Chapter 16 #2
Darcy had not requested it. A formal staff presentation was customary when a new mistress arrived, but he had intended something quieter.
His head servants, however, had evidently decided that the introduction of Mrs. Darcy warranted the full complement.
Mrs. Aldworth the housekeeper, broad and competent and already assessing Elizabeth with the shrewd eye of a woman who could surmise exactly how much work a new mistress would create; two of the senior footmen standing at attention; three maids in pressed caps; and Mrs. Carroll, the cook, who had come up from the basement still dusting flour from her hands.
At least they had not called in the men from the mews.
Darcy had written to Mrs. Aldworth from Ramsgate to tell her that he had married, that his wife would be arriving with him, and that she should prepare the mistress’s chambers.
He realised now, watching Mrs. Aldworth’s face, that he had not provided enough detail.
The staff had been expecting someone. They had not been expecting her.
Elizabeth was small and dark-haired and wearing a travelling dress that was clean but not expensive. She did not look like the wife of Fitzwilliam Darcy. She looked like the daughter of a country gentleman of modest means, which was exactly what she was, and Darcy watched the staff register this.
It lasted perhaps three seconds. Then Elizabeth smiled.
“Mrs. Aldworth,” she said, stepping forward. “Mr. and Miss Darcy have spoken very highly of you. I hope you will forgive the short notice. I understand this is not how a new mistress usually arrives.”
The housekeeper curtsied. “You are most welcome, Mrs. Darcy. Your chambers are prepared.”
“Thank you. That is a relief, as I have been in a carriage for most of the day and I suspect I look it.”
A flicker of warmth crossed Mrs. Aldworth’s face. “Not at all, ma’am.”
“You are kind. I believe I look exactly like I feel, which is a little crumpled and in urgent need of tea.”
One of the maids laughed. Caught herself. Pressed her lips together. Elizabeth pretended not to notice, which was exactly the right thing to do, and Darcy, who had been holding his breath, exhaled.
She would do well.
Behind him, Georgiana was already chattering as she pulled off her gloves, clearly thrilled to be home. “Elizabeth, you must see the morning room first. I told you about the light. Oh, and we should visit the garden next, and the music room—”
“Georgiana,” Fitz said mildly. “Mrs. Darcy has been in the house for ninety seconds.”
“I am only being welcoming,” she said.
Elizabeth touched Georgiana’s arm. “I should like to see everything. But perhaps we could refresh ourselves and sit for some tea first?”
Georgiana beamed. Darcy suddenly understood that Georgiana had been waiting for a sister, for someone who would take her arm and say Yes, show me everything. Elizabeth had given her that, and she did not even know what she had done.
He could feel the moment when the servants seemed to collectively decide that this Mrs. Darcy might in fact be a good surprise.
Two footmen exchanged a glance he was not meant to catch.
Mrs. Carroll’s posture softened a fraction.
Whatever whispers had preceded them from Ramsgate—and there would have been whispers; he was not fool enough to think otherwise—they were being weighed against the evidence of Georgiana’s joy.
No tawdry compromise would produce this in his shy sister.
The household was drawing its own conclusions, and for the moment, the conclusions were merciful.
He would let Franks confirm it later. For now, it was enough.
Georgiana seized Elizabeth’s arm, pulling her up the stairs to her chamber, and Elizabeth went willingly, laughing, tossing a look at him over her shoulder but allowing herself to be claimed.
“Abandoned by the ladies already?” Fitz said with a laugh and clapped Darcy on the back. “I should not doubt it, for Georgie is far sweeter than her brother.”
There were suppressed smiles all around. Darcy thanked Fitz silently for smoothing over the awkwardness of being left alone while his new wife was hurried away.
Georgiana’s happiness had been the fixed point of his adult life, and if Elizabeth could give her what he could not, then that was a blessing. He was glad of it. He needed to be glad of it.
But he stood in the entrance hall and watched them go, and the thought came before he could stop it. We need time too. They would require the slow, patient hours that had begun so promisingly in the cottage, the time that would teach them how to be married rather than merely wed.
Georgiana would not mean to make that difficult. She would simply be so delighted that neither of them would know how to take the hours back. He would need to think on how to ensure his own place in Elizabeth’s life without displacing his sister’s.
He mounted the stairs and began the climb behind them. Franks had prepared two chambers on the second floor. This was expected, of course.
Rule the first, separate chambers, by mutual and respectful agreement, and the master and mistress’s rooms would serve. His was on the east side, hers on the west, a sitting room between and the passage beyond. Not adjacent, but not distant.
At the cottage, their rooms had been separated by a single wall. He had heard her cough at five in the morning. He had heard her turn in her sleep. Here, he would hear nothing, and he was not certain he was easy with that.
Elizabeth stepped through in the doorway into her chamber and took it in.
He watched her, trying to see it through her eyes.
The room was larger than both bedchambers of the cottage.
The bed was canopied in pale yellow silk.
There were flowers on the writing desk, the curtains were drawn back to let in the afternoon light, and while he could see that the wallpaper was faded and would need to be replaced, it was, by any reasonable measure, a beautiful room.
She said nothing for a long moment.
“It is very grand,” she said at last.
“It is comfortable,” he said, and then wished he had said something better, because he supposed that comfortable was not the way to describe this room.
“It is,” she agreed, and Darcy was relieved. She stepped further inside and trailed her fingers along the edge of the writing desk. “There is more furniture in this room than in my father’s entire study.”
“I hope you will make it yours,” he said. “Change anything you wish. The curtains, the furnishings, whatever suits you.”
