Chapter Five #3
The reading continued. A small patient offering from a cook’s daughter to a girl who once played Mozart from memory and now held herself together by being read to in bed.
He listened until the voice finished a passage and began another, then opened his eyes and looked around—the desk, the unfinished letter, the fire taking properly—the study was his room and had been for six weeks, the seat of his work at Merebank, which was no longer simply waiting for his sister’s colour to improve.
A knock came at the door, and he turned. “Come.”
Mrs Marsden opened the door and stood on the threshold, cloak folded over her arm, sleeves pushed above her elbows.
“Mr Darcy. Forgive me. I did not wish to disturb, but may I remove my sister’s gown? The one she wore when she fell. It is still in the parlour, wet, and it smells of—of what it smells of. I cannot bear to see her lying beside it.”
“Of course. Dispose of it however you desire. Mrs Reeves or Martha will assist—burn it, if that is best. It has done its work. She is wearing one of my sister’s nightgowns at present which she may keep, and I will see that something more suitable is arranged for her when she is ready to wear it.”
“Thank you.” She did not move from the threshold. “Mr Darcy, there is a matter I should raise before we proceed, and I would rather do so now than later.”
“Yes?”
“My sister told me you wrote the letter I received—that the surgeon was called and paid—that the splint on her leg was fashioned from a walking stick and the lining of your waistcoat—that the room she lies in was cleared in the time it took Mrs Bannon to drag a linen press across the floor. All this, Mr Darcy, you did for a stranger.”
“She was a woman with a broken leg on my land.”
“She would have died if you had taken the western path this morning instead of the eastern.”
“I took the eastern path because Mrs Bannon mentioned the mere’s level was low. I was walking the bank. It was an accident.”
“Accident that you walked the bank. Not an accident that you acted as you did. I have been in houses where accidents occurred. I know the difference between a man who responds and one who merely reacts. You responded, Mr Darcy. I am in your debt, and so is my sister.”
He found no words. The gratitude came with the flat directness of a woman who meant what she said, never to repeat or embellish it. He recognised that manner because he used it himself—suspicious of ornament in serious matters. He inclined his head. It was the only answer permitted.
“We have grown accustomed to doing for invalids here, I am afraid. I came here with my sister Georgiana. She is sixteen and has been ill since October—a rheumatic affection after a fever. The London physicians could not help, and I brought her north in December on advice from an elder who had heard the Merebank waters might help. She is on the first floor, in the south chamber. She is not alarmed by your sister’s presence—I have already spoken to her.
But this house’s staff is organised around her care, and I wished you to know. ”
“How ill is she, Mr Darcy?”
“Some days, she cannot even be dressed to leave her room without resting twice. She sleeps poorly. Her hands are stiff in the mornings, and her pulse quickens unnaturally with exertion. The London physicians said she might recover in a year—or not. I have been here six weeks because there was a story about the waters and nothing better to offer.”
“Has the water helped?”
“I am uncertain. Her colour is perhaps slightly better than in London. Her hands perhaps marginally less stiff. I cannot tell whether I see improvement or imagine it. I have tried to write to a doctor in Buxton for a week, asking whether others have opinions on the Merebank springs, but the letter resists writing, for I do not yet know what question to pose.”
Mrs Marsden regarded him with an expression he could not place—not pity nor surprise, closer to recognition. “I am sorry, Mr Darcy.”
“Please do not apologise for my situation. It is not yours to bear.”
“No. But I am sorry, nonetheless. I have been in houses where waiting was the worst part. I remember it clearly.”
The past tense caught his ear. Had been. Whatever sickroom she had kept, she had kept it long enough to call it concluded—and the conclusion was not lightly spoken. He did not ask. Asking would demand a reciprocal offering, and his own had already been made and received.
“Mrs Marsden, the chamber adjoining your sister’s—the old steward’s office—can be made ready for you tonight.
It is small and uncomfortable, but near her and has its own door onto the passage.
Mrs Bannon will arrange a cot. Mrs Reeves has broth for your sister when you are ready to take it, and there is bread and cheese for you in the kitchen whenever you will eat. You must be very tired.”
“I walked from the cottage. It is not far.”
“You walked in January, in a cloak unlikely to have seen snow before today. You have just been told your sister nearly died on my land, now lies in a bed unslept in for a hundred years. You are tired, Mrs Marsden, whether you admit it or not.”
A faint flicker crossed her face—not quite a smile, its shape gone before formation. “Very well. I am tired. I will say so because you pressed me.”
“Take the broth to your sister. Eat something yourself. The cot will be ready next door when you wish to lie down. We will speak again once you have rested.”
“Mr Darcy—”
“Yes?”
“My sister will need much care in the coming weeks. I do not yet know what else she will require, for she cannot tell me. But I wish to say plainly, now, that I will be as little burden on your household as I can manage, and if there are tasks I can take from your staff in exchange for her shelter, I will gladly do so. I am not the kind of guest who expects waiting upon. I have waited on others for some time.”
“You are not a guest, Mrs Marsden. You are your sister’s nurse.
The distinction will matter to Mrs Bannon, perhaps no one else, but it is important.
This house cannot waste your hands, and I will not allow you to refuse what it can offer in turn.
You will be fed and have a bed. You will use what the house offers, for it offers freely, and Mrs Reeves would take affront if you declined her cooking out of delicacy. ”
She nearly smiled again. “Then I shall not affront Mrs Reeves. Thank you, Mr Darcy.”
“Thank you, Mrs Marsden.”
She left, and he heard her down the passage, Mrs Reeves answering something, the bowl lifted from the range, then footsteps heading to the parlour where her sister lay in the bed cleared that morning.
He sat at the desk. The fire had caught, the letter to Buxton unfinished in the drawer. Above, Nan’s voice continued its slow, unhurried reading of whatever book Georgiana had chosen—a book Georgiana had been strong enough to select herself, a small report from upstairs.
He had told Mrs Marsden Georgiana’s colour was fractionally better than in London, qualifying what he had been qualifying for six weeks.
But Georgiana had chosen a book this morning—from the small stack Nan carried after breakfast—and the choosing was no small thing.
Two weeks prior, Georgiana had let Nan pick, for the effort was too great.
This morning, she lifted the stack into her lap, considered each title, then handed the chosen book to Nan and told her to begin.
Nan had reported this in the kitchen, shy as one unsure whether such progress was countable.
Darcy counted it. Again. Not by much. A fraction. The kind that could be imagined or real.