Chapter Five #2
“It’s always them,” Jeffry told him. “Always. Every time.”
Basile narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean? Every time?’
Jeffry’s nose twitched, and he stamped one of his feet. “That doesn’t matter. Caroline always wants Mr. Darcy, and she never gets him. She will be happier if she tries to catch another gentleman.”
“Who?’ Basile demanded. “Who is she to ‘ave, zen?”
“That varies. If you wish your Caroline to be happy, you must help her forget about wanting Mr. Darcy.”
“But she wants ‘im,” Basile argued. “My Caroline will only be ‘appy when she gets zat Darcy fellow.”
“He doesn’t want her,” Jeffry pressed.
“Why not? She is perrrrfect,” Basile praised. “I’m not goin’ to ‘elp you. I’m goin’ to ‘elp ‘er.”
The cat’s paw darted out to swat Jeffry, but he blurred himself just in time. Basile’s paw swept through nothing. This startled the cat so much that he fell over. Jeffry became solid again.
“I’ll go, now. You think about what I said.” Jeffry prepared himself to wink out, but then paused as a thought occurred to him. “The colonel is coming, you know.”
“What colonel?” Basile asked, but Jeffry did not answer him because he disappeared right after the question ended. Nor did he hear Basile’s reaction to his magic.
“Mon Dieu.”
Jeffry arrived near to where Harry sat with the black and white sheep dog. The guinea pig backed into the shade of the drystone wall that encased the paddock containing the Bingley sheep. The shepherd leaned on his hooked staff, watching the flock quietly chomping at the grass.
“Pssst,” Jeffry said, hoping Harry would hear him.
Harry’s large head swiveled around. He chuffed. “Are you done visiting with the cat already?”
The black and white sheep dog also turned his head, saying in a quick, excited voice, “I hate cats! Kill the cat.”
“You’ve never killed a cat,” Harry told him in his slow, ponderous way. “The barn cats are still alive.”
“They stay out of my way, that’s why.”
“This is Davey,” Harry told Jeffry. “He likes to run, too. And he herds the sheep. He likes Lizzy.”
“Lizzy is a good human,” Davey announced, yipping in his excitement.
“What’s up, boy?” the shepherd asked, straightening and looking about them. “Is it a fox?”
“Oops,” Davey whispered. “I forgot I was working. Go away, Harry.”
“I will. Jeffry,” Harry said, “meet me on the other side of the wall.”
Harry jumped over the four-foot stone wall. Jeffry popped onto his back the moment he landed.
“Time to go home?” Harry asked.
“Yes,” Jeffry replied. “Oh, dear. I do not think Basile will help us.”
“Stubborn?”
“Yes, yes. He wants his human to get what she wants, and Caroline Bingley wants Mr. Darcy. The poor woman.”
Harry said nothing, and they reversed their steps back to Longbourn House without exchanging many more words.
*
“What about this one?” Bingley asked, choosing a delicate deep-blue and light-pink teacup which the proprietor had placed on a piece of black velvet as though it was a jewel. “It does not match what we already have, but it is exceedingly pretty.”
Darcy picked it up and examined it closely. “It is pretty, no doubt. But the shape is different.” He set their sample cup from Netherfield down on the velvet and placed the proposed choice beside it for comparison. “I think your sister would prefer that the shapes match.”
“I have just the thing, sirs,” the lean, tall proprietor, who appeared to be around fifty, promised in an overly refined accent.
He reached beneath his counter and pulled out a wide-bowled cup, trimmed in gold, and having a pastoral scene painted upon it.
“I can provide you with twelve of these cups, with their saucers, of course.”
“That is a good number,” Bingley observed. He set the first cup to one side and they examined the new cup next to the one they had brought. “I like it. The color intensity is similar.”
Darcy nodded. He picked up the new offering and examined it carefully before addressing the proprietor. “May we see the saucer?”
“You may, sir,” the man said, bringing out the matching item. “As you can see, sir, it has the nice high lip that allows those who like to sup from their saucers the volume to do so.”
“I see that,” Darcy said. “I think this one will do. What do you think, Bingley?”
“I preferred the one before, actually, but I think Caroline will like this last one better.” Bingley looked at the proprietor. “I will take them. Can you have them delivered today?”
“Where to, sir?”
“Netherfield Park, Meryton.” Bingley looked anxious. “They will arrive safely?”
“They will, sir. You have no need to worry. It has just gone eleven, sir. You can expect them to arrive before five. We can return your sample at the same time.”
“I am most pleased,” Bingley said, taking out his wallet.
Darcy picked up their sample and repacked it in the straw-lined box provided for it by the Netherfield housekeeper.
