Chapter Eight
Willowbrook Somerset
Darcy
Darcy arrived at the cottage on a bright afternoon, having left London two days earlier.
He remembered the place only imperfectly, having visited it but once as a boy before his father’s death and not at all since.
It was one of those properties which had come to him almost incidentally, attached to a considerable tract of timberland his father had purchased more for the value of the wood than from any particular attachment to the house which stood upon it.
The timber itself was leased separately, the trees felled under agreement and their value accounted for through his estate.
The cottage had been let to tenants instead and had required so little of Darcy’s attention over the years that, before arriving, he could not have said with any confidence what colour its door was painted.
He knew almost as little of the former tenants.
His attorney had informed him in March that the family had vacated Willowbrook and would not renew their lease.
Darcy had merely instructed that Mr. Turner, a local man employed to look after the property while it stood empty, be kept on until servants could be sent to take charge of the house.
There had been nothing unusual in the ending of the tenancy and no reason for Darcy to give the matter another thought.
The cottage was smaller than he remembered, though perhaps Pemberley had simply accustomed him to a different measure of what constituted a house.
Its grey stone was softened by ivy, recently cut back from the windows and roof, while the slate above showed darker patches where moss had plainly been cleared away.
The windows, newly cleaned and thrown open to air the rooms, caught the afternoon light so warmly that the glass appeared almost golden.
A low wall enclosed the garden, where the recent industry of the servants was readily apparent.
The grass had been cut, the paths cleared, and the borders freed of the worst of their weeds, though several months without a tenant had left traces which a few days of attention could not entirely disguise.
Wildflowers still appeared amongst the more deliberate plantings, and here and there an empty patch showed where something once carefully tended had failed during the house’s vacancy.
A smaller building stood some distance from the cottage and provided accommodation for the few servants required for Darcy’s stay. Beyond it were the stable and adjoining shed, modest but sufficient for his horses, carriage, and the ordinary necessities of a small country establishment.
Behind everything rose the timber woods, dense and dark even beneath the summer sun. They stood near enough that Darcy imagined the rooms at the back of the cottage must carry the particular hush of trees throughout the day, together with a good deal of shade.
It was not Pemberley and had never pretended to be. It was, however, as peaceful as he had hoped.
Once his belongings were settled, Darcy spent the remainder of the day doing very little, an occupation which had become almost unfamiliar to him.
For the first time since Ramsgate there were no arrangements demanding his immediate attention, no distressed sister watching his countenance for signs of reproach, and no acquaintance likely to call merely because he was known to be within reach.
At least he had not been obliged to leave Georgiana without a companion.
Upon Mrs. Reynolds’s personal recommendation, a Mrs. Annesley had been found to replace Mrs. Younge.
She was a widow of limited means but respectable family and had served as companion in several households known to Darcy.
Two of her former situations had ended only because the young ladies entrusted to her care had married, and the enquiries Darcy had made into her character had produced nothing but praise.
He had made considerably more enquiries this time and was surprised to have the matter settled within a few weeks, when his far less rigorous search for Mrs. Younge had occupied several months.
Whether Georgiana would take to Mrs. Annesley as readily as she had once taken to Mrs. Younge remained to be seen.
Darcy could not expect immediate affection between them, nor, after what had happened, did he particularly desire it.
Kindness, steadiness, and trust would be sufficient for the present. The rest might come in time.
He passed his first night at Willowbrook in greater peace than he had expected. The breeze moving through the trees behind the house brought with it a quiet rustling which reached his bedchamber through the open window, and for once his thoughts of Ramsgate did not keep him awake until dawn.
Georgiana remained his chief concern. He could only hope that his absence, together with Mrs. Reynolds’s continued presence until Mrs. Annesley was properly settled, would give his sister time to recover some portion of her former spirits.
She had watched him too closely since Ramsgate, searching every expression for anger he did not feel towards her and finding disappointment in silences which had nothing to do with her.
Perhaps a little distance would accomplish what his repeated assurances had not.
The following morning, Darcy inspected the property more thoroughly and spent the remainder of it with a volume of philosophy, grateful to discover that Willowbrook offered precisely the solitude he had sought.
There were no near neighbours to call upon him, and even the men employed upon the timberland were working elsewhere that day.
By afternoon, the silence of the place had begun to feel almost luxurious.
It was late in the day when Darcy, looking idly from the window, saw the post arrive at the gate.
One of the servants sent ahead from Pemberley went out and returned with a single letter.
After examining the direction, however, the man turned towards the outbuilding rather than bringing it to the house.
Darcy frowned. He had made his retreat known to very few.
Georgiana knew, of course, as did his cousin, and before quitting London he had written to his closest friend with his direction.
It was therefore quite possible that one of them had already written to him, though he had expected no correspondence so soon.
But if the letter were his, why was it being carried away from the house?
