Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Staring into space, Darcy twirled his fountain-pen. He had been replying to his steward’s report regarding the final accounting of midsummer’s quarter day and realised he had been at it for quite a while.
‘What is your definition of “quite a while”, sir?’
Thoughts of Elizabeth turned to thoughts of a wife and of how dearly he wanted to marry a woman for whom he had a great deal of affection—and she him.
But there was the problem of Elizabeth’s lack of dowry.
Strandsmere Park produced no income, and one could hardly afford the expense of maintaining an additional property that might be occupied only infrequently.
He had considered converting the villa to a hotel but did not see it as a sound business venture.
The one farther up the Somerset coast in Weston-super-Mare was closing its doors due to lack of custom.
However, if I commit to improving the roads hereabouts, that would make Wyman’s Cove more attractive to prospective buyers and certainly safer for travellers.
He would give it serious thought, but he had little desire to oversee a property so far removed from both Derbyshire and London.
He already did enough travelling between those two points.
So, after seeing to the road improvements, he would put Strandsmere up for purchase and hope for the best. Mr Wright might not have been entirely wrong when he said that no one in their right mind would choose to live here, but there might be more interest in Somerset’s coastal property in years to come.
If I can entice a buyer, then a bride’s lack of a dowry would be less of a concern.
As for affection, he had an abundance of it for Elizabeth and none for Miss Wright, who had not been blameless in the mishap at the pond.
Nor had she ever treated Elizabeth with due respect.
Were it not for Georgiana’s close friendship with Miss Althea, Darcy might have ordered the entire Wright family to pack and begone.
His whole purpose in being at Strandsmere was to raise Georgiana’s spirits, and banishing her friend would undo all that had been achieved.
The room having grown increasingly warm, he removed his coat. About to resume his correspondence, he sighed when there came a knock at the door. “Come.”
One of the ladies who had been on his mind entered, but she was not the one he most desired to see. “There you are!” she cried.
“Yes, I am aware of my own whereabouts.” Rising from his chair, Darcy donned the coat he had just shed. Miss Wright dropped a curtsey and wished him a good morning. Regretting his earlier mocking tone, he smiled and offered her a seat.
With a tattered piece of paper, she fanned her face. “I trust I am not interrupting anything important.”
Sitting behind his desk, he glared at the stack of legal documents requiring his signature and that of a witness. “Not at all. What may I do for you, Miss Wright?”
“It is not about what you can do for me but rather what I am about to do for you.”
The triumphant gleam in her eyes giving him pause, Darcy took his time setting aside the pen and sanding the letter he had been writing. “And what might that be, madam?”
“A distressing piece of communication has come into my possession, and I could do naught but bring the matter to your attention.”
Miss Wright came round his desk, bringing with her an odd aroma of mint, lavender, vinegar, and other odours Darcy could not discern. Fanning herself again, the strange fusion wafted about, and his eyes watered.
“Prepare yourself, sir, for something disgraceful.”
“I am unafraid, madam.”
“Before I show you this, have you ever known Miss Bennet to be called Lizzy?”
“Yes. It is the name used by her family.”
“And what is the name of that family’s estate?”
“Longbourn.”
“And does Miss Bennet have a sister named Jane?”
“Yes.” Distressing communication. Something dreadful. Longbourn. Jane. Darcy feared the worst. “Miss Wright, kindly cease this inquisition and explain yourself.”
“This is from Elizabeth Bennet’s loving sister Jane, and it is self-explained.” Handing him the worn paper, she pointed to a paragraph, which he then silently read.
I shall not say that your beloved Mr Morse is dying, Lizzy, but I am afraid he may not be long for this world.
I fear, dear sister, that your pleasurable nights will never be the same again.
Return to Longbourn with utmost haste before it is too late to bestow one final tender embrace and bid your favourite a fond farewell.
Casting his eyes over preceding and succeeding paragraphs, all Darcy saw were prosaic mentions of the health of flower beds and family members. Placing the paper upon his desk, he slowly smoothed its creases.
“Salacious, is it not, sir? Surely you cannot doubt as to what that passage alludes.”
