Chapter 17
The woman behind the desk startled slightly, her brow furrowing as she looked up from the household ledgers.
“Do I know you?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw the look of panic on Darcy’s face. She stepped forward and schooled her expression into a polite apology.
“Forgive us, ma’am. We presumed you were Mrs. Reynolds—someone in Lambton gave us that as the name of the housekeeper here at Pemberley.”
“I see. Yes, I am Mrs. Reynolds.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned back slightly in her chair. “Who might you be?”
“My name is Beth Smith, and my husband is William. We arrived in town only yesterday.” Elizabeth offered the lie as smoothly as she could. “We are newly married and traveling through in search of occupation. My husband grew up in this area as a boy, and he wished to show me how beautiful it is.”
The older woman’s sharp gaze shifted to Darcy, who bowed his head respectfully.
Elizabeth continued, “We had heard that Pemberley was once open to visitors, but when we arrived, we saw the state of things... well, we thought perhaps there might be work available instead.”
“Work?” Mrs. Reynolds echoed, folding her hands together. “I am afraid the estate is not what it once was. There is no coin to pay new hands—not even old ones, half the time.”
“That is no trouble,” Darcy said quickly. “We would be willing to work for room and board alone.”
Mrs. Reynolds looked skeptical. “You would work for food and a roof with no questions asked? For a place you have never been? With no assurances of safety or pay?”
Elizabeth offered a rueful smile. “We understand a thing or two about difficult households. And we do not know yet how long we shall remain in one place. We have reasons to move on eventually, but for now…” She lifted one shoulder. “A quiet position, even temporary, would suit us well.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed again. “You are not… fleeing anything, are you?”
“No!” Elizabeth said quickly. “Nothing of the sort. We simply…” She hesitated, then added, “We are waiting to hear about an opportunity. But until then, coin is low, and we would rather earn our keep than drain what little we have left.”
Mrs. Reynolds was quiet a long moment, eyes passing over each of them in turn. Her expression remained wary—but gradually, something in it shifted.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I cannot say why, but I believe you. I would not usually take such a chance, but there is not much left to lose. All the valuables have long been sold off, so it is not as though you can make away with the silver.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You are wise to be cautious.”
“Hmph. Cautious does not keep a house running. Willing hands do.”
She rose from her chair, eyeing them both with a touch more curiosity than suspicion now. “What can you do?”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, allowing her to answer first.
“I can perform duties as a lady’s maid,” she said. “Hair, dressing, sewing. I can cook a few simple meals. Nothing elaborate, but I know my way around a kitchen.”
Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes brightened a little. “Mrs. Wickham would appreciate a lady’s maid. She has struggled without one. The girl has not been properly turned out in months.”
Elizabeth gave a slow nod, heart hammering.
“And you, sir?”
Darcy stepped forward. “I can serve as a footman, or assist with work in the gardens or stables if needed.”
Mrs. Reynolds looked him up and down. “You are tall enough, I will give you that. Too refined for mucking stalls, but we all do what we must.”
She turned back toward the desk. “I will find you a small chamber. You will share, I assume?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened slightly, but she nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. Reynolds opened a ledger and made a brief note. “You may begin tomorrow. If you are of a mind to prove yourselves useful today, Cook could use help preparing supper. And the scullery is always in need of hands.”
Elizabeth offered a smile. “We are happy to begin today, but we will need time to walk back to Lambton to retrieve our belongings.”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “Can either of you ride?”
“I can,” Darcy said, stepping forward.
“Then you may use a horse from the stables. Tell John that Mrs. Reynolds said to put you on Nelly.” Once Darcy nodded his understanding, Mrs. Reynolds continued. “Go now. Your wife can begin her duties in your absence.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.” Elizabeth’s voice displayed her sincerity.
Mrs. Reynolds’ gaze was sharp but not unkind. “Whatever brought you here, I hope you find what you are looking for. This house could use a little hope.”
Elizabeth swallowed and offered a quiet, “Thank you.”
Beside her, Darcy said nothing, but his hand brushed hers as they turned to follow the housekeeper through the narrow hallway back to the kitchens.
“This is where I leave you,” the housekeeper said once they reached the large stone room.
Darcy nodded politely, and Mrs. Reynolds disappeared back down the passageway. Before they entered the room, however, he gently caught Elizabeth’s arm and drew her back to him.
