Chapter Two #2
John was summoned back in, and the two men arranged the patient into a position in which he could take his coffee cup and reach for some pastry with his good arm.
As he took his morning meal, his host read to him the latest news, and a good part of the morning passed companionably.
Likewise did the remainder of the day go by, with frequent rests and good food, and Stanton’s excellent company.
At times Darcy lay back with eyes closed as his host read to him; when he felt stronger, he would enter into conversation, until such time as his head demanded he rest once more.
By the time Stanton declared himself ready to retire for the evening, Darcy was feeling very much more the thing, and announced that he would almost certainly be much improved by morning.
This proved to be the case. Paver, Darcy’s valet, arrived with the sun. Most carefully, and—with the doctor’s permission—he treated his master to a shave and a change of clothing, or as much as could be arranged with Darcy’s bound arm.
Yarrow himself pronounced the patient well on the road to recovery, and with the aid of Paver and John, helped the injured man to his feet.
At first Darcy thought he might swoon from the motion and the pain in his wounded leg, but he found his strength quickly.
With each tentative step he felt himself more secure, and by the time he had completed a circuit of the room, stated that he was almost completely himself once more.
“I believe I may return to my own residence.” He bowed his head to his host, pleased that the motion caused it to throb only slightly. “You will wish your salon back, I am certain. Paver can summon my carriage and I can leave within the hour.”
But the doctor narrowed his eyes. “I suggest not, sir.” His jovial voice held a firm edge.
“Taking a turn around the room is very different from the jolting motion of a carriage, even over just a few streets. Those bumps and starts that we think so little of can still cause more injury to your brain; I insist that you remain here, in this room, for two more nights. That will provide you with the time you need to recover more fully.”
Stanton needed no convincing. “The doctor is correct, Darcy. You are no trouble at all, for I am by no means using this room for entertaining, and in truth, I have been enjoying having company. Two more days will cause no disruption to my household and will let you heal. I insist as well. I shall command your valet accordingly.” And seeing that he had little choice, Darcy acquiesced with scarcely a complaint.
Once again, the day passed pleasantly. The thrumming in his head was now almost unnoticeable, a background murmur that could well be ignored, and his shoulder too had ceased its ache, except for when it was jolted.
Darcy tried to imagine the pain the short carriage ride to his home would occasion, with the rumble of the wheels over the cobbled streets, and he realised the wisdom of the doctor’s command.
Instead of having his broken bones jostled through the streets of London, he was quite content to talk companionably with his host and eat the man’s excellent food.
He was rather pleased to discover that he and Stanton had many interests in common, besides birds.
When not reminded of his injuries and his enforced sojourn in the baron’s house, he could almost imagine he had been invited for a visit by a friend.
They talked of the war, of their estates in the northern counties—the barony of Stanton was in Lancashire, not so far from Darcy’s beloved Pemberley—and of the latest developments in science and industry.
Likewise, their opinions on politics were well enough matched that, if they did not agree completely, their differences were fruitful ground for discussion rather than argument, and they enjoyed the same tastes in art and theatre.
By the evening, Darcy insisted on having some paper and a pen to write a quick note to his sister, informing her of his unfortunate encounter and assuring her of his health and recovery.
“I should not wish her to hear the news from another before she sees in my own hand that I am well,” he explained.
He would not be denied this wish, and the supplies he begged were consequently brought.
He composed his letter, and when it was sealed and inscribed with her direction on the front, he idled with a pencil and a small scrap of paper that Stanton insisted was of no value and would be discarded.
“My word, Darcy!” that gentleman exclaimed as he wandered to the writing table to refill his guest’s port.
“You are an artist! That is a perfect rendition of the African grey parrot, the Psittacus erithacus. We had one in our home when I was a lad; from the detail of your drawing, you must have had one as well. And that sketch there: That is exactly the Dendrocopus major—the great spotted woodpecker—we were just discussing! You have captured it perfectly, down to the curve of its beak and the white shoulder patches at the wings! I had no idea you were skilled with a pencil!” He hurried to one of the many bookshelves that lined the room and retrieved a large volume.
The title was embossed on the leather cover in rich gold and read “Birds of Britain by Raymond Orville Fynch.” Even though not supposed to read, Darcy could not help but notice this prominent text.
Stanton opened the tome with the ease of long familiarity and found the page he sought.
“See here! This is my own drawing and they match exactly!”
Darcy demurred, but was pleased with the compliment.
“Those are fine words from one so skilled as yourself. I have always taken pleasure in rendering small images and scenes with paint or charcoal, although I have never devoted much time to the art. Where I have poured my energy is into technical drawings.” He glanced up and was satisfied to see the look of clear interest on Lord Stanton’s face.
“Technical drawings?” Stanton echoed, a smile stretching across his lips. “Of what sort? I admit I am quite interested!”
