Chapter 16 Welcome Home
Looking out the window of the carriage as he drove up to his ancestral home, Darcy was not the least bit surprised to see his butler and housekeeper standing on the top steps to welcome him, surrounded by a few more footmen and maids.
He was only carrying a small valise, so he did not need much help, but it was heartening to see something approaching normalcy.
Unfortunately, he did not see his wife. He had written three letters that should have arrived weeks earlier, as well as letters to his butler and steward.
He supposed her absence indicated her lack of appreciation for the content of his letters.
He assumed that meant he had more work to do than expected, but that was hardly surprising.
To tell the truth, he expected a chilled reception, but not quite that chilled.
“Welcome home, sir,” came from Jennings, who sounded far graver than butlers usually allowed themselves. Mrs Reynolds and the rest of the staff repeated the greetings, and they all exchanged the usual courtesies.
A few minutes later, his steward, Mr Knight, appeared on horseback, no doubt notified when he crested the top of the hill. He greeted Knight warmly, along with the rest of the staff who were out to see the master, then suggested he could use some refreshment after the long journey.
Once he arrived in the Yellow Parlour and Jennings closed the door, he turned anxiously to his housekeeper, butler and steward, and asked pensively, “Where is Mrs Darcy?”
The three looked at each other fretfully, and Jennings finally answered, “We were hoping you could tell us, sir.”
Darcy started, and snapped, “What do you mean?”
“She left a month ago. She implied she was travelling to meet you, but she was not explicit about how or where.”
Darcy felt as if all the air were sucked out of the room, and his legs failed him.
He collapsed back into a chair, gasping for breath, and ran his hands through his hair, which was considerably more dishevelled than he would have allowed it to be before his illness, while trying to keep tears from coming to his eyes.
It slowly dawned on him that either his letters had not arrived, they had not softened her anger, or perhaps they had inflamed it.
Darcy blew out a breath and sighed. “It would seem I have thoroughly stuffed it up and make no mistake about that. I have no earthly idea where she is, nor do I blame her for flying the coop. This is a disaster—all of my own making.”
Jennings said, “She left a note, sir,” and then handed him a paper from his vest pocket.
23 June 1812, Lambton
Mr Jennings then I became convinced I had been overly harsh; and then I gradually decided I had acted with the utmost cruelty, start to finish.”
Mrs Reynolds was the first to speak. “Yes sir, you did.”
“Thank you for having the bravery to say it, Mrs Reynolds. I imagine it goes against the grain.”
“It does, but it needed to be spoken plainly. Having said that, I believe we can all accept it and try to work out what needs to be done, rather than wallowing in our misery. We all could have done better by Mrs Darcy.”
Jennings said, “We followed your lead—and hers—when we should have been guiding her.”
Knight said, “I fear that I did worse. I only spoke to her a few times, but I believe it was with overt hostility, quite unbecoming of my position, sir. I calculated her pin money to the penny, and she chastised me for my pettiness, then told me she wished to never speak to me again.”
The man looked like he expected to be sacked, and to be honest, had it not been entirely his own fault, Darcy would have considered that a dismissal offence.
Instead, he sighed resignedly. “While I could wish you had handled that more subtly, I cannot find real fault, Knight. You all followed the lead of the master and the mistress of the estate. I am the primary culprit here, so let us focus on what we can do. Pray tell me how her life went at Pemberley.”
The men looked at Mrs Reynolds, judging she probably had the most detailed story to tell.
“She started out in a very clever way, though you could tell that she was angry enough that I thought it wise to keep the axe locked up in the barn.”
Everyone chuckled slightly, not as an indication that the jest was funny, but mostly to release a bit of tension.
“She arrived on the twenty-sixth of December, wearing black. She had a day dress she dyed black at an inn. We had a rather frank discussion about the terms you laid down on her, and she implied, but never admitted outright, that the mourning was a sham, designed to reduce the humiliation of her position.”
Darcy leaned his head forward and held it, with his elbows on his knees. He was not even an hour into his wife’s term as mistress, and things already sounded bleaker than bleak.
“Did she say whom she was mourning?”
“No sir. She said to spread it about that her wedding preceded her knowledge of the affair, so there was nothing untoward about her nuptials, and that she was a very private person anyway. She would not make or receive calls while in mourning.”
Darcy laughed grimly. “Private person indeed! I can assure you that she is a very social person, but the disguise is pure genius. I cannot think of a better way she could have proceeded.”
“I suspected as much but followed her instruction.”
“Where did she get mourning clothes? Lambton?”
Mrs Reynolds looked like she could not decide whether to be embarrassed or angry. “No sir. She asked a laundress to dye a second day dress, and that was all she wore for the entire six months: two old, dyed, muslin day dresses that preceded her nuptials.”
Darcy ground his teeth in frustration, thinking every revelation just made things worse.
It was all his own fault, but he had somehow hoped for a softer landing from his great fall.
He suspected that, before all was said and done, he would have to get the axe Mrs Reynolds mentioned and take it to his pride, because said emotion may very well have cost him his chance for happiness.
Mrs Reynolds continued, somewhat nervously. “She had to pay for her own clothing with, forgive me for saying it, a pittance of an allowance. What would the neighbourhood say if Mrs Darcy bought dresses more fitting for a maid or the daughter of a middling squire than the mistress of Pemberley?”
Darcy sighed. “I can see that, Mrs Reynolds. Were they at least reasonable quality?”
“Yes sir, they were at least that. She liked to traipse around the woods for hours at a time with her maid, Molly—the one that she had known previously, who left with her. They did all the repairs themselves, as they never asked the other maids to do anything except the laundry. Her petticoats and stockings were frequently muddy, but other than that, the load on the staff was embarrassingly minimal.”
Darcy thought he could detect the beginnings of a stubborn streak in his wife, or to be frank, the unequivocal proof of one—which actually made him appreciate her more. She handled the awkward situation better than he had. Of course, besting his handling was nothing to boast of.