to the party that had just arrived in their midst from London.
Doors, windows, and even some walls were missing.
The floorboards in some rooms were bare; in other rooms they had been removed entirely to reveal the innards of the house, rendering those spaces unsafe.
There was no housekeeper—largely because there was no house to be kept—much less a butler. In short it was entirely unsuitable.
Saye stood beside him, surveying the place with an incongruous air of satisfaction. “This is looking very well indeed! You ought to have seen it when I visited last!”
“You cannot be in earnest,” Darcy retorted, rounding on him. “From my vantage, it seems you have taken leave of your senses.”
“A charming house on the best street,” Saye replied. “Try having a little imagination, Darcy, it will only hurt for a minute.”
“I would hardly describe this…place as a house. More like a collection of building materials loosely held together by rusty nails, sea air, and good luck.”
Across the vestibule, Fitzwilliam laughed. “It beggars belief to imagine it used to be worse.”
“We are not staying here,” Darcy said firmly.
“As you wish,” Saye replied with a shrug. “There is almost certainly a spare tent somewhere up on the hill. Only do let Georgie stay. I do not like the idea of her becoming friendly with the officers.”
Darcy looked at him sharply. His eldest cousin did not know about Georgiana’s near-elopement with Wickham, and Georgiana did not know that Wickham had since joined up with a regiment—and so it would remain, if Darcy had anything to do with it.
Fitzwilliam had made enquiries before they came to discover whether the rogue would be stationed in Brighton and, upon finding that he would, had used his influence to have him reassigned elsewhere before their arrival.
Nevertheless, Darcy would rather the topic of officers be avoided as much as possible.
Catching his eye, Fitzwilliam gave a slight, conspiratorial nod then said loudly, “Perhaps the worst of it is directly before us. Let us investigate the state of the bedchambers before we make any plans to pitch tents.” Taking Georgiana by the arm, he led her and her companion, Mrs Annesley, hastily up the stairs, bellowing at workmen to get out of his way as he went.
“You see, Darcy?” Saye said. “They are feeling at home already.”
Darcy levelled a baleful glare at him. “What do you propose—that we share the house with labourers? Or roll up our sleeves and muck in?”
Saye quirked his brow, no doubt preparing an inane response, but to Darcy’s infinite relief, he was pre-empted.
“My lord, I was not expecting you. I shall have the men cleared out forthwith. If I might just apprise you of which parts of the house are useable—”
“Ah, Tucker. Just the man. This is my cousin, Darcy. Pray run over the particulars with him, there’s a good fellow.
I am too fatigued to pay attention, but he positively salivates over such dull matters.
” Saye did not wait for any response, instead sauntering up the stairs with Florizel trotting beside him, not needing to bellow for anyone to get out of their way, for everyone in his path naturally drew back to peer at the spectacle of him in utter bewilderment.
Mr Tucker’s précis of the house was as thorough as it was worrying.
By the end, Darcy was even more vexed with Saye for having brought them there, the only saving grace being Mr Tucker’s competence and breadth of knowledge.
It was agreed that the rooms which were not yet completely safe would be boarded off with work continuing behind the barricades.
Those which were structurally sound but incompletely decorated would be furnished as a matter of urgency, both men agreeing that tables and chairs were of more importance than wallpaper at this stage.
“Will the owner have any objection?”
“Since I shall ensure the work continues apace wherever it is possible, I do not believe so, sir.”
“And you think you can keep the number of workmen to a minimum?”
“I shall do my best, Mr Darcy. And I shall inform the I have lined up that their services are required immediately.”
“How will we eat? I cannot imagine the kitchens will be of much use to us.”
“I have arranged, sir, for Lord Saye’s cook, who I understand came down from London with you, to have the use of a neighbour’s kitchen. It is not ideal, to be sure, but you will not starve. Rest assured, I anticipate this kitchen being ready in a matter of weeks.”
Darcy took a long, hard look at the man.
He knew not where Saye had found him, but he was extremely good.
He wondered whether his cousin would baulk if he tried to steal him.
Probably, he thought. A man willing to suffer Saye’s outlandish demands must be hard to come by and likely not forfeited without a fight.
He thanked Tucker and trudged upstairs to the room that was to be his bedchamber.
It was the last of the available rooms—all the others had either been taken by the others or were out of bounds—and it was, consequently, the worst. There was no view of the sea, being at the rear of the house, tucked behind the crumbling excuse for a library, and whatever his window faced onto was obscured by scaffold planks.
There was no furniture except the bed, which he sat down on heavily.
He rubbed his hands over his face. There was a small creak.
Then a louder one. Then the bed collapsed beneath him.
He had not yet regained his feet when the door flew open and Georgiana rushed in.
“Brother, are you well? We heard a crash.”
He dismissed her with an impatient gesture which would have looked more convincing had he not still been arse-backwards within the mattress. “I am perfectly well, thank you.”
“Which is more than can be said for the poor bed,” came Saye’s voice from behind them.
