Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London smelled of coal and horse and too many people living too closely together, and Darcy did not know whether he was glad to see it or not.
The light had the flat, low cast of early October; half the houses in Mayfair would still be shuttered, and he was grateful for it.
He wished to concentrate on his new wife and the scandal that had brought them to this place, not on callers.
The cottage had been . . . Darcy did not have the word for what the cottage had been.
A week in which two strangers had begun to feel their way, learning each other’s rhythms, each other’s silences, how the room felt when the other person was in it.
Now, just as they had made a beginning, it was over, and they were in a carriage rolling towards Mayfair with Georgiana chattering about wallpaper and Fitz pretending to read a newspaper and Elizabeth sitting across from Darcy with her hands folded in her lap, watching the city grow up around them.
“The house is five storeys,” Georgiana was saying.
“Six if you count the kitchens.” She had been talking for the better part of a mile.
“And there is a garden at the back and a morning room with the most wonderful light, and the music room is on the first floor, Elizabeth, with my mother’s pianoforte, which is an early Broadwood and really very fine. ”
“Georgiana,” Darcy said.
“I am only telling her what to expect, Brother.”
“You will make her dread arriving. Bereford is not a palace, it is only a house.”
“A large house,” Fitz muttered.
Elizabeth’s mouth curled into a little smile. “I am not dreading it, Mr. Darcy. Though I confess the size gives me pause.”
“The family does not use all five,” he said.
“The fourth floor is mostly the nursery.” He cleared his throat and shifted a bit before continuing.
He could feel Fitz holding in a laugh. “The fifth is staff quarters. We live principally on the ground and first floors, with our bedchambers on the second.”
“And the third?”
“Guest rooms. Fitz stays there when he is with us.”
“I have to say that Georgiana is correct. It sounds enormous for a London house.”
Rule the second: the truth, even when uncomfortable. He ought not minimise it. “It is not a duke’s residence, but it is large by London’s standards. It will take time to learn. But Mrs. Aldworth, the housekeeper, will be glad of a mistress. The house has not had one in twelve years.”
“The Darcys rather accidentally purchased land in what is now Mayfair before there were any plans to build,” Fitz said.
“It is not a lease?” Elizabeth inquired. “That is quite rare.”
“It was not accidental,” Darcy explained. “My great-great grandfather had the idea that he would purchase a piece of land so that his third son could begin raising and selling horses, and London seemed a decent place to find buyers.”
“Sound logic,” Elizabeth agreed.
“Except the third son did not wish to raise horses,” Darcy replied.
“He left for India instead. Most of the land was sold back at a profit almost a hundred years ago, when the Grosvenors determined they wished to build. But my great-grandfather insisted on keeping a plot of land for the family to build Bereford upon.”
“And is there any significance to the name?”
She would ask that. Fitz chuckled.
“It simply means Barley House,” Darcy said. “Barley has long been Pemberley’s primary crop.”
“Which is why it is pronounced Beer-ford,” Fitz said.
Darcy was grateful when Georgiana redirected the conversation.
“Mrs. Aldworth is wonderful. She knows all about the house’s history, and she always knows where everything is, and she will not mind at all that you are . . .” She stopped and pressed her lips together.
“That I am not what anyone expected?” Elizabeth finished, with a lightness that did not entirely conceal the question beneath it.
Georgiana flushed. “I was going to say new.”
Elizabeth eyed her teasingly. “New is a kinder word than the one I was imagining. I shall allow it.”
Fitz folded his paper. “She should also know about Tracy.”
Darcy gave his cousin a look, which Fitz ignored.
“Tracy is the butler,” Fitz explained. “He has been at Bereford House since before Darcy was born. He is devoted, ceremonious, and deaf.”
“He is not entirely deaf,” Darcy said.
“He is substantially deaf. You will be greeted with a speech of considerable length and almost no intelligibility. Do not be alarmed. Nod when he pauses. He will be satisfied.”
“He hears well enough,” Darcy said, though this was not strictly true.
“I cannot fathom why you keep him on,” Fitz said. “Any other household would have pensioned him off years ago.”
“Whyever not keep him?” Georgiana said, with genuine bewilderment. “Tracy has always been there. He is Bereford House.”
