Chapter Seven The Scoundrel in the Shade
THE PUNCH BOWL HAD been facing Darcy’s chamber door since dawn.
It sat on its usual table near the curtained windows, its polished surface reflecting the candlelight with innocent distortion.
Fletcher had recovered it from the upper passage shortly after Miss Elizabeth’s departure, and it had spent the twenty hours since making intermittent assaults on the door.
It had not moved for almost an hour.
Darcy distrusted it completely.
Fletcher entered from the dressing room carrying a small glazed jar and placed it beside the bowl. The silver vessel shifted away from it.
“Do not start,” Fletcher warned.
The bowl stilled.
Darcy stood by the window while Fletcher opened the jar.
The salve inside was pale, dense, and offensive to at least three senses.
Darcy had never discovered what it contained.
Fletcher’s father had developed the recipe while serving him and had guarded it until his death, when the secret passed to his son along with Darcy’s wardrobe, household habits, and occasional need to survive the morning.
Fletcher dipped two fingers into the jar.
“Must you use so much?”
“You intend to ride, sir.”
“I rode four days ago with half that amount.”
“You returned before ten and kept under trees.”
Darcy raised his chin while Fletcher spread the cold substance on his jaw. “I had understood that I was the master in this household.”
“You are, sir. I am the man preventing your face from catching fire.”
A knock sounded, followed by Bingley and Hurst entering without waiting for permission. Both wore riding coats, boots, and gloves. Their own valets had completed every ordinary preparation but lacked the knowledge required for the final one.
Hurst stopped when the smell reached him. “Good God.”
Fletcher did not turn. “No divine assistance has been requested, sir.”
“It smells worse than last time.”
“It is the same preparation, Mr Hurst.”
“Then my powers of endurance have diminished,” Hurst huffed.
“That would explain many things,” Bingley muttered.
“We are lucky that it resembles the foul aroma of a gentleman’s liniment,” Hurst said shuddering, “and therefore Meryton has concluded that we are all martyrs to rheumatism.”
Bingley closed the door and moved to the window where Darcy stood. A narrow blade of sunlight had entered between the curtains, and he stepped around it before settling into a chair.
Fletcher guarded the salve with an economy that would have impressed a miser.
He applied it to Bingley and Hurst only when they were obliged to spend a considerable period outdoors.
Crossing a sunlit room did not qualify. Neither did standing in front of an uncovered window through carelessness.
Riding did, provided they could demonstrate an intention to leave the house rather than a desire to waste Fletcher’s supply.
For this reason, Hurst and Bingley had become skilled at walking around bright patches on the carpets without appearing to do so, although on one occasion Bingley had been trapped behind a sofa until a cloud covered the sun.
Fletcher finished covering Darcy’s throat and moved to his ears.
“Your father never used so much,” Darcy observed.
“My father frequently complained that you never used enough.”
“Your father complained about everything.”
“He learned from long association with you, sir.”
Hurst dropped into the chair next to Bingley and stretched his legs. “Did he truly take the recipe to his grave?”
“He passed it to me shortly before entering it.” Fletcher smoothed the salve on Darcy’s cheek. “The arrangement was considered more practical.”
“What is in it?”
“The necessary ingredients.”
Hurst’s eyes narrowed. “Which are?”
“Necessary.”
“I employ a perfectly capable valet, Fletcher.”
“Then ask him to prevent you from combusting.”
“He does not know how.”
Fletcher replaced the lid on the jar. “A fortunate circumstance for the continued security of my position.”
Darcy allowed him to help with his riding coat, then moved aside so that Bingley could submit to the same indignity.
Bingley positioned his head obediently while Fletcher coated his face, ears, and the exposed portion of his throat.
His preoccupation with Miss Bennet was so complete that Fletcher might have applied boot blacking without attracting notice.
Hurst watched him. “You have been smiling since yesterday.”
Bingley’s smile widened. “Have I?”
“You smiled in the carriage home. You smiled through dinner. You smiled when Caroline threatened to abandon Hertfordshire.”
“She did not threaten. She expressed a preference for London.”
“She expressed it for forty minutes,” Hurst noted.
Fletcher turned Bingley’s face slightly to the right and examined his work. “That will suffice under the present sun. If it rains, you must seek shelter at once. Water will remove the protection.”
Bingley glanced at the window. “There is hardly any sun.”
“There was hardly any sun when Mr Hurst burned his left ear.”
Hurst sat upright. “That occurred in August.”