Darcy’s attention sharpened. He was through the door before the servant had gone far.
“What is that?”
The man stopped. “A letter, sir. It has just been delivered.”
“For whom?”
“A Miss Julia Harding, sir.” The servant hesitated. “The same as the others.”
Darcy frowned. “Who is Miss Harding?”
“I do not know, sir. Mr. Turner did not know either. He only knew the letters were directed here.”
Darcy held out his hand, and the servant gave him the letter. The direction was written in a clear, elegant hand, without haste or carelessness, and with the ease of someone who had written those same words many times before.
Miss Julia Harding, Willowbrook House near Wells, Somerset
Darcy turned it over. The seal was unbroken.
“Harding...” He searched his memory. “Was that not the name of the former tenant? I believe I saw it in my attorney’s letter when he informed me the family had left.”
“I could not say, sir.”
Darcy regarded him for a moment, then recollected that the man had arrived at Willowbrook scarcely a month before him. There was no reason he should know anything of a family already several months gone.
“And what did you mean by the others?”
“There were sixteen before this one, sir. Mr. Turner had been keeping those which arrived while the house stood empty, and four more have come since we arrived.”
Darcy looked sharply at him. “Seventeen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All addressed to Miss Harding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And all from the same correspondent?”
“So far as I have noticed, sir. The hand appears the same.”
Darcy looked again at the direction. “Bring me the others, and send for Turner.”
“Yes, sir.”
The servant withdrew, leaving Darcy upon the path with the newest letter still in his hand.
Seventeen letters. Whoever had written them plainly had no notion that Miss Harding was no longer at Willowbrook.
Whether supposed recipient was Harding’s daughter, sister, or some other relation, Darcy could not know.
But if his memory served him correctly, and Harding had indeed been the former tenant, then the letters almost certainly belonged to his family.
The accumulated correspondence was brought to him a short while later.
Darcy carried it into the morning room and arranged the letters upon the table.
Some bore the faint marks of having been kept for months, while the more recent ones remained comparatively fresh.
They differed in thickness, but every one bore the same hand and the same direction.
Every one was addressed to Julia Harding.
Turner arrived just after luncheon. He was a man somewhere past fifty, plainly dressed and somewhat uneasy at having been summoned by the owner whose property he had been charged with watching. Darcy motioned towards the letters upon the table.
“You received these?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
Turner glanced at the little collection.
“The first came the very day I arrived to take charge of the house, sir. I knew nothing of the former tenants, so I asked one of the men working the timberland if he knew where they had gone. He did not, nor could anyone give me a direction for them. I thought it best to put the letter aside until I could learn what ought to be done with it.”
Darcy picked up one of the older letters. “And then more came.”
“Yes, sir. They kept coming, and there was still nowhere to send them.”
“You made no further enquiry?”
“I asked again, sir, but none of the men knew where the family had gone. I supposed Mr. Harding might send his direction to your agent once they were settled. When your servants arrived last month and told me you meant to come to Willowbrook yourself, I thought the matter might best be put before you.”
Darcy glanced over the letters. “You have heard nothing about the Hardings since they left?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
“And the postage?”
“Paid by the sender, sir. Every one of them.”
That, at least, explained why Turner had continued accepting them. No charge had been demanded of him, and without a forwarding direction there had been nowhere for the letters to go.
Darcy leaned back in his chair. “You might have written to Mr. Humphrey, my attorney, rather than allow them to accumulate. No matter. I shall write to him myself and discover whether Harding left any forwarding direction with him.”
Turner inclined his head. “Very good, sir.”
“You may go.”
The man hurried away, plainly relieved that his questionable judgement had earned him no greater reprimand.
Once the door had closed behind him, Darcy remained at the table, his attention returning to the seventeen letters.
This was no forgotten invitation or stray piece of correspondence sent by someone unaware that an acquaintance had removed.
Whoever had written these had done so repeatedly and faithfully for months, apparently without knowing that the woman to whom they wrote was no longer there.
He picked up the most recent letter.
There was nothing upon the outside to identify its author. Only Julia Harding’s name, the familiar direction, the postal markings, and the unbroken seal.
Darcy turned it over once in his hand.
He had no right to open it.
He placed the letter back amongst the others. Whatever curiosity seventeen letters might reasonably inspire, they remained the private correspondence of another person. If Harding had left a forwarding direction with his attorney, the entire collection could be sent on.
That was as it should be.
Darcy rose and crossed towards the small room which had been arranged as his study. He would write to his attorney immediately. With any fortune, the matter would prove no more mysterious than a forwarding direction neglected by one man and never requested by another.
Yet as he sat down and drew a sheet of paper towards him, his thoughts returned once more to the seventeen sealed letters in the adjoining room.
Someone had been writing to Julia Harding for nearly five months without knowing that not one of those letters had reached her.