Chapter 15
The Library
Darcy House
The Darcy library had been designed with the comfort of a voracious reader, or perhaps an entire family of voracious readers, in mind.
The fireplace alone was almost as large as an entire wall in Elizabeth’s bedroom at Longbourn, and the room was plentifully supplied with delectably soft chairs, an assortment of low tables, and an abundance of candles.
As for the shelves themselves, they were nothing short of magnificent, row after row after row of them, all filled with books of every imaginable size and color and subject.
Novels and plays and histories and philosophies and political treatises and agricultural works and sermons and meditations and music and encyclopedias and dictionaries all stood between neat bookends.
Between the solid shelves, great windows soared towards the ceiling, facing east and south to let in every drop of light and allow rest to the eyes with stunning panoramic views.
Elizabeth, as had become her wont, had chosen a deep plush sofa close to the fire and curled up on it.
For her reading today, she had selected a volume of Shakespeare’s comedies, but it hung limp and unattended from her hand now, her eyes fastened on the window opposite.
Frost curled across the panes like fantastical fairy-ferns, while snow sifted down and piled up along the sill and frames.
She relished looking out, knowing that it would show her a wonderland of white; the outbuildings turned to houses made of gingerbread and frosted with sugar, the parkland and lawn hiding beneath an alabaster blanket.
The world might be glittering with frost, but inside the library, Elizabeth was perfectly warm and cozy.
She sighed with contentment. Life at Pemberley, nearly a fortnight after her arrival, was blissful.
Christmas had been a joyous occasion, magnificent halls festooned with greenery and a flaming pudding at supper, but Elizabeth thought she had appreciated Boxing Day more.
She had always enjoyed Boxing Day at Longbourn when she and Jane and Mary had traveled around the estate giving blankets and food, clothes and toys and gifts of wood to the tenants.
Months of labor, knitting and sewing and careful selection of gifts, were all worth it in the culmination of the exuberant joy of the children and the gratitude of the farmers and their wives.
Boxing Day at Pemberley was much the same as at Longbourn, but bigger.
There were more tenants, more gifts, more lavish generosity.
Elizabeth had no hand in the labor of packing the boxes; that was overseen by Mrs. Reynolds, the kindly and competent housekeeper; but she saw what was in the boxes and baskets being given away; thick wool blankets and warm flannel clothes, store-bought toys and sturdy shoes, large bundles of wood and boxes of coal, fruits and nuts and even assortments of dried herbs.
Mr. Darcy was a generous master who cared deeply about the well-being of his dependents.
It was traditionally the role of the women of the household to see to Boxing Day, but he had driven out with his sister and her companion and their younger guest to deliver the boxes.
He had seen for himself where the needs lay and that they had been fulfilled.
He had checked in person that cottages were snug and warm and that chimneys stood straight and fireplaces did not smoke.
Elizabeth pondered the contrast with her father and the tenants of Longbourn.
Mr. Bennet was not a cruel and grasping master, wringing every groat from the land without plowing any back in, but nor was he exemplary.
He did not wish his tenants ill, but he did not appreciate being put to bother and trouble.
If a tenant had a genuine, urgent need, it was addressed, but Mr. Bennet took no initiative to see to it, for instance, that the farmers’ children were well shod and that roofs did not leak or need new thatching.
His desk in the library was more likely to hold a Cicero or Plato or Homer than it was to hold business correspondence.
Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth was well aware, spent a good portion of his day in his study, keeping close track of ledgers and expenditures and the business of the estate; much of the day, but not all.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour of eleven, and Elizabeth sat up a little straighter, marking her place and laying aside her book on the small table near the couch.
Like herself, Mr. Darcy was by nature an early riser, and by eleven in the morning he had already been up for some hours and hard at work.
It had not taken her long to learn that he liked to come to the library at this hour and enjoy a short spell of reading and relaxation before eating his midday meal.
Her expectation was rewarded, and even as she watched, the library door opened, and Mr. Darcy stepped inside, looking very tall and handsome.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said with a smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with an equally cheerful smile. It was wonderful to be able to use her real name here.
“I hope you are well?”
“I am, thank you.”
He sat down across from her, as usual, and she found herself frowning slightly. The master of Pemberley was usually solemn, but there was something about his eyes today which worried her.
“Is there a problem, sir?” she asked gently.
He sighed and said, “I have been thinking about … about Mr. Wickham.”
She grimaced. “What about him?”
He blew out a breath, leaned back in his chair, and wrinkled his nose. “I find myself concerned about what he is doing in Meryton. He is very handsome and an accomplished liar, and he has probably run up countless debts with the storekeepers and pub owners. ”
She sighed and said, “Oh, I agree, but I am not certain there is anything to be done. He is, as you said, charming, good-looking, and exceptionally well-spoken.”