Darcy stood to see his cousin grinning gleefully in the doorway, with Fitzwilliam peering around him, clearly equally amused.
He wanted to tell them both where to go, but refrained, for Georgiana’s sake.
“The bed was as dilapidated as the rest of this house,” he said coldly.
“None of our beds collapsed,” Fitzwilliam said with a look of absolute delight.
“We had better hope there are no cream ice shops in Brighton,” Saye added. “The furniture would not stand it!”
It was as much as Darcy could tolerate. “I am going out. Find me another bed by the time I return, or I shall be leaving for Pemberley before sundown, and taking Georgiana with me.” Pretending not to have heard his sister’s dismayed gasp, he strode from the room and was outside as quickly as could be.
The situation of the house was inarguably its only good quality, for he was on the beach within minutes, taking deep lungfuls of sea air to collect himself.
He loathed looking a fool, but it was no excuse for an ill temper.
He looked down at his waistcoat ruefully.
He truly did not think he had grown stout, and he refused to take responsibility for the rickety bed frame, but he began to think that perhaps he ought not yet to give up the exercise regimen he had begun in London.
He set out, striding along the beach, soon moving up onto the Promenade where the proliferation of pebbles was not an impediment to walking with any haste.
He had not gone far when he was forced to stop to greet an approaching group, at the head of which were two familiar faces: Colonel Forster and his wife.
“Well I never! Mr Darcy!” exclaimed the colonel. “I did not think to see you again once you left Meryton. Are you here for the summer?”
“It looks that way.” He bowed in greeting to Mrs Forster, who curtseyed with the same overt coyness he remembered from last autumn.
Two more of Forster’s party caught up and came to a halt behind him, and Darcy felt a jolt of alarm upon recognising Lieutenant Denny in animated conversation with Miss Lydia Bennet.
He bade them good day also while distractedly looking beyond them along the Promenade.
His alarm abruptly blossomed into full-blown panic when he saw that Elizabeth was bringing up the rear of the party.
She was not looking where she was going and almost walked into her sister, beginning to berate her until she saw him and stopped speaking. A deep blush overspread her cheeks.
“Mr Darcy!”
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed, but after that could think of nothing else to say. He knew he must speak unless he wished to entrench her opinion that he could not behave like a gentleman, and stammered the first inanity that came into his head. “I…trust you have been well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Are you…here for the summer?” Gads, he sounded pathetic, repeating Forster’s questions!
“Yes, and longer, very likely.”
“Can we expect the pleasure of seeing Mr Bingley also?” Forster asked.
“No. No, I am here with family,” Darcy explained. He could not help but to keep glancing at Elizabeth. She was evidently uneasy, but she did not look angry, not even at the mention of Bingley, and his heart flickered with…something. Relief? Hope? He hardly knew.
“I am here as the particular friend of Mrs Forster,” Miss Lydia announced, taking up that lady’s hands and giggling with her over the fact.
The look Forster sent him convinced Darcy that he did not share his wife’s enthusiasm for the arrangement.
Darcy wondered whether Elizabeth was enjoying her visit—and whether his being there would add to or diminish her pleasure.
He had almost resolved to ask her how she liked Brighton when Forster spoke.
“I have no doubt we shall see you again, sir, but for now I beg you would excuse us. We have an engagement for which we are already delayed on account of my wife’s desire to stop and marvel over every odd-shaped pebble on the beach.”
This produced more giggling from the two friends. Elizabeth only continued to look uneasy.
“I hope we do meet again,” Darcy said solemnly, his eyes on her.
She looked surprised, then embarrassed, dipping her head and walking after the others. Darcy watched her go, wondering how impolitic it would be to stride after them and beg to know where they were staying.
Or perhaps just to propose.
That thought made him start. His self-pitying indulgence in cream ices notwithstanding, he believed he had made some progress in getting over his affection. Evidently not, if one sighting and the exchange of three words was enough to reawaken his desire to marry her.
He gave up on his walk and returned to the house, surprised to find it already empty of workmen.
“Back so soon?” asked Fitzwilliam, stepping out of the drawing room.
“As you see.”
His cousin closed the drawing room door behind him and stepped closer, speaking in a hushed voice. “Look, I know this is not ideal. I have spoken to Saye, and we have agreed that if things are not improved in a week—”
“All is well. I shall stay.”
“What?”
“Georgiana and I will stay in Brighton. For the summer.”
Frowning, Fitzwilliam leant even closer and sniffed at him.
Darcy recoiled. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Trying to see whether you have spent the last half an hour drinking.”
“I have not. I have simply changed my mind.”
Fitzwilliam crossed his arms over his chest, looking suspicious. “You never change your mind that easily. What has happened?”
“Anyone would think you wanted me to leave. Stop pestering me and go and tell Georgiana the good news.”
“Where are you going?”
“To have my belongings moved into whichever room is Saye’s.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “This is going to be fun.”