Chapter 46 #2
Darcy could quite happily have gone the rest of his life never knowing the whereabouts of his perfidious erstwhile housekeeper and was entirely unsure how Elizabeth expected him to respond.
Mrs Reynolds being with her godmother meant only one thing to him: that his opinion of Mrs Wallis was in need of review.
He was, perhaps, silent too long; Elizabeth observably reined in her enthusiasm. “I know you are angry with her, but you may not be after I have explained it all.”
“She no longer works here. That is all there is to it.”
“That is not quite all. You see, it seems it was Mrs Reynolds who arranged for Lydia and Wickham to marry.”
“What?”
“Apparently, she took steps to ensure they wed on the assumption that if Wickham was my brother, you would never marry me, and that would keep you safe.”
Darcy stared at her incredulously, at a loss to understand why she was so much better pleased by the revelation than he. “Pardon me if I am missing something,” he said stiffly, “but this is not news likely to make me less angry with the woman.”
She winced. “I am not presenting it well. The material point is that she did it for you . And to do it, she went to a lot of trouble and spent every farthing of her life savings. And now she has nothing left on which to live.”
“Then she ought not to have done it!”
“But cannot you see that she did it because she cared so deeply for you?”
Darcy rubbed both hands over his face. Why Elizabeth was attempting to defend the actions of a deceitful, and more to the point departed servant, he could not fathom. “Mrs Reynolds perfectly demonstrated the care she felt for this house, this family—and me—when she left.”
“My aunt says she only left because when she realised her mistake, she was too ashamed to stay. She was devastated to have injured you when she only meant to protect you.”
“It was never her place to protect me. She was my housekeeper, not my mother!”
“No, she was not your mother, but she was devoted to you. If you would read the letters I found, you would see that.”
“I will not condescend to reading someone else’s correspondence merely that I might forgive a servant their misdemeanour. Have you any letters belonging to the larcenist we dismissed last week that I might read and absolve her of all guilt, too?”
Elizabeth’s countenance lost its cajoling aspect and took on a more reproving turn.
“Edna was a petty thief who worked at Pemberley for less than eighteen months. Mrs Reynolds was a devoted housekeeper, who served this house and this family faithfully for quarter of a century before making one mistake, for which she has been trying to atone ever since.”
“In what possible way can she claim to have been trying to atone?”
“That is what I am trying to explain. She is with my aunt Wallis, who has been the source of every piece of invaluable counsel I have received since you proposed to me. It has all been Mrs Reynolds! Every decision, every suggestion, the rapprochement with Lady Catherine, even Mrs Lovell’s appointment, it has all been her.
I could never have made such a strong beginning as mistress without so much help.
I am indebted to her, but I do not think for a moment she did it for me.
It has all been done out of affection for you. ”
“Then she has betrayed a degree of presumption equal to her perfidy.”
“It would be more accurate to say she has betrayed a degree of dedication that is heart-warming. She could have chosen to have nothing more to do with Pemberley. Instead, she has helped write several letters a week with advice on how to run it.”
Elizabeth began fighting with the folds of her gown in search of something.
“My aunt writes that she wept when they received my letter with news of the collapse. She has sent a whole list of places you might look for information about the estate that might help.” She pulled a letter from her pocket and flicked hurriedly through its pages.
“Yes, here. Two specific crates from the library, an old picture on the wall in Mrs Wickham’s cottage, and some documents in your mother’s writing desk in the Chesterfield room. ”
She looked up. “Do you see? She is still trying to help you.”
Darcy wished profoundly that Elizabeth would desist, but he would not be uncivil—not on account of Mrs Reynolds.
He had nothing kind to say, however, so he said nothing at all.
That turned out to be a mistake, for Elizabeth seemed to take it as a softening of his resentment.
She lowered the letter to her lap and adopted a gentler tone.
“And do not you think, that if Wickham’s mother should be allowed to live in comfort at the expense of the estate, then Mrs Reynolds might, also?”
“What are you suggesting?” he demanded, disgusted.
“That we invite her home.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
He was positively itching with discomfort, his collar too tight and his face burning. “Elizabeth, I beg you would let this matter drop.”
“But you would not have her be destitute, would you? She spent her entire fortune, if it could be called that, attempting to keep you safe. I cannot believe you would more willingly give money to the Wickhams than to the woman who has served you faithfully your whole life.”
“I do not have time for this—I have a house to rebuild. Send her the blasted money if it pleases you, but pray do not mention her name to me again!”
He left, barging directly past his aunt, who was hovering about outside the door, without stopping to speak to her.
Throwing his coat at James as he exited the house, and rolling his sleeves up as he walked, Darcy went to join the line of volunteers, of the opinion that he would be far more agreeably engaged hefting about the ruins of his house after all.