Chapter 10
Darcy
Darcy woke up later than usual, to a bar of sunlight crossing his face. He scrunched his eyes into narrow slits but looked to see if the curtains had been opened.
It turned out that the sunlight streaming in had found the single gap between hastily closed curtains.
Darcy closed his eyes again. Later-than-usual was still way too early, he decided, given the sleepless night they had all endured.
Darcy turned to one side in an effort to escape the sunbeam, and he experienced a twinge of pain in his back.
He sat up and stretched, feeling sore in multiple places.
He prided himself on keeping fit, but although he was fit for riding and fencing, he apparently was not fit for heaving buckets of water.
A hot bath should help with the soreness, for surely his chilly clean-up, earlier that morning, had not washed away the entirety of the fire’s residue.
However, given the unknown extent of damage to the kitchen, a hot bath was likely an unattainable wish.
Sitting up, Darcy saw that Ryles was gone.
All the bedding he had used was neatly folded and stacked on the settee.
Darcy saw that there were several containers of water warming on his hearth.
He so appreciated his valet’s thoughtfulness, and he decided to pay all of his own servants, and Bingley’s, too, if Bingley would not, a bonus for all the extra work they had put in the night before.
He got up, eager for his best attempt at a sponge bath, but then he saw a folded paper lying just inside the door to the hallway. He crossed to the door and tested the handle; it was still locked from the inside. The placement of the paper suggested that it had been thrust under the closed door.
Darcy inspected the cheap paper, noting that it was rough and tan rather than smooth and white. Unfolding it, he easily read the message even through the poor formation of letters and the inkblots: “Stay away from the Benet chit. W.”
His sleep deprived eyes flew open, and he suddenly felt as awake and on-alert as he had ever felt in his life.
“W.” of course made him think that the note was from Wickham, but his nemesis had the skill to write beautifully, if he chose to.
Would there be some reason for Wickham to adopt poor writing as a disguise against his identity, but then sign the note with his initial?
And would Wickham know of Darcy’s location, so far from any of his homes?
If he somehow had divined that Darcy was at Netherfield, how could Wickham know which bedchamber he used?
Darcy’s brain instantly flew to the possibility that Miss Bingley had written—or at least had gotten someone to write—the note. She was the one who had been voicing vague semi-threats. She certainly knew which room Darcy slept in. If she used Wickham’s initial, did she know about Ramsgate?
Thrusting the paper into his travel desk and locking the drawer, Darcy continued with his original intention; he poured some of the fire-warmed water into his basin and used a bar of soap to scrub his face, neck, hair, hands, and arms.
He carried another bucket of water to the hip bath in his dressing room, and he squatted in the water to further clean his body.
He did not feel as clean as he would like, but it would have to do.
Darcy ruefully smiled over the fact that, far from relaxing his sore muscles, the need to lift and carry the bucket of water had only aggravated those muscles.
But how many servants were currently endeavouring to fulfil their duties with sore backs and arms?
Hastily dressing, Darcy left to inspect the kitchen, hoping he could help Bingley. Darcy had never leased a property and wondered about the role of the leaseholder in authorising repairs.
He hoped that Bingley had slept off his drunken stupor of the night before. He had certainly seen his friend in an inebriated state a few times, in the past, but he wondered if last night was unusual—and downright unlucky, to be so foxed the night a fire broke out!—or if it was a common occurrence.
Hurst, not Bingley, was the one who had a reputation for drunkenness. And he had been fully alert the night before, had dealt with his wife and sister-in-law, and had helped with the buckets.
Darcy found the kitchen full of servants cleaning rather than cooking. He strode over to the housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls. “Good morning,” he said, “is Mr. Bingley awake?”
“I’ve heard that he’s still abed, sleeping, sir,” she said.
“I am wondering if we can get a hold of the owner of Netherfield Park, madam. Do you know if there is a procedure to follow in order to get in touch with him?”
Mrs. Nicholls nodded. “Aye, there is, sir. Everything’s to go through Mr. Philips, the solicitor that handles the leasing.”
Darcy remembered the Philips house, near the centre of the town.
He thanked Mrs. Nicholls for the information and then consulted with Mr. Tomkins, the steward of the estate, to learn the extent of the fire’s damage and whether the cause of the fire had yet been determined.
Tomkins was quite certain that an improperly banked kitchen fire was the cause.
Walking back to where Mrs. Nicholls was inspecting the efforts to clean the soot-stained walls, Darcy asked her to convey to Mr. Bingley, Mr. Hurst, and Miss Darcy, when they awoke, that he had gone to Meryton to consult with Mr. Philips.
“Might I send back some goods from the bakery to feed everyone?”
The woman smiled widely. “That’d be a godsend, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Darcy arranged for one of his footmen, John, to ride with him in order to quickly bring back baked goods. They made sure that John’s mount had the largest saddlebags available.
Just before mounting his own steed, Gulliver, Darcy was addressed by a voice he was coming to know very well.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet said, “Mrs. Nicholls told me that you are going to visit Mr. Philips and the bakery. Is there anything I should be doing for the household? Make a list of damages, perhaps? Set up a station for coffee and tea in one of the unaffected areas?”
Darcy turned towards her with a bow. “Those are both excellent suggestions, I thank you. I suggest enlisting Mrs. Nicholls’s help setting up the station for hot beverages, and then asking one of the maids to tend to it.
At that point, you might offer your services to Mr. Tomkins, the steward.
