Chapter 4 #2
A swift stab of shame pierced Darcy at her uncharitable assumptions. She knew so little of the earl, and yet had presumed much. That he would house them with such dignity and consideration unsettled her expectations and stirred a quiet warmth within her chest.
Lord Raine walked ahead, and they followed.
During the drive, Darcy had tried to attend to her book while he maintained an indifferent civility that discouraged conversation, a reserve her sisters had likely welcomed in their nervous state.
It had not stopped her from noticing him.
He was darkly handsome, the very image of the sensual rake her mother had always warned her about.
In those days, Darcy would roll her eyes and tease that she was hardly likely to encounter a jaded rake.
How oddly life had turned, for now Darcy noticed his beauty far too keenly and found herself unaccountably flustered by it.
At the steps, the girls’ pelisses brushed her skirt as they mounted.
The door opened at their approach to reveal a butler of dignified bearing.
He bowed to the earl and then to Darcy. She managed a smile, and they crossed the threshold into a hall redolent with the scent of lemon and beeswax.
The butler moved to join the seven servants, who were arranged in a neat line.
Darcy wished, absurdly, that the hem of her best muslin might gain two inches by sheer will.
Lord Raine’s voice carried with calm authority.
“Mrs. Dobson, Finch. These are guests of this house. You will attend to Mrs. Whitley and the young ladies. Mrs. Whitley is a widow. The young ladies are her sisters, Miss Emelia, Miss Jane, and Miss Sarah. They will have the run of the house and are to be shown every courtesy.”
Darcy inclined her head to the housekeeper and butler. “Thank you for preparing the house for us,” she said, forcing her voice to a serenity she did not feel.
Mrs. Dobson’s expression warmed. “Fires are lit in the principal chambers, and hot water is being taken up.”
Lord Raine addressed Darcy again. “A modiste will call tomorrow after eleven to take measurements and provide what is necessary for your wardrobes.”
Her eyes widened, surprise softening her composure. This was a generosity she had not anticipated. “For all of us?”
“Yes. A milliner and shoemaker will attend you as well, and gloves and ribbons will be provided. You are not to concern yourself with the accounts. A carriage will be at your disposal. I shall call again once you are settled.”
Everything was delivered with the cool composure of a man dictating arrangements already settled.
“Thank you, my lord, I—”
“There is no need for thanks. These arrangements are necessary,” he said with polite indifference.
Before Darcy could find a response, he gave a short bow and was gone. The silence that followed his departure felt like a wave drawing back and leaving them high upon unfamiliar sand. The servants dispersed, and Mrs. Dobson led the way down the hallway.
“Allow me to give a brief tour, Mrs. Whitley. We have prepared four chambers on the third floor overlooking the square. The morning room is to the left, the withdrawing room to the right, and the dining room beyond. A schoolroom is also ready on the second floor beside the library.”
They followed the housekeeper up the broad stairs.
The runner yielded underfoot with that springy softness only good padding achieves.
Doors opened upon generous rooms. The first looked over the square, the window seats deep and inviting.
Delicately striped paper covered the walls, and a fire burned in the grate.
In the corner, a rosewood pianoforte invited her sister closer.
Darcy watched Emelia’s hand hover above the keys, then retreat, as if she feared waking the instrument.
They moved from chamber to chamber. Each bedchamber was spacious and elegantly appointed, its walls papered in robin’s-egg blue with delicate sprigs.
Tall sash windows admitted generous light through silk curtains gathered with braided cords.
Every room held a mahogany dressing table, a washstand with ewer and basin, and a walnut wardrobe.
The high-posted beds were hung with crisp white dimity and dressed in finely stitched counterpanes.
Beside each ready-laid hearth stood two upholstered chairs and a modest escritoire, all arranged with the quiet comfort of a respectable London home.
Her sisters were awed and delighted. Darcy assigned the rooms with care, keeping the younger girls close. Sarah fretted about sleeping alone, for she had never done so in her eleven years. Darcy smiled her understanding, and Jane readily agreed to continue sharing with her sister.
The servants were prompt and pleasant. A maid named Kitty offered hot water with an open smile.
Another, Martha, took their pelisses to be brushed and dried.
No one stared. No one smirked. The staff accepted the fiction of Mrs. Whitley with an ease that steadied Darcy.
The presence of sisters under the same roof would discourage unkind conjecture; a widow with three young ladies in her care was far from a kept creature, or whatever London preferred to suspect.
At last, Mrs. Dobson opened the last door upon the landing. “This would be for you, ma’am, if it suits.”
The chamber overlooked the square, its tall windows admitting the soft afternoon light that spilled warmly across the furnishings.
A handsome bedstead of carved walnut stood against the far wall, the counterpane snow-white and inviting.
A small writing desk stood near the window, a neat tray upon it with paper, a quill, and a little inkstand.
In the grate, a cheerful fire burned, and upon the mantel a vase of early roses shed a faint sweetness into the warm air.
A private parlor adjoined her chamber, and she stepped into it, savoring the elegant serenity of the furnishings.
“It suits very well,” Darcy said, and only then let herself exhale. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Dobson inclined her head. “Shall tea be brought, ma’am?”
“Yes, please. And the morning papers, if it is not too much trouble.”
“They will come at once.”
When the door closed, Darcy set her reticule upon the writing desk and turned a slow circle in the room, allowing herself to feel, for the first time in many months, what it was to enter a place and not immediately plan how to protect her sisters from unforeseen dangers.
She drew back the curtain and looked down upon the square.
The weather had cleared to a high summer sky washed pale by recent rain.
In the garden, children walked with a nurse, their shoes tapping along the path.
A barouche rolled by at a gentle pace. The world went on, indifferent to scandal, to fear, to girls who had knocked upon a door with very little to recommend them but truth and need.
A tap sounded, and her sisters spilled into the room. Emelia rushed to Darcy at once, her eyes wide with something that looked perilously like hope.
“What does this mean? Is this to be our new home? Permanently?”
Darcy wished she had an answer she could wrap about her sisters like a warm shawl.
“I do not know,” she said softly. “The earl told me very little. We must be grateful for the roof and his kindness, but we must also keep our heads clear. Whether this is to be our home or merely another stopping place, I cannot yet say.”
Jane’s voice came in a half whisper, as if the walls themselves might scold her for daring. “Shall we live in London? Are we not to return to Hertfordshire?”
“Perhaps for a time we might remain here,” Darcy said.
She saw the quiet loosening in Jane’s shoulders, the way Emelia’s mouth unknotted, the light that returned to Sarah’s gaze, and Darcy wished, fiercely, that she could offer them such certainty whenever they needed it.
“Until we know more, we shall be prudent. For now, let us see the house and be thankful for what is certain.”
A knock sounded. A maid entered with a tray, and at Darcy’s direction carried it into the adjoining parlor, setting tea and an assortment of pastries upon a low table. The housekeeper followed with a neatly folded newspaper and a courteous inclination of the head.
“The Morning Chronicle, ma’am,” she said. “And if you require the Times, it may be sent for.”
“This will do very well,” Darcy said with a small smile. “Thank you.”
When they were alone, she poured tea for her sisters and accepted their admiration of the lemon tarts as if such pleasures were ordinary. After the cups were emptied and the girls had gone to explore their rooms and the library, Darcy returned to the desk and unfolded the newspaper.
She had to plan, always keeping one step ahead if she meant to secure her sisters’ futures. The earl’s goodwill was uncertain; she did not yet understand the man, and might never be given leave to do so. That meant relying on her own wits and skill.