Their business concluded, Darcy, with Bingley behind him, stepped out of the shop, titled, Messrs.
Brooks and Hardy, Purveyors of Fine Goods, and bumped directly into an officer in a red militia uniform.
The epaulette, worn on the right shoulder only, indicated the officer’s rank.
“I beg your pardon, lieutenant,” Darcy said automatically. Then, he met the man’s eyes and immediately recognized him. “You,” he huffed on a strong exhalation of disgust.
“Yes, me,” George Wickham replied in a jaunty tone. He removed his bicorn hat. “What are you doing in St. Albans?”
“Never mind that. When did you join the militia?” Darcy demanded, moving aside to permit Bingley to exit the shop.
“I joined recently,” Wickham told him. “Hallo, Bingley, old fellow. How are you?”
“What are you doing here?” Bingley asked in as aggrieved a tone as Darcy had ever heard from him.
“I joined the militia,” Wickham said rather gayly. He waved at his uniform. “I look rather magnificent, do I not?” When neither Darcy nor Bingley responded, Wickham added, “The ladies love an officer in uniform.”
Darcy stiffened and felt Bingley’s hand on his arm.
“But what are you doing in Hertfordshire?” Bingley asked.
“My regiment is returning inland for the winter,” Wickham said, his lips twisting into his usually disarming smile.
“I am part of the colonel’s staff, and we are searching out a location for our winter quarters.
I am in favor of St. Albans, but the other officers prefer Meryton.
I expect we will settle there. The regiment should arrive next month.
I am tasked with finding lodgings for the colonel and his staff. ”
Darcy’s stomach tightened and his jaw clenched. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Why did I invite Georgiana to Netherfield?
“Meryton!” Bingley said, a squeak of alarm in his voice. “You will be stationed in Meryton?”
“Yes, what of it?” Wickham asked, frowning now. “Is there something wrong with the place?”
Bingley cleared his throat. “I make my home in Meryton now.”
“Do you, by Jove? Well, that explains why you are in St. Albans,” Wickham claimed. He laughed, slapped Bingley on the arm, and strode off, whistling.
“Damn his eyes!” Darcy whispered furiously. “Come, I must send another letter to Georgiana, telling her not to join us at Netherfield.”
“Good Lord, yes.” Bingley patted his arm. “If we return to the White Hart, you can write something for Georgiana and the letter will catch the evening mail.”
“The evening mail?” Darcy cursed at the truth of it. “If only my first letter has missed her.”
“And your letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Bingley reminded him.
“I may go to London myself, instead.”
“Your chaise will beat the mail,” Bingley agreed. “It is not above five miles to Meryton. Once we are driving on the open road, we can be home in approximately a half hour. With about four hours to London, door-to-door, you will see Georgiana before dinner time.”
“You see that I must go?” Darcy asked, striding alongside his friend toward the White Hart where they had left the gig. He hated having to go, and hated Wickham even more for continuing to make his and his sister’s lives more difficult. Georgiana must not see him!
“Certainly, you must go,” Bingley said. “Be sure to return, mind. I am counting on you to support me during Caroline’s party.”
“I will set off from London first thing tomorrow, and I should be at Netherfield before your afternoon party.”
“Excellent.”
*
London
Darcy arrived in London in time for dinner, just as Bingley had promised.
Pemberley Place appeared mostly dark, and the knocker had been taken off the front door.
He thought nothing of how odd it appeared, since his sister currently resided on Curzon Street with his Aunt Orillia Fitzwilliam.
He leapt out of his chaise, followed by his valet, Elliot, who hurried up the two steps to the front door and proceeded to pound on it with the side of his fist. A large man, ten years older than Darcy, Elliot could make a considerable racket when he wished.
Soon, the black door opened and Cranford, their proper London butler, stared down his nose at Elliot.
“I thought it might be you,” he muttered, before opening the door wide and bowing. “Welcome to London, sir.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said, sweeping past the upper servants into the entrance hall.
“I am only staying the night.” He began to tug off his gloves.
“Ask Mrs. Cranford to send something upstairs for me as soon as possible. I mean to change into evening dress and then go out again. But I am famished. Some bread and butter will do. We only stopped to change horses on the way and I have eaten nothing since eleven.”
“Bread and butter, sir?” Cranford repeated in horrified tones.
“I will eat properly later at my club if Aunt Orillia refuses to feed me,” Darcy said, heading for the stairs.
“You’d best close yer gob and git yerself down t’kitchens,” Elliot told the butler as he passed him on the way to the back stairs, carrying their valises.
Darcy chose to walk to his aunt’s house. He knocked on the door and it was soon opened by her ancient porter.