Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T he headache that awakened Darcy the next morning was not one that could be cured with coffee. Indeed, he was sure nothing short of complete decapitation would truly end the agony coursing through his skull, jaw, and neck. He glanced at himself in the mirror that sat atop the tall chest. No wonder he was in pain—his bottom lip was thick and red with a scabby ridge down the middle, his right temple was a deep scarlet speckled with black all the way to his cheekbone, and his left eye was swollen shut and shining purple. Darcy did not even recognise himself.
Well, Elizabeth had said she wanted him to stay incognito. None of his acquaintance would recognise him in this condition.
A knock sounded and ricocheted through his brainbox. He was still wincing when he opened the door. There Sarah stood with a bucket of coal. Darcy took a step back to allow her into the room so she could make her way to the hearth. She lifted an eyebrow at the sight of him, her expression as displeased as ever, then dropped the bucket at his threshold before turning to walk away.
“You ain’t gonna lay the fire?”
“You can lay your own fire,” she shot back saucily.
“Lay me own fire?” Darcy cried in horror, both at his colloquialisms and the thought of performing the task. He had added a log to the hearth on occasion at Pemberley when no servant was at hand, but laying his own fire? That was a feat of no mean proportion for a man who had never touched a coal bucket, much less set the stuff aflame.
Sarah turned back at the sharp pang of fear in his voice. “I’ll do it, but this is the last time. I got too much to do around here to be waiting on you hand and foot.”
Darcy let her pass, then followed her across the small room to watch the procedure, as it was clear he would be expected to know what to do from here on out.
“I see Tom-Tom has been busy,” she said, noting the writing supplies and other goods stationed upon the rickety desk. The boy had indeed been busy, for the longer Darcy stayed in this room, the more items he realised he could not live without.
“Aye,” was all Darcy could think to say from where he stood behind her.
His focus was on her hands, intent on learning this necessary life skill. He leant forwards to watch over her shoulder as she bent before the hearth and began pouring the coals in. At the click of the door shutting behind them, Sarah whipped her head around, wide-eyed.
“Oh no you don’t. I knew you was just like the rest of them!” she hollered, elbowing him in the ribs from her crouching position. “I’m a good girl! I was raised better than that. If you want a girl like that, you shall have to go down the lane!”
“Madam,” Darcy choked as he stumbled out of her way. As it was, she was trapped between the fireplace, the bed, and Darcy’s bowed form clutching the side she had jabbed.
“Do not ‘madam’ me! I’m a good girl. I ain’t no madam!” she cried, still trying to push and claw her way to the door.
“Sarah!” he finally bellowed, clutching her wrists to keep her from further injuring him. He looked into her eyes with his one good one, forced a calm to come over his face, and loosened his grip on her arms. “Sarah, you are in no danger from me. I promise,” he assured her in his accustomed high-born accent, employing the same tone he used to assuage Georgiana when she was afraid. The maid relaxed, and Darcy lamented the tears of panic on her cheeks. What has life taught this poor girl?
“Then why was you coming after me like that?” she asked more composedly, though still somewhat incredulous.
“I was not aiming to hurt you,” Darcy said, releasing her while attempting to mix that reassuring tone with his feigned tongue. “I was not raised that way, neither. I were just watching what you did to lay the fire. I never laid one me-self before.”
“Never laid a fire before? You must be some gent,” she said with a hesitant laugh. “Spoilt to death, I’d say.”
“I should say.” Darcy stepped back and watched as Sarah shakily made her way back to the hearth. He opened the door once again, pulling it as far ajar as possible, then stationed himself on the other side of the bed and bent to observe her from there. She made short work of the task and stood to leave. It was apparent that she was embarrassed by her assumption and her behaviour, for she could hardly meet Darcy’s eyes.
“Many thanks, Miss Sarah,” Darcy offered, handing her a coin and giving what smile he could with his busted lip and aching jaw.
“Welcome, sir,” she said, pocketing the money as she bobbed a clumsy curtsey and left the room.
As Darcy stood warming his hands over the fire Sarah had gifted him, compassion welled in his heart for the girl. Her parents, or whoever had raised her, had given her a moral compass by which she lived, and she would alienate every man in her sphere, even bodily fighting them off, rather than risk her dearly held virtue. How many men had attempted to buy or take that from her? No wonder poor Sarah felt the need to be so antagonistic to all and sundry. If she was in danger of being importuned by a man even after being so unceasingly frigid, he could only imagine the kind of aggressive attention she would garner were she sweet and smiling all the time. It was sheer self-preservation. How difficult it must be working in such a place as this, with strangers coming in and out at all hours of the day and night, expecting her to cater to their every need. And desire.
The thought made Darcy sick.
Society would have him believe that those living in physical poverty suffered from moral poverty as well, whether from their heritage or their lack of proper education. Clerkenwell was not exactly a hub of Christian comportment, but clearly there were those of the lower classes who held to the same code of conduct by which the most genteel families lived. He laughed mirthlessly as that thought ran through his head; had he not just witnessed the scandalous behaviour of the Marquess of Hastings? No, Sarah and her parents lived by principles far higher than many who called themselves noble! She did not deserve to live daily with the fear he had just seen in her eyes.
Perhaps while he was here, he could prove to her that not every man was after her for his own gratification—that there were men in the world who would treat her with respect and dignity. Whether or not she would treat him with any more civility was a question yet to be answered.
“Oy, Mr Seven,” a young voice called from his still-open door. He turned from staring unseeing into the flames and caught sight of Tom-Tom, the boy who had made himself Darcy’s shadow. “Sarah sent me up. Said to give you this,” he said as he handed Darcy today’s newspaper. “And she said you might could use this, as well.” Tom-Tom handed Darcy a small parcel wrapped in moist, white paper. Darcy took it, wondering what the cold, floppy article inside could be.
“Thanks, Tom-Tom,” he said as he peeled back the wet paper.
A beefsteak.
Darcy smiled and pressed the cool slab of meat against his blackened eye.
It seemed he and Sarah the surly maid had come to an understanding.