She looked at him. “You are giving me permission to redecorate?”
He gazed back at her. What a strange thing to ask. “I am giving you permission to be at home.” He motioned to the walls. “You may wish to begin with the paper.”
Something in her expression changed. It was not gratitude, exactly, but something quieter, something that spoke to his heart though he did not know why.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said.
He nodded and withdrew, because if he stood there any longer, watching her tentatively touching the edges of the life he was trying to give her, he was going to say something he could not take back.
An hour later, Darcy was standing at the window, looking out at the garden below. It was a large garden by London standards, a square of green behind the house, with a gravel path and a stone bench and beds that the gardener kept in modest order. He heard footsteps behind him.
Darcy turned to see Fitz. The ease he had displayed upon their arrival was gone, replaced by something better described as professional.
“Mrs. Younge departed her lodgings in Ramsgate the day after the incident,” Fitz said. “She told her landlady she was going to a sister, but my man traced her to a house in Edward Street. She took it under her own name. When he called yesterday, she had gone.”
“Gone?” he asked. “And Wickham?”
“Silent. No debts reported, no sightings in town.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It is the opposite of reassuring. The man is a plague. When he goes quiet, he is planning.” Fitz sat in the chair opposite the desk and crossed his legs. “I have put two men on it. And Mrs. Morgan will watch the Ramsgate end.”
Darcy absorbed this and nodded. “What do you recommend?”
“Vigilance. Discretion.” Fitz uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, forearms on his knees, his voice dropping into the register he used for genuine counsel. “We say nothing to Mrs. Darcy or Georgiana until we have something concrete. I will not have them frightened by shadows.”
Darcy turned from the window. “That is not nothing, Fitz. Mrs. Younge is not where she ought to be. Wickham has gone silent, and you have said yourself this means he is planning.” He paused. “That is not the absence of information. That is information.”
“It is not enough to act on.”
“I am not speaking of acting. I am speaking of telling my wife what I know.”
Darcy recognised what was happening. Fitz believed he was right and knew he needed only be patient to convince Darcy of his side.
“And what precisely would you tell her? That a woman we cannot locate may be in contact with a man we cannot find, and that both of them may or may not intend harm to her or Georgiana? On the first day in her new house, with no names, no dates, no specific threat of any kind?” He spread his hands.
“Why make her worry when there is nothing she can do?”
It was a sound argument. Darcy disliked it for being sound. “She would want to know.”
“Wanting to know is not the same as needing to know. You will not withhold this for long, only until we know something more substantial. Let her become accustomed to her new life. Let your sister rest.” Fitz met his eyes.
“Georgiana is happy with your wife, and the servants saw it. We need everyone else to see it too, if we are to be successful promoting the love match story.”
That was a better argument. Upsetting Elizabeth did risk upsetting Georgiana.
Fitz could see that he was wavering and pressed his advantage. “Until we know more, we are only speculating aloud.”
Darcy was quiet. He looked out the window to the street below.
Elizabeth was afraid of the man who decided, in his own private judgement, what she was ready to bear.
You do everything yourself, she had said, and then feel martyred when no one thanks you for it.
He did not think she would thank him for this.
The timing was terrible and the information incomplete.
It was Elizabeth’s first day at Bereford House.
The servants had been charmed by Georgiana’s clear approval.
And then Elizabeth had stood in her chamber with her fingers trailing the edge of the writing desk, pleased she would be given the chance to make the room truly hers.
She had seemed almost vulnerable in that moment, not unlike when she had fallen asleep and he had held her in his arms.
Darcy closed his eyes. Enough. He was fair enough to admit that a man who wanted an argument to be correct was not well-placed to judge its merits.
“There is a rule,” he said, not quite to Fitz, who raised an eyebrow.
“Between us. She proposed it before the wedding. That in this marriage, we tell each other the truth.”
“And you are keeping that agreement,” Fitz said, unmoved. “You are not lying to her. You are waiting until you have something worth saying.”
Darcy looked at him.
“That is a distinction,” Fitz added, “that I suspect she would also make.”
He did not think so. He only knew that the argument made sense, and he could already feel his promise bending. “When we have something,” Darcy said, “you will tell me immediately.”
Fitz nodded once. “When I know, so will you.”
Darcy remained at the window and Fitz withdrew.
He had agreed to Rule the Second less than a fortnight ago and Elizabeth had trusted him to keep it.
He was not, it seemed, capable of passing even the first genuine test. Fitz’s distinction was sound, and Darcy understood perfectly well that he had accepted it because it permitted him to do what he had already decided to do.
A carriage was drawing up two houses down, a footman jumping to open the door, and a lamplighter was working his way along the street, his ladder over one shoulder, each oil lamp catching and casting its small pool of light down onto the pavement.
Ordinary life, going about its business with complete indifference to what was happening inside this house.
That night, Darcy paused outside Elizabeth’s door on the way to his own chamber.
There was light beneath it, a thin gold line on the floorboards.
She was still awake. He could hear nothing through the heavy oak.
No cough, no movement, no sound of any kind, and the silence was worse than the wall at the cottage.
At the cottage the silence had meant she was sleeping, and here it meant only that he was too far away to know.
He raised his hand but lowered it again without knocking. For perhaps ten seconds he lingered there, his mind composing and discarding sentences but could not, for the life of him, think of a single thing to say to his own wife through a closed door.
Then he sighed and went to bed, where he lay awake for a long time listening to a house that did not creak, did not smell of the sea, where he could not hear, anywhere within its five storeys of Portland stone, the sound of her breathing.