“It was still an ear,” Fletcher countered.
“The light was unusually strong.”
“It was summer, sir.”
“I had reapplied the salve myself because you were not available, Fletcher.”
Fletcher approached him with the jar. “You applied it to the right ear.”
Hurst touched the left one, which had healed without visible damage but was a matter of household history. “The jars ought to bear instructions.”
“The ears are positioned symmetrically. I believed you would infer the rest.”
Darcy turned his back to conceal his amusement. The punch bowl held its place on the table, although its rim had tilted as though listening.
The preparation worked reliably under winter light, provided rain did not wash it away.
Summer was less forgiving. The salve required frequent application, shade was advisable, and extended travel was undertaken in covered carriages, or after sunset.
Fletcher had no sympathy for any vampire who confused protection with invulnerability.
As he began applying the salve to Hurst’s forehead, Bingley returned to the previous day’s visit.
“I still cannot comprehend it. Of every clergyman in England, Mr Bennet’s heir must be your aunt’s rector.”
“Lady Catherine has always had a talent for placing herself where she is least required.” Darcy adjusted his gloves. “Mr Collins merely extends her reach.”
The bowl gave a small tremor against the table.
Hurst glanced at it. “What caused that?”
“No cause worth investigating,” Darcy replied.
Bingley leaned sideways while Fletcher rubbed salve around his ear. “Miss Elizabeth was equally astonished by the connection.”
The bowl rotated sharply towards him.
All four men stared at it.
Fletcher continued his work without comment. He had served Darcy long enough to have learned that acknowledging every impossible event merely encouraged further conversation.
Darcy pointed a finger at the bowl. “Stay.”
It rocked once on its base, then settled with its rim directed to the door.
Hurst watched it for another moment. “It wishes to visit Longbourn.”
“It is a punch bowl,” Darcy said.
“It carried a fruit knife to her chamber.”
“Through magnetism,” Fletcher intervened.
“Of course.” Hurst stayed solemn. “I have found that most silver has preferences. I once had a chamber pot which favoured the sound of violins rather than the pianoforte. Perhaps, Darcy, yours merely likes night walks.”
Fletcher turned Hurst’s head and began spreading salve under his jaw. “I do not believe it wanted to harm Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps it wanted to protect her.”
Bingley rested his elbows on his knees. “I cannot decide which was more extraordinary, the connection to Lady Catherine or Collins announcing your engagement to Miss de Bourgh.”
The bowl struck the tabletop.
Darcy ignored it. “There is no engagement.”
“We know that,” Hurst replied. “Collins appeared to believe that you had overlooked it.”
Darcy remembered the drawing room at Longbourn with unwelcome clarity. Collins had spoken of Lady Catherine’s expectations as though discussing a marriage already solemnised. Anne’s name had emerged with his own, followed by assurances that their union had been anticipated since infancy.
Darcy had glanced at Miss Elizabeth.
Her astonishment lasted only an instant. Then her face altered. The warmth which had entered their conversations at Netherfield withdrew behind polite composure, and Darcy understood precisely what she believed. She thought he had pursued her while promised to another woman.
“There has been a serious misunderstanding,” he had interrupted. “I am not engaged to my cousin.”
Collins had stared at him.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I am bound to Anne neither by honour nor inclination. No agreement has ever existed between us.”
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes returned to his face. He had continued speaking to Collins, but every word had been intended for her.
“Lady Catherine has expressed a wish. Her wishes do not constitute my obligations.”
Collins had begun to splutter. Lady Catherine could not be wrong. Lady Catherine had superior understanding. Lady Catherine had certainly spoken of the marriage as inevitable and would be astonished to learn that one of the proposed participants considered his involvement optional.
The exertion had made Collins dizzy.
Mr Bennet had recommended that he lie down before his patroness’s certainty proved fatal.
Fletcher stepped back from Hurst and inspected all three of them. “You are sufficiently protected. I shall place the jar in Mr Darcy’s saddlebag. If the rain begins, do not remain outside debating whether it is heavy enough to matter.”
Hurst sniffed his own wrist. “I smell embalmed.”
“You already complained of the smell, sir.”
“I can object to it as many times as I want.”
Darcy fastened his coat. “Collins’s declaration was absurd. My concern is whether Miss Elizabeth understood that.”
The bowl shifted at the sound of her name.
Bingley rose from his chair. “She did.”
Darcy’s hands stopped on the final button. “How can you be certain?”