“Tracy will tell me when he is ready,” Darcy said simply, as a matter of fact. Elizabeth’s eyes were on him, but he could not read them. He hoped she would not ask him to replace Tracy, for he would have to disappoint her.
He turned his attention back to the window, watching the familiar streets pass and thinking about whether Mrs. Aldworth would have remembered to have the blue guest room aired for Fitz, whether dinner would be fish—he was tired of fish—and whether Bereford’s five storeys of Portland stone were going to swallow his wife whole.
Elizabeth would be well, he told himself. She was intelligent and witty and despite her love of terrible novels, was also quite well-read. She understood how to move in polite society. But he was nervous for her still, because London society was polite only on the surface.
He did not want her to see that he was anxious for her, and he had done a creditable job of it thus far. Fitz saw it, yet thankfully said nothing, which was the most useful thing he had done all morning.
He had wondered whether they ought to have invited Mrs. Morgan to accompany them, so that Elizabeth would have a friend to support her, but he had decided against it.
Elizabeth had not asked it of him, for one, and Mrs. Morgan seemed as much a part of Ramsgate as he did of Pemberley.
They had said their farewells before the carriage arrived.
The widow had stood at the garden gate in her Sunday bonnet, straight-backed, her expression a blend of fondness and severity. She had embraced Elizabeth properly, with both arms, for several seconds, and then said something into her ear that Darcy could not hear and did not ask about.
Then she had turned to him. “Mr. Darcy. You are a better man than I suspected when first we met. Continue on in this way, and I might even come to like you.”
He had bowed, and she had smiled and offered her hand. “Take care of her,” she said quietly as he bent over it.
“I will,” he promised.
Later, at the first change of horses, Fitz had leaned across and said, quietly enough that the ladies could not hear. “I have recruited Mrs. Morgan.”
Darcy had stared at him.
“As an intelligence resource. Eyes and ears in Ramsgate. She is a military widow with local connexions, the observational instincts of my best officers, and revenge in her heart. I asked her to keep watch.” He paused.
“She agreed before I finished asking, told me she had been waiting for someone with sense to ask her.”
“She rather terrifies me,” Darcy admitted.
Fitz chuckled. “Not only you.”
And now Mrs. Morgan was behind them in Ramsgate and ahead of them was London, but despite himself, Darcy’s thoughts returned to the last night at the cottage, the firelight, Elizabeth falling to sleep, her soft breaths, the weight of her in his arms when he had carried her upstairs, remembering to duck his head at the top because she had hung one of her shawls on the beam, which looked ridiculous but had been quite effective.
He shut his eyes as he recalled the smell of jasmine in her hair. How small she had felt, and how still, and how he had stood in the dark of her chamber for a moment too long before he set her down, not ready to relinquish her.
He had not told her any of it. She had woken in her own bed and said nothing about it, except that over breakfast she had looked at him with an expression he could not quite read, curious, careful, and he hoped, not displeased.
Knowing they would never move, the Darcys had added to Bereford House over the years as Mayfair grew up around them.
It was a familiar sight to Darcy, but as they grew near, he attempted to see his home as Elizabeth might.
The house did not share walls with those around it.
Its five storeys were wide and deep. The front door was painted black, the brass was polished, and the steps were swept.
A good house, one she could be proud of.
Tracy was there to greet them.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” Tracy’s voice carried across the pavement, his words spoken at the volume of a man who could not hear himself and therefore assumed no one else could either.
“Welcome home, sir! And may I say on behalf of the entire household, sir, that we are most gratified to welcome you and Mrs. Darcy . . .” He spoke with the gravity of a man christening a ship.
“To Bereford House, where we stand ready to serve in whatever capacity is required. I trust that the journey was not excessively fatiguing.”
Darcy waited until Tracy looked at him so the man could see him speak. “Thank you, Tracy,” Darcy said. “The journey was very pleasant.”
“Very good, sir,” Tracy said, still rather loud.
Beside him, Elizabeth had gone still. She glanced up at Darcy. He looked back at her. And his heart eased, because she was not staring at the house with either concern or calculation. She was very studiously not laughing at this exchange with his butler, and he wanted to kiss her for it.
He did not, obviously. But he wished to.
Tracy and Mrs. Aldworth had the staff assembled in the entrance hall.