Chapter 19 Miss Darcy Invades
Miss Darcy Invades
Dear Holzmann Dear Diary Dear Nobody,
I am in such disarray that I do not even know who to write to.
I had grown used to addressing Herr Holzmann, but now I know he does not exist, and is in fact young Miss Georgiana Darcy, Lizzy’s husband’s sister, who as of this afternoon is our houseguest. I can hear her pacing above me as I write this.
I have never been one to keep a diary for its own sake, but I feel I must write all this down in order to keep from losing my head. What am I to do?
It is two months since I wrote him her my last, desperate missive.
Three days ago I received a letter from her—a few hastily scrawled lines admitting her true identity, and promising to fly to my aid.
A few months ago I would have greeted such a missive with delight and relief; now it brought me only irritation.
I had long since despaired of Holzmann’s aid, or even his counsel, and had taken measures myself to stabilize the situation.
And that was before I learned that Holzmann was, of all things, a Darcy.
The thought of all I had poured into those letters, only for them to end up in the hands of a Darcy, made me feel as though my face might burst into flame.
What if she told her brother? Lord, what if she told my sister ?
I would have written back to Miss Darcy, telling her not to come, but her letter was quickly followed by one from Lizzy, saying that Miss Darcy was on her way to us.
“As you know, my sister has developed an ailment over the past year that causes her great distress. She tells me that Hertfordshire air is quite healthful for those with her condition,” Lizzy wrote.
“I confess I had never heard such a thing, but I hope it will be true, and I know you will make her welcome. She will be with you tomorrow or the next day.” And so she was.
Her smart chaise rolled into our drive this morning, perfectly timed—Mamma had had enough time to make ready for such a great visitor, but not so much time that her anxiety forced her to invent more jobs for herself and abuse the servants.
She has lost some of her shyness since last I saw her.
Indeed, I should hardly have known the bright-eyed creature who tumbled out of the coach.
Her hat alone could have provided us with a month’s gossip.
I had seen ladies’ hats trimmed with artificial fruit, flowers, birds, or feathers; never had I seen one with all four at once.
Her gown, from what I could see of it, was the sort of plain dark dress we all wore to travel, but the pelisse she wore over it was of a brilliant shade of rose velvet with blue and gold trim.
When I say gold I do not mean yellow—I speak of gold, the type of golden metallic embroidery that Bingley’s sisters have on their ballgowns.
It must be frightfully expensive, for I had heard Lydia and Kitty beg for such embellishments to their own gowns, but Mamma would not let them buy an inch of it.
All in all, she gave one the impression that a milliner’s shop had exploded.
“Bennets, hurrah!” she said. “No, no need to hand me down—I am quite tall enough, and I like the leap.” Ignoring the hand Papa held out to her, she leapt down, skirts billowing, shawl flying out behind her like wings.
Oh yes, she had a shawl as well. It was purple.
I thought I heard Papa suppress a snort. I could only stare.
I thought that, once the hubbub of her arrival died down, I could take Miss Darcy aside and explain matters a little and say that she was not needed. She was certainly very curious, for her quick dark eyes darted to me many times during luncheon. Of course I could hardly stop from staring myself.
I always pictured Holzmann as a stout, respectable foreigner of middle years, a man so outside my own sphere of life that even if we did meet no one could suspect us of a love affair.
I suppose that , at least, will not be a problem.
Still, in every other respect I am confounded.
I feel as though my Holzmann has died, leaving this chic young lady usurping his place.
My hopes of stealing a quiet moment were dashed by Mamma’s pride.
Nothing would suit but that she must be seen immediately by the neighbors with a Darcy, and tell them that said glorious Darcy was actually staying in our house.
After luncheon, she cajoled us both into the carriage on the pretext of asking Miss Darcy’s advice about fabric (“for you are so well turned out, Miss Darcy, dear”) and, with the cover folded all the way down, we drove into Meryton.
Meryton is rather more bustling these days. There are more people, the shops a little more prosperous. Mamma soon had her wish.
“How do you find our little village?” Mamma asked her, after parading her about in triumph for all our acquaintance to see. “It is a great deal changed, I suppose, since your last visit.”
“It is,” she owned. “Though… not quite as I had expected.” Her eyes darted toward mine, then away again. “I had heard there was some trouble here…?”
“Oh! That ,” said Mamma. “Childish pranks, that was all. Too much was made of it. The Bingleys have replaced the piano, and”—she lowered her voice—“well, if the girl got herself into trouble… is it any wonder she would—”
“Mamma!” I said sharply. “She did not .”
