Chapter 23 #2
She did not wait for an answer. Elizabeth had, she reflected in the half second available to her, been rather too accepting of that habit.
Then the door swung open to reveal a girl in her morning dress with a book under her arm and plans written across her face, who said “Elizabeth, might we—” and then stopped.
The recollection of Georgiana Darcy’s comical expression thereafter would sustain Elizabeth through many difficult days.
It moved through surprise with several almost audible ticks like the gears of a clock, then through a rapid internal calculation, before arriving at what was unmistakably delight, all of it held in check only by valiant effort because she had been taught that not every emotion ought to be displayed at the very moment it was experienced.
“Oh,” said Georgiana.
Her brother looked at his sister with a stoic composure that contained, as far as Elizabeth could determine, no information whatsoever about what was happening.
Georgiana opened her mouth to speak.
And then Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared like an apparition in the doorway behind her.
Elizabeth pulled her dressing gown tightly about her and stepped behind her husband.
“Darcy. Mrs. Darcy,” he said while pointedly not looking in their direction.
“Colonel,” she said from behind Fitzwilliam.
She had the distinct impression that he was trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat. “Georgiana. Excellent, I was hoping to find you. I have a question about the Pemberley gardens that I am very much afraid requires your opinion. Come with me, if you please.”
Georgiana hesitated only a second before saying, “Oh, yes, of course.”
As Elizabeth peeked around Fitzwilliam, she watched the colonel steer Georgiana gently but quickly towards the door. The girl cast one last look at them over her shoulder as she was led away.
The door closed and Fitzwilliam turned to face her.
“The colonel,” she said, “is a remarkably useful person.”
“Less so than he might have been, had he arrived thirty seconds earlier.”
She pressed her lips together. He looked both frustrated and amused. She was amused as well but also mortified. The combination was inadvisable and quite difficult to endure. As a result, the moment, whatever it might have been, passed.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
“Yes,” her husband agreed, his countenance set in the same unreadable expression he had shown his sister. He went back through the sitting room, and she stood alone in her chamber listening to his footsteps recede.
Elizabeth dressed and came downstairs. She was met by Tracy, who informed her at some length, that Mr. Darcy had asked for her to join him and the colonel in the study when she was ready, then observed that the morning was a fine one, that the colonel was looking very well, and that Cook had prepared a particularly good kedgeree, should madam wish to sample it.
She wished it. She ate her breakfast without hurrying, because Fitzwilliam had said for her to come when she was ready, and she did not wish to appear as though she had rushed.
She found them in her husband’s study.
They were standing at the desk with a case open between them, documents spread across the surface, two cups of coffee sitting to the side, and they looked up when she came in.
“Mrs. Darcy,” said the colonel with a little bow, and she willed herself not to blush.
She came to stand next to them. There was a brief silence, and then her husband slid the nearest document to her.
She read it. Mrs. Younge’s movements, documented in the colonel’s neat hand. There was an intelligence report from Mrs. Morgan. And besides these, a separate paper that documented the gossip trail as best as the colonel had been able to reconstruct it.
“You believe she is using the servants,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes.” The colonel nodded and rubbed the back of his neck.
“She is as clever at spreading innuendo, in her own way, just as my mother is at countering it.” He looked at Elizabeth.
“A word from Lady Matlock in the right drawing rooms would be worth a month of Mrs. Younge’s efforts.
But she is in the north until January, which may be too late.
” He shook his head. “My mother is formidable.”
Elizabeth shot a heated glare at her husband. He shook his head once, a minute movement.
The colonel looked back and forth between them. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop. “So Mrs. Younge spreads the rumours. Mr. Wickham waits until the rumours about our marriage are well-established before making his demand, whatever that might be. Why has he promised money to another before the month’s end?”
“He is a liar,” the colonel said flatly.
“Or he means to take his chances before the season begins.”
Her husband nodded. “Yes, that would be very like him, to be so in debt that he cannot wait for the optimal time to strike. January is still just over a month away. And we know he would turn on any partner without a thought.”
“Mrs. Younge would not be pleased with him were that the case,” the colonel murmured. “She seems the shrewder of the two, and waiting would certainly assure them a larger audience and perhaps a more impressive windfall.”
Elizabeth looked at the sheet. “What have you considered, by way of answer?”