“Are you truly all right with this?” he asked softly. “Working here, I mean. Living like this.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Do I seem unwell with it?”
“That is not an answer.”
She smiled faintly. “I said I was willing, and I meant it. I am not afraid of a little hard work.”
Darcy still looked troubled. “It is not just the work. It is everything. The deception. The uncertainty. I hate the thought of you scrubbing pans or—God forbid—hauling chamber pots.”
Elizabeth placed her hand lightly on his chest. “I am not afraid, William. I told you before: I have lit my own fires and tended my own sick sisters. I know what it is to be useful.”
The sound of his first name leaving her lips felt strange, but she could tell it affected him. He reached up, covering her hand with his.
“You should not have to be,” he told her.
“And yet,” she said with a small smile, “I want to be. Especially here. Especially for you.”
His hand tightened around hers briefly, and she saw it again—that storm behind his eyes. Worry. Pain. Determination.
“I will return as quickly as I can,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth nodded. “Go. I will be fine.”
He hesitated only a moment longer, then released her hand and turned down the corridor.
Elizabeth inhaled deeply, steeling herself. Then she stepped into the kitchen.
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a wall clock and the faint hiss of the low-burning stove. No pots bubbled. No footmen stood at attention. The wooden tables were mostly bare, save for a few stacked bowls and an empty pitcher.
A door creaked open behind her.
Elizabeth turned as a middle-aged woman entered through the side door, shaking droplets of water from the hem of her apron and carrying a basket of eggs. Her graying hair was hastily pinned, and her expression was one of mild irritation as she muttered to herself.
“Had to go gather them myself,” she said, placing the basket on the nearest table. “Don’t mind the hens, but hate the scullery work. I was meant to be baking, not chasing down hens in the cold.”
She looked up suddenly, eyes narrowing at the sight of a stranger in her kitchen.
“Who in heaven’s name are you?”
Elizabeth offered a quick curtsy. “My name is Beth Smith. Mrs. Reynolds sent me to speak with you. My husband and I have been taken on to help.”
The woman snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. “Help? With what?”
“I can cook a little,” Elizabeth said quickly. “And I am quite good at following directions.”
The cook’s expression remained wary, but not entirely unfriendly. “Well. If you can peel carrots and keep your nose out of the pies, we will get along well enough.”
“I shall do my best.”
The cook looked her up and down once more, then grunted and reached for a knife. “You may call me Mrs. Wells.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wells.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. Grab a bowl and start with the carrots.”
Elizabeth rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
∞∞∞
The stable yard smelled of damp hay and manure, familiar and grounding. Darcy let the quiet surround him as memories flooded through his mind: his first time on a horse, his father at his side; Georgiana’s expression on receiving a pony for her birthday; feeding his new steed an apple.
None of those occasions existed anymore.
As he rounded the corner, he stopped suddenly and stared in shock as a grizzled old man lifted his head from shoveling the muck. His frame was stooped with age and labor, his face deeply weathered, his once-dark hair now silver at the temples. But the eyes—sharp, dark, and tired—were unmistakable.
“Bates?”
Darcy’s former valet squinted. “Aye?”
Emotion surged in Darcy’s chest.
The stablemaster squinted in the half-light. “Do I know you, lad?”
Darcy composed himself quickly. “Forgive me. I… Mrs. Reynolds told me to come find you, for work.”
Jonathan grunted. “Well, I am John. Who might you be?”
“I am William…William Smith. My wife and I have just been hired on to work.”
“Only work here is horses and hay,” said Bates, holding out his pitchfork.
Darcy hesitated. “Mrs. Reynolds said I could ask for Nelly to ride into Lambton, to retrieve our belongings first.”
“Well, there’s the saddle,” Bates said, pointing at the tack.
“Yes, thank you,” Darcy replied, his voice low.
Darcy turned to the saddle, and silently watched Bates return to his work.
He had only been five years of age when his father had hired Bates to serve as his son’s valet.
The son of a loyal tenant and sharp as a whip, Bates had more in mind for his future than a farm, and yet here he was, mucking out the stalls.
George Darcy was a master who took great satisfaction in helping those beneath him succeed.
To see the man who had so meticulously cared for Darcy for more than twenty years—indeed, he had almost been like a second father to him—scooping muck in the stables was painful to witness.