Chapter 18
OFFICIOUS INTERFERENCE
“S ugar?” Mrs Reynolds enquired. Mr Ferguson did not often take it with his tea, but he looked singularly fatigued that evening, and cold and wet to boot. He nodded, and she added two lumps. “Should you like something to eat?”
“I thank you no. Mrs Ferguson is expecting me for dinner. I shall get off as soon as the rain eases.”
“I take it the rain put paid to any significant progress on the dig,” said Mr Matthis.
Mr Ferguson nodded glumly. “An inauspicious first day.”
“Bit of rain would not usually see my lads falter,” Mr Howes grumbled. “But digging in this sort of weather is no fun for anyone.”
This many of the upper servants rarely gathered together.
They were typically too busy, and their work hours and places too disparate for it.
The rain had interfered with everyone’s plans; all outdoor work had been brought to an early, sodden halt, and dinner had been delayed until the guests recuperated from their drenching at the picnic.
Unusually, therefore, Pemberley’s steward, butler, housekeeper, chef, head gardener, and the master’s manservant were all crowded into the upper servants’ hall at once.
It felt smaller as a consequence, and Mr Ferguson and Mr Howes’s waterlogged clothes had added a vaporous, dank air to the space.
The dampness only worsened when the head gamekeeper entered, dripping wet and wringing his cap onto the flags.
Mr Ferguson greeted him with a nod. “Is there a problem?”
“We have caught ourselves a poacher. Well, more found than caught, I suppose, for he was injured and in no fit state to make a run for it.”
“Injured? Not in a trap, I hope.”
“No. Slipped and turned his ankle. I am not surprised, either, for there is a torrent coming down over the rocks on the north slope.”
Mr Howes frowned. “There is no watercourse on the north slope.”
“There is today. And now I’ve a soggy, lame scoundrel in my cabin, and I should like very much to know what to do with him.”
“Have you informed Mr Darcy?” the steward enquired.
“Mr Darcy was not in a humour to listen.”
Mrs Reynolds frowned. “Perhaps he was busy, Mr Sheldon. He has only just returned from a day out, and he has a large number of guests to attend to.”
“Then perhaps he ought to send them home, for this is not a good time to be distracted,” Mr Ferguson snapped, to everyone’s astonishment, for he rarely showed his temper.
“Pray excuse me. Only he was in no humour to hear my report earlier, either, and I am used to him being more attentive to estate matters.”
“Mr Vaughan, is the master ill?” Chef enquired.
Mr Darcy’s manservant shook his head. “No, Monsieur, he is in perfect health.”
“Then what can be the matter with him?” he replied, directing the question to the whole room.
Mrs Reynolds said nothing. She would not have dignified such an enquiry with an answer in any case, but as it was, her lips were pressed firmly together in displeasure. She had a strong suspicion what was consuming the master’s attention. What a good thing the distraction would soon be gone.
“Come now, Mr Vaughan,” Chef coaxed. “It is just us. None of the young girls or boys are here to listen to what we say. You can tell us what has got into Mr Darcy, non ? Est-ce cette jeune femme ?”
Mr Vaughan replied in French, and whatever he said did not please Chef, who returned to his kitchen with a snarl and a spattering of other foreign phrases muttered under his breath.
Mr Ferguson stood and retrieved his coat—still sodden—from the chair in front of the fire. “We had better summon the magistrate. Howes, will you join us?”
The head gardener agreed that he would, and the three men trudged unhappily from the room to return to the rain.
“You had better make amends with Chef before you go back upstairs, Mr Vaughan,” Mr Matthis said mildly. “You know how he likes to sulk.”
“The man is an incorrigible gossip.”
“I shall not argue. Mr Darcy ought to be allowed the odd bit of flirtation without being accused of neglect, even if he is hopelessly preoccupied. But pray, for the sake of all our appetites, make amends with Monsieur Dubois.”
The door abruptly burst open, and Hannah leant around it, her manner urgent. “Beg your pardon, Mrs Reynolds. Sarah has knocked over the scuttle trying to light the candles in the Stag Parlour. There is coal dust everywhere.”
The housekeeper was plagued by none of her usual aches and pains as she strode through the house. Indignation fuelled her steps and oiled her stiff joints; it stole her patience as she directed the maids in their work and put a sting in her voice as she reprimanded Sarah for carelessness.
Never, in all her years working for him, had Mr Darcy prioritised something or someone before Pemberley.
Never had she heard his perennially loyal servants complain about him.
It was all, all Miss Bennet’s doing. Every moment of doubt she had suffered these past two days since visiting Mrs Wickham was banished—she was more certain than ever that she had taken the necessary, the only possible, action.
“I think there is someone at the front door,” Hannah said hesitantly.
Mrs Reynolds did not think it likely, for it was long past the hour for calls and still pouring down outside. “James will answer it, if there is.”
“James was in the kitchen just now, having a glass of milk.”
Mrs Reynolds sighed sharply. “Keep on with what you are doing, girls. I’ll not be long.
” She heard the banging herself as she exited the parlour and almost decided against answering it, thinking it might be better to fetch James or Mr Matthis if there were an angry mob to be repelled.
But then she reached the hall and saw, through the glazing of the front door, that it was no violent stranger, no wild beast outside.
A threat to Pemberley, certainly, but not one she was unable to deal with herself.
She swept across the hall, incensed by the sheer audacity of the woman, and opened the door by no more than an inch.
“The family are not presently receiving guests, madam. I am afraid you have had a wasted trip.”
She faltered as soon as the words were said, her heart pounding and her doubt swimming nearer to the surface once more.