Now her gaze dropped to the floor, and she continued in a halting tone, “And I am ashamed to confess that I told others about your remarks at the assembly in Meryton, which only lends credibility to his version of the events surrounding the church living.”
Firm fingers touched her right hand, and she looked up in surprise to see Mr. Darcy gazing at her intently.
“I am the one who spoke like a prideful fool at the assembly,” he said. “You are not to blame.”
“But I am,” she said simply. “The very day I met Mr. Wickham, he lambasted you, and I thought nothing of the impropriety of sharing such information with a stranger. Nor did it occur to me, even once, that one cannot accept a church living without being in Holy Orders. I was a fool.”
“We both made mistakes,” he said gently. “I hope we can forgive one another and ourselves for our errors.”
“We can,” she said, and the look on his face made her heart beat faster. “We have.”
She swallowed, straightened her back, and forced her mind away from the incredibly handsome master of Pemberley and back toward the evil George Wickham, who was currently lurking in Meryton.
“You said,” she mused aloud, “that Wickham always runs up debts.”
“Always,” Darcy agreed. “By this time, he has probably run up at least one hundred pounds of debts in Meryton, and perhaps more.”
“One hundred pounds! Truly?”
“Yes.”
“Charles Bingley is your close friend,” Elizabeth continued.
“If you send a letter to him regarding your concerns about Wickham, might he be willing to act? If he bought up some of Wickham’s debts in Meryton, he could demand payment, could he not?
I would think that Colonel Forster would be displeased to have a lieutenant who owes a great deal of money.
He seems like a good man, and I expect he would not want his regiment to be a burden to the community. ”
Darcy bit his lip and then nodded. “Forster would not like that, not at all. Yes, it is a good idea. I will send a letter regarding my concerns about Wickham. It may be that Bingley, who is a convivial soul, will not be inclined to take such a step, but at least I can try.”
“I wish I could write to Jane about Wickham,” Elizabeth said with a sigh, “but of course I cannot.”
“I suspect that Bingley is the type of man who will speak to his wife before embarking on a plan to lock up Wickham,” Darcy pointed out.
Elizabeth nodded. “I know you are correct, and Jane, while she is tenderhearted, also has a strong sense of right and wrong.”
“I will write the letter now,” her companion declared.
***
Phillips House
Meryton
8th January 1812
The Phillips house was a blaze of light and warmth, cozy with candles and lit fireplaces.
The Phillips themselves were not the sort of company that Wickham generally preferred to keep, being a mere solicitor and his vulgar wife, but he had made an exception here in Meryton.
Mrs. Phillips, for all her boisterous laughter and unrefined speech, set an excellent table, and her guests were generally quite charming.
His eyes settled on the two prettiest ladies already in attendance, Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia Bennet.
Their older sister Mary was a dull girl, her sober mind and moralizing conversation not even alleviated by a pretty face, but her two younger sisters were jolly, flirtatious young women.
Wickham had no objections to passing a few minutes in frivolous discourse with young ladies if the ladies in question were pleasing to the eye, and whatever Miss Lydia might be lacking in cleverness, she made up for with a handsome countenance and womanly figure.
He crossed the room towards the fire, barely sparing a passing glance at Miss Mary where she stood looking through music at the pianoforte.
Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia, sitting side by side on a settee next to the fire, watched his approach with rapt attention, and Wickham bestowed upon them his most charming smile as they rose to meet him.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said with an extravagant bow, and when he straightened, both girls were giggling happily.
“Good evening, Mr. Wickham,” Lydia said. “Do sit down, will you not? My aunt said that dinner is not quite ready yet.”
He obediently took a seat across from the settee and waited until they had also seated themselves before he said, “I see that Miss Bennet is not here. Is she feeling any better?”
Lydia and Kitty exchanged glances, and Kitty leaned forward a little. “She is still unwell, sadly, but at least her engagement is at an end.”
“Is it?” Wickham said in surprise. “I … am sorry?”
“Do not be,” Lydia said, shaking her dark curls dramatically. “Mr. Collins is, as we said before, very stupid.”
“We do hope Lizzy recovers quickly, though,” Kitty said mournfully.
“Is she at Longbourn now?” Wickham asked idly. He did not care a great deal, but it was a courteous thing to say.
“No, she is in London with someone we do not know at all, a Mrs. Gregson. Father says that Mrs. Gregson is taking good care of Elizabeth.”
At this moment, Mrs. Phillips entered the room and called everyone assembled to dinner. Wickham went happily, though he felt as if he were forgetting something important about Elizabeth Bennet. Gregson … where had he heard that name before?