The colonel and Fitzwilliam exchanged a glance.
“We had hoped to write to my aunt, Lady Matlock, and ask that she arrive early,” her husband said. “But such a change to her plans would surely be noted.”
She looked at the documents again. Servants.
The gossip had moved through servants, from Mrs. Younge’s connexions outward and upward, through the invisible network of people who dressed and cleaned and carried trays and were never looked at directly by the ladies they served.
She knew how this worked. She had grown up in a house where her mother’s nerves on Monday evening were known to the butcher’s boy by Tuesday morning.
“We need not counter it from above,” she said slowly. “The story is already below stairs. We should answer it in the same register.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “We considered that, but—”
“It would require servants who are not widely known to be connected to Bereford or Matlock House,” the colonel finished.
“Yes.” She looked up. “I have an uncle and aunt in Gracechurch Street, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.” She paused, choosing her words carefully.
“My uncle is a man of business, and their direction will not recommend itself to anyone who moves in your circles. The benefit to us is that their servants will not be connected to Bereford House.” She set down the document.
“And they are extremely loyal to me and to my sister Jane.”
The colonel was very still in the way that meant he was thinking rapidly. “What would you have them do?”
“Mrs. Younge is telling a story,” Elizabeth said.
“She is telling it in pieces, through people who do not know they are being used. We tell a different story in the same way, through the same channels, but we shall be honest about what we are about, and then our story will reach the correct people more directly.” She paused to think.
“The Gardiners’ cook talks to the butcher, who has a brother in service to Lady Stirling, who attended the Drummond dinner.
” She met the colonel’s eye. “If she is being thorough, so must we.”
Fitzwilliam was looking at her with an expression she could not immediately classify. “And you are certain they would help.” It was not a question.
“It is a rumour about me,” Elizabeth said simply. “They will assist us.”
He nodded.
“The Gardiners,” the colonel said, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper. “Gracechurch Street. Mrs. Darcy, I shall need to know everything about the household. First, do you know which tradespeople your aunt and her housekeeper favour?”
“The butcher on Gracechurch Street, certainly. And the linen draper two streets north. My aunt’s housekeeper has been going there for a decade.”
“Lady Holt’s maid,” Fitzwilliam said, without looking up, “came from the Elliston family. Does your aunt’s cook know anyone among the Ellistons?”
Elizabeth looked at him. “How do you know that?”
He shrugged. “It is how the story must have reached the Drummond dinner, for Aunt Matlock does not know the story of the marriage, only that we have wed. She could not have told Lady Drummond.”
Elizabeth studied the page for a moment. “Mrs. Younge has already used that connexion once. Let us use it again,” she said.
The colonel looked at Elizabeth and then at Darcy. “My mother has ruled every drawing room in London for thirty years,” he said. “I find I am no longer certain of her position.”
After they had all sat to a midday meal, the colonel departed to speak with his men, and her husband returned to his study to take care of some business that had nothing to do with their current predicament but needed to be seen to nonetheless.
Georgiana followed Elizabeth to the parlour and shut the door behind her.
“I owe you an apology, Elizabeth,” she said earnestly.
“For knocking this morning and simply entering. I ought not have come into your room without waiting to be invited inside.” She collected herself.
“And I must beg your pardon for claiming so much of your time these past weeks. My cousin Richard has explained to me that I have been rather, well . . .” There was a small pause. “Demanding.”
“You have been a sister,” Elizabeth assured her. “I have four of them at Longbourn, you know, and we have been walking in and out of one another’s chambers all our lives.”
Georgiana looked at her, relieved. “Truly?”
“Truly. I am not in the least upset.”
Georgiana nodded. “Richard said you and my brother were discussing a matter that required some privacy.”
“That is an accurate description.”
Another nod. “I suspect I know what it is. If I am able to assist . . .”
“Of course. Georgiana . . .”
“Yes?”
“Although my sisters and I were very familiar with one another,” Elizabeth said slowly, “I was then unmarried. Shall we say that unless we have made other arrangements, you and I shall simply agree to meet for breakfast, or later?”
“Yes of course,” Georgiana said, with a little blush. She rose and went to the door, then paused to look back. “I am glad that is resolved,” she said, and left.
Elizabeth sat in the quiet for a moment. Then she rose to write to her aunt.