He could probably use all the help he can get this morning. ”
“Very good,” she said. She was already turning away, obviously intent on making herself useful. He watched her until she disappeared into the house. Darcy took a deep breath, then mounted Gulliver, nodded to John, and set off for Meryton.
Darcy returned to Netherfield more than an hour later.
Mrs. Nicholls reported that the servants were well satisfied with the baked goods he had sent, along with tea and coffee.
Darcy watched as Tomkins supervised the organisation of items that needed replacing, those that needed repair, and those that only needed cleaning.
Miss Elizabeth recorded the items in each group, while a young boy and two maids carried the various items to the appropriate areas: a wagon, a large toolshed with a workbench, or a grassy area in the stableyard, where wash tubs were set up.
Servants were already hard at work cleaning and repairing those things that could be restored.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said after she had finished writing Tomkins’s determination about the ale muller—it merely needed to be cleaned—“do you wish me to take over for you, here, so that you can tend to your sister? I hope last night’s chilly disruption has not worsened her illness.”
“Thank you for your concern. So far, she seems no better but also no worse. Jane ate breakfast, thanks to your efforts to feed us all, and Molly and Susan are continuing to take turns whenever I am not in the room.” Elizabeth lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Neither of them can write, sir, so Jane says that this arrangement is best for now.”
He nodded and then turned to Tomkins. “Have you seen either of the Hursts or the Bingleys this morning?”
“Still abed,” was his terse response. Then he directed Elizabeth to include the sugar tongs and toasting forks to the list of items that needed cleaning.
Deciding to check in with his sister, Darcy peeked into the morning room and saw Georgiana sitting at a table, an empty plate and cup near to hand, writing a letter.
“What are you doing, Poppet?” he asked.
She turned to him with a radiant smile. “William! I am writing a note to Longbourn at Elizabeth’s request. She thinks that her mother and their cook would be happy to bring a luncheon to Netherfield for all the residents and servants.”
Darcy said, “That is a wonderful offer from Miss Elizabeth. She is even now working hard with the staff, providing her assistance. I am not sure any of the family actually leasing the property are doing anything at all this morning.”
Georgiana raised her eyes to the ceiling and then looked back down at him with a pretended grimace. “This is hardly unexpected,” she mumbled, but then she smiled again and said, “What ought I do after I am done with this task?”
“You could check in on Miss Bennet and see if the maid on duty needs help. I know Miss Elizabeth would welcome getting an update on her sister’s condition, as well. And please let me know if Miss Bennet needs the apothecary.”
Darcy helped himself to two rolls and a cup of coffee, and he mentally reviewed the list of duties he would have in case of a fire at one of his properties. He decided that, for now, he could turn to the problem of who wrote the note that had been pushed under his bedroom door.
First, he fetched the note from his bedroom, and then he interviewed Ryles, who was in his dressing room, attempting to clean Darcy’s soot-smudged clothing.
After checking on his valet’s well-being, and being assured that the man had eaten breakfast and had only a few aches from fighting the fire, Darcy asked, “This morning, did you see this paper lying on the carpet in my bedchamber, just inside the door?”
Ryles looked astonished and assured him that he had not seen it. “And I certainly would have, if it had been there!” he assured Darcy.
“What time this morning were you last in that room?
“At half past six, sir.”
Darcy mused, “And I found the note around a quarter to eight.” He thought some more and asked, “Obviously, you did not see anyone lurking near my room, or you would have reported it, but I am wondering if you saw anyone—a servant, a guest, a resident—anywhere in the hallway when you left.”
Looking thoughtfully into the distance, Ryles shook his head. “When I was downstairs, I saw several servants, of course, but I did not see anyone on this floor or on the staircase.”
Showing his valet the note, Darcy asked, “And does this paper, or this handwriting, ring any bells for you? I feel as if there is no paper in the entire manor that is this rough. What think you?”
Ryles briefly stroked the paper between two fingers.
“I have not seen anything like this poor quality of paper since we arrived, sir. And the only one here at Netherfield who writes with this many blots is—” the valet coughed, but Darcy nodded, acknowledging that the master of the house, Bingley, had horrific handwriting and regularly turned out pages with multiple blots.
But then Ryles said, “But even he has better handwriting than this.
I suppose it could be someone writing with the wrong hand, in an effort to disguise their handwriting. “
Darcy nodded again. It was a perfectly reasonable theory.
“And does the message or the initial letter ‘W’ mean anything to you?”
Ryles shrugged, looked Darcy in the eye, and said, “Of course, the idea of warning you off a young lady—any young lady—points to Miss Bingley, who covets what only you can give her. And the initial ‘W’ makes me immediately think of Wickham, same as you, I imagine.”
Darcy passed his hand over his face, feeling all the weariness of a man with an enemy.
“Yes, me as well. Yet I am not sure that this cheap paper and misspelled note is the style either of them would adopt. I very much doubt that they could be working together. Also, I assume that one lacks the knowledge of my enemy’s name, and the other lacks the knowledge of this household. So…it is a puzzle.”
Setting his shoulders resolutely, Darcy added, “But thank you for your thoughts, Ryles. I would ask that you keep this completely between us. Also, would you be so good as to pass out a guinea to each of my servants, yourself included, and to each of the Netherfield servants. Everyone worked very hard last night.”
“Yes, sir. That is most generous of you.”
“Now, I am off to find Bingley.” Darcy shook his head, wondering if his younger friend was still peacefully sleeping while his servants and guests toiled to mitigate fire damage to his home—and while someone plotted and schemed for unknown gains.