For all her anger, it felt entirely wrong to meddle so brazenly in the master’s concerns.
She ignored the sensation; little point baulking at turning away callers after the lengths to which she had already gone to banish Miss Bennet from his life forever.
With Mr Lynton in London on an errand to see the marriage between George Wickham and Lydia Bennet done whatever the cost, all connexion between Mr Darcy and the rain-soaked and windswept woman presently banging at his door would soon be dissolved.
Miss Bennet looked thoroughly deflated to be refused entry.
She was clutching something to her chest, and she fumbled with it awkwardly as she began to speak.
“I would never presume, under any other circumstances, only something has…There is a…I find I must return home immediately. I would take my leave of the family before I go if I may.”
It was too much to hope this had anything to do with Mr Lynton’s assignment—it was too soon—but she was leaving, and all doubts aside, that could be nothing but a source of relief.
“As I said,” Mrs Reynolds repeated firmly, “the family are busy at present.”
“Is there no way you could let Mr Darcy know I am here?”
Mrs Reynolds did not need to feign her shock; such shameless impropriety would scandalise the most liberal of minds. “This is most irregular. Perhaps if you waited until a more sociable hour and called on Miss Darcy?”
Miss Bennet flushed scarlet. “Or Miss Darcy—I meant that. Both of them—either of them. Forgive me, I am…This is…Please, if you would just let one of them know I am here.”
“Tomorrow would be more acceptable.”
“It cannot wait until tomorrow. We are leaving now.”
“Perhaps you could write to Miss Darcy when you reach home, then. If the young lady has agreed to a correspondence, of course.”
Miss Bennet shook her head slightly, her countenance twisted with what looked like genuine pain. But then, she had put so much work into her scheme; it must be unbearable to give it up at this stage. Mrs Reynolds held firm.
“Lizzy? We must go now.”
The housekeeper started at the deep voice and peered out into the driving rain.
She had not noticed the carriage at the foot of the steps, nor Miss Bennet’s uncle, leaning out of it, gesturing for his niece to make haste.
She had not come alone, then, and her call was not quite as scandalous as it had first seemed.
Doubt immediately crowded back into Mrs Reynolds’s mind—but no!
The woman was all but in league with George Wickham!
She forced herself to give a thin, unpleasant smile. “It seems you must go.”
Miss Bennet’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I do have a note for Miss Darcy. I was hoping for the chance to explain…Never mind. Would you be kind enough to give it to her? And pray, tell her how very sorry we all are that we must leave without a proper goodbye.”
Mrs Reynolds accepted the note but made no promises.
“And this belongs to Mr Darcy.” She held out the bundle of cloth in her arms, which turned out to be one of the master’s finely tailored coats, scrunched into a soggy ball.
Mrs Reynolds shook it out disdainfully and made a point of draping it carefully over her arm. “I shall see that he gets it.”
Miss Bennet did not move, which might have worked, for Mrs Reynolds had neither the strength nor the gall to physically evict her.
But then she attempted, surreptitiously, to crane her neck and peer into the house for a glimpse of her quarry, and Mrs Reynolds made up her mind.
Though it opposed every ounce of her training and every principle of her position, she shut the front door in Miss Bennet’s face.
The young woman’s eyes widened in disbelief, then she shook, as though she were sobbing, and turned and ran to her uncle’s carriage.
Mrs Reynolds clutched her shaking hands together.
There was no way of dressing up what she had just done as acceptable.
The business with the younger Miss Bennet was one thing—that merely required George to finish what he had already begun.
This was different. This was deliberate and officious interference in the master’s private affairs—and in direct opposition to what she knew would have been his wishes.
The weight of self-reproach reminded all her limbs of that fatigue which resentment had earlier made them forget.
Feeling every one of her sixty years, she crossed the hall, expecting with every step that Mr Matthis would appear and demand an explanation.
No one came. Neither the butler, nor the footman, nor any of the girls cleaning up the spilt coal dust. The steward was off, dealing with the poacher.
Most of the guests were in the saloon on the other side of the house.
If any had seen the carriage from their bedrooms, she would discover it soon enough, but for now, it seemed there had been no witnesses to her aberration. And Miss Bennet was gone.
She checked on progress in the Stag Parlour, assured the maids there was not a murderer hammering at the door, then retreated unsteadily to her sitting room.
Her hands still shook as she unfolded the note for Miss Darcy.
She made no attempt to excuse it to herself—it was a despicable invasion of privacy.
Yet having come this far in her endeavours to evade all cunning, she had no intention of overlooking any more.
The note appeared entirely innocuous—merely a repetition of Miss Bennet’s apologies for her precipitate departure and a hope that they would see each other again.
Mrs Reynolds threw it on the fire. After several deep breaths to allay a wave of nausea, she pulled the master’s coat onto her lap and checked its pockets for hidden communications.
There were none, which surprised her again.
Queasiness and misgivings bubbled back up to haunt her.
It would not do. She must not allow the ugliness of the last few minutes to cloud her purpose. She opened the drawer of her writing desk and pulled out Eleanor’s most recent letter.
I have not forgot your philippic for that other friend of his, Mrs Younge, nor your regret for not detecting her treachery in time to obviate it.
As always, Eleanor’s words steadied her. This was why she had acted. Yes, it sat badly with her; yes, she felt sullied by the underhandedness of it, but when her time came, sooner rather than later, she would die knowing the master would not be ill-used.
“A servant just brought this over from Lambton,” she said as she handed Mr Darcy’s coat to Mr Vaughan. Then she returned to her duties and hoped nobody would notice her still-shaking hands.