“Oh, well, there’s no proof, of course. Still, that’s always why, isn’t it.” She squeezed Miss Darcy’s arm, then tugged her across the street when she caught sight of a tall, elegant figure. “Ah! Miss Darcy, you must meet our particular friend. This is Mr. Pike.”
Miss Darcy gave a squeak of surprise and a flinch that she just managed to turn into a curtsy. “M-Mr. Pike?”
“Indeed.” He bowed smoothly over her hand. “A delight to make your acquaintance. Any friend of Miss Bennet’s is a friend of mine.”
She pulled her hand away as soon as politely possible. She stared at him, her eyes round as dinner plates. “You look so—alive,” she half whispered.
He coughed slightly. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Pike is very alive indeed,” Mamma cried.
From the way she said it I knew she thought alive was some new faddish term.
“He is putting Meryton on the map.” She nodded to a column of smoke off in the distance.
“That is thanks to Mr. Pike here. He is building his factory just down the river. He has managed it so cleverly, tucked away behind the hill there. Nothing to spoil the view.”
“Has he indeed,” Miss Darcy said faintly.
“Yes. The Brown mill, as was, and old Mr. Brown has always been very against selling, though he could not keep it up. Luckily, though, he died.”
“Mamma!”
“Hush, dear, you sound like Lizzy. Well, it was lucky, was it not? If he had to die, and he did , for he was old as the hills, why should it not be at a time that benefits our particular friend, and indeed all of Meryton? I am sure that I would hope for such a death myself, if anyone gained anything by it. Mr. Pike, you must come for supper again,” Mamma said, turning back to him.
“Mr. Bennet delights in the company of so alive a man, you know, and Mary has a new concerto or some such. It is ever so clever. All the notes in the world.”
“Name the date, madam,” he said, and bowed. “Mrs. Bennet. Miss Bennet. Miss Darcy.” With that he took his leave.
I could tell Miss Darcy was trying to catch my gaze. I avoided her eyes.
Later, it was her turn to surprise me. Mamma had insisted that I give my room to our guest—“For I remember Lizzy wrote that Miss Darcy was so fond of fresh air that she had taken over the highest bedroom at Pemberley.” I had tried to dissuade her, but not very forcefully—Miss Darcy would surely beg off.
“And this is your room, Miss Darcy, dear,” Mamma said, flinging the door open. “I do hope you will be comfortable here.”
The room now contained every pillow, ruffle, quilt, and needlepoint Mamma could gather. It was as covered in frills as an abandoned sample becomes covered in mold. “It is quite charming,” said Miss Darcy.
I gave her a significant look over Mamma’s shoulder. “It is my room usually,” I said.
“Is it?” She gave me a startled glance, then looked swiftly at the closet. Understanding crossed her face.
“Mary!” Mamma scolded. I ignored her. Alone of all souls in the world, Miss Darcy knew why I must not be exiled from my room or its closet. Surely she would insist on taking one of the empty bedrooms on the floor below instead.
Instead, she went to the large windows and flung them open. Cool air flooded in. The evening star was just visible in the sky. “Thank you,” she said. “This will do very nicely for me.”
“My cousin Harry died in that bed,” I blurted.
Miss Darcy blinked at me. “Recently?”
“No,” I admitted. “When I was eight.”
For once I actually hoped to be disconcerting, but I was disappointed. “Well,” she said, “everyone has to die somewhere, I suppose.” She sat on the mattress and gave a small experimental bounce. “Seems quite comfortable.”
“ Mary! ” Mamma grabbed my arm and practically threw me out of the room.
So here I am, lying in Lizzy’s old bed, waiting until I am sure Miss Darcy is asleep. I am too out of temper with her to explain to her what has passed, but I cannot stay away from my lab tonight of all nights.
This is not how I thought my first meeting with Holzmann would go.
No sound from above these three-quarters of an hour. She must be asleep. I am well used to stealth. I shall slip past her.
19 July, 18--, small hours of the morning
Well, that plan failed utterly. The moment I slipped into my room, Miss Darcy flung her covers off and sat up. “Finally,” she said. “I’ve been waiting hours. I thought of going up to the lab on my own, but that seemed a bit rude.” She bounced a little. “Please, please can’t I see it now?”
I could think of no other option. “Very well,” I said. “Come along.”