“As we have discussed, there is a large increase in industry in the north, in Derbyshire, where my estate lies. I know the factories have a detrimental effect on the birds and wildlife of the region, but they are the way of the future and we must learn to balance these varying needs. To the point, however, I have become interested in techniques to maximise the power that can be generated from a single turbine, at a waterfall for example. If we are able to harness power more efficiently, we need not overrun the land with factories, thereby leaving more land for our farmers and tenants. I have been seeking men of science who have been working on this problem, and I have become quite fascinated by the entire field. I have studied their notes and copied elements of their own designs, where they have allowed me, and in turn I have submitted to them some of my own thoughts and designs for their consideration.”
He paused and examined his companion’s face for the inevitable signs of boredom, but found none.
In response to Stanton’s encouraging nods, he continued, “Therefore, I have become rather adept at discerning the workings of machinery and rendering them as technical diagrams. I know this has little to do with your own interests, but—”
“But nothing, my friend! I write about birds for my adoring readers,” he chuckled as he tapped his fingers upon his book, “but I too have an interest in the minutiae of exquisite machinery. Mine tends to the small, the minute even, such as watches and the intricate details of automata and mechanical dolls. Perhaps these tiny, perfect machines might be some of the answers to the problems you seek to solve, for if one can make the machinery to generate energy small enough, a single waterfall might power an entire mill!”
So satisfied was each man with the other’s company that Darcy was only somewhat taken aback the following evening when Stanton made a rather alarming proposal to him.
It had begun as a passing comment Darcy made about the situation with France, to which Stanton had replied in kind, “Yes, these hostilities distress me greatly. But one must suffer for the benefit of one’s country, no? ”
“And yet,” replied Darcy, we hardly suffer ourselves.
Oh, we may pay our share of taxes and levies, but here we are, living in great luxury, while good men fight and die on the Continent.
My cousin is one of those serving his King abroad.
And all I can do is draw machines and birds.
It is little more than what a lady would boast of as an accomplishment.
I know I am needed in England to manage my estate and help my tenants grow the grain the army needed, but sometimes I wish I could do more.
“This describes us both, my friend.” Stanton raised his cup in a mockery of a toast. “Here is to supporting the Patria.”
Both men drank deeply.
The topic seemed to have been exhausted, but as they nursed their port after dinner, Stanton revived it. “I say, Darcy,” he drawled, “I just had the most interesting notion, a solution to our earlier discussion, really. It is a topic that has been vexing me for some time.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows in response and Stanton continued.
“I must, first, make a confession, for I feel I can trust you.” He peered into Darcy’s eyes, and Darcy felt himself nod in agreement.
“I am not merely an ornithologist, although it is an abiding interest of mine. Rather, that passion gives me an excellent reason to travel throughout England as I do, appearing at different places with hardly a warning, and requiring no excuses. For in reality, I am in the employ of the government, seeking information on whatever factions might be hoping to disrupt our society.”
Darcy felt his eyes grow wide at the revelation. “The French?” he asked.
“Yes, and agitators in the north who would rather riot than accept the very changes of which you were speaking a short while ago.”
“You surprise me, sir, both with your revelation and with your trust. How may I be of service?”
Stanton drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly through his nose as he stared at the flickering flame of the lamp that illuminated the corner of the room in which the men sat.
“I believe I have a proposal that would, in truth, help us both. You require a place to recuperate, and I require an inquisitive mind and a watchful eye in a place where I dare not go, where I might be known by people whose activities concern me.”
“I had thought to rest here in London until I am well enough to travel to Pemberley.” Darcy pursed his lips.
He knew that he could not return to his estate any time soon.
Even were his sister of a mind to accept his company again—never mind that it was his estate and she there on his sufferance—the notion of days on end in his carriage, bumping over rough roads and sleeping in strange and uncomfortable inns caused his broken shoulder to ache with only the thinking of it; the reality would be most unpleasant indeed.
“Yes, I see what you mean. Such a long journey would do me little good until I am better healed.”
“Quite so,” Stanton mused. “But there is a small village in Hertfordshire, not so far from London—only a half day’s travel on good roads—where I might have need for you.
There have been reports of Frenchmen in the area, and we believe they are being abetted by one of the local residents, the local squire, in fact.
I would require you to take residence there for some short time and befriend this man, and, if at all possible, find the secret I am so positive he is hiding. ”
“Hertfordshire?” For the second time in ten minutes, Darcy felt his brows rise upon his brow. “What, pray tell, is the name of this village? For I have a friend who has recently let an estate in that region. The closest town is called Meryton.”
Stanton let out a bark of a laugh. “Is it now? How wonderful! This was fated indeed, for Meryton is exactly the place of which I spoke. Might you impose upon your friend for his hospitality whilst your shoulder heals? That might be some six or eight weeks.”
“Of course. He had already asked me for assistance in learning to manage the estate. He will have no complaints if I appear in person to offer it.”
“A perfect reason to be there, then! This could not be better!”
“So it seems.” Darcy shook his head. Such a coincidence was hard to dismiss as mere happenstance. “And who, may I ask, is this gentleman you suspect of colluding with the enemy?”
“His name,” Stanton pronounced with excessive clarity, “is Bennet.”