“I have a perfect comprehension of what you believe it means. However, I have some questions to ask of you. First, how did this page come to be in your possession? Second, there is no signature, so how do you know it was written by a loving sister Jane?” That question made Miss Wright’s eyes grow wild.
“Third, where, pray tell, is the rest of this letter?”
“I found that page, and only that one, hidden on your punt.” Rubbing her arms, Miss Wright spoke in fits and starts.
“It was tucked between the…the…um…runnel? And the thwart. I, um, only assume the identity of the sender, because Miss Bennet told me recently that she was expecting any moment a letter from her dearest sister, Jane.” Her hand shook as she reached for the incriminating paper.
Darcy slapped his palm upon it.
“May I have it back, please? Goodness, it is warm in here, is it not?” Miss Wright reached again for her makeshift fan, but his hand remained firmly in place. “Are you not disgusted by all of this? Is it not incredible?”
“Oh yes, I am disgusted and incredulous. But you have not conclusively ascertained that this Lizzy”—he tapped a finger on the page—“is anyone we know.” Notwithstanding the fact that Longbourn has only one Lizzy.
Or does it? What is the given name of Mrs Bennet?
Darcy rubbed his forehead in an attempt to banish that outlandish thought.
When Miss Wright left in a huff, Darcy busied himself, reading everything that needed to be read, writing everything that needed to be written, and signing everything that needed a signature, all the while giving sidelong glances to the crumpled page upon his desk.
Mr Wright came in for a chat, but that paragraph about Mr Morse demanded more of Darcy’s attention than any retelling of a connexion to someone who had something to do with a king.
Following that, Darcy sat awhile, debating with himself.
One side, the one he hoped would lose, took the opinion that Elizabeth had a lover.
The other side argued that, given her fondness for Hector and Heiress Tottle, Mr Morse was likely a beloved dog or cat.
But it was the tender embrace that gained points for the lover argument and roused raging jealousy within Darcy’s heart.
Upon being bid entrance, Mrs Carter apologised for intruding and said there were concerns regarding a maid-of-all-work called Molly. After a discussion, the housekeeper agreed to assign the girl to the kitchen.
There were too many interruptions. Darcy required a long application of solitude somewhere private and cool to think. And he knew just the place.
He found his sister and Miss Althea in the courtyard, seated at a table while Hector snoozed at Georgiana’s feet. Working from pencil sketches done while on Willow Bourn, they painted with watercolours upon wove paper. Georgiana’s was of a mute swan pair at the riverbank.
Miss Althea smiled and shook her head. “Please do not peek at mine, sir. I would like this to be a surprise.”
“Very well. I have only come to see whether Hector might like to go down to the beach with me and have an s-w-i-m.”
The dog’s ears pricked up, either upon hearing his name or because he had learnt to understand spelt words. Lumbering over, tail wagging, he looked hopefully up at Darcy.
“Do you really need to ask whether he wants to go with you, Brother?”
Seeking a piece of driftwood that would meet his rigid requirements as to length, width, and heft, Darcy kicked through piles of decaying seaweed, shells, and stranded crabs that high tides had deposited. Finding the perfect stick, he threw it a fair distance along the shore.
Hector looked up at him as if to say, ‘Why take fifteen minutes to choose that particular stick, only to throw it away? If you think I am about to run over there and fetch it for you, then you are barking up the wrong tree.’
Striding east, with the dog trotting at his heels, Darcy found again that perfect piece of driftwood and flung it out into the briny.
Without the slightest hesitation, Hector bounded in after it.
“And there will be no more needless rescuing of disgruntled seals,” the gentleman shouted.
“Do you hear me?” The dog kept swimming, and Darcy feared he might not stop until reaching Newfoundland.
With webbed paws and a double layer of thick, insulating, impermeable fur, Hector was well adapted to being in North Atlantic waters.
On land he was adept at lounging about, drooling, eating, and shedding the aforementioned fur.
However, after the Ramsgate incident, the Newfoundland dog had been chosen for Georgiana because of the breed’s protective, intelligent, and affectionate nature.
How would Elizabeth respond were I to say that she and Hector share the same three qualities? Humph! I pray that this Mr Morse person has not benefited from her affectionate nature. Tender embrace, indeed!