Page 107

“Obtain the carpenter’s opinion, and the cost of what you think necessary.”

“Very well, sir.”

Darcy walked into the nurse’s chamber. The window looked toward the same lawn, and the door to the passage could be reached without crossing the sleeping room. Ruth would not be obliged to disturb Anna whenever she came or went.

“Would Ruth be comfortable here?”

“You must ask her, sir.”

He turned. Reynolds had followed him, her keys lying quietly in her hand.

“You do not think she would wish it?”

“I did not say so. She has her own habits, and she knows the child’s. She may see a difficulty I would miss.”

They returned to the larger room. Darcy lifted one corner of a cover and discovered a chair with a broad seat and rounded arms. He knew it immediately.

“My mother used that chair.”

“I remember, sir.”

He pulled the cover free and folded it badly over his arm. Mrs. Reynolds accepted it without comment.

The chair was not handsome. He had never noticed that before. Its polish had worn upon the arms, and the seat had been recovered in a serviceable fabric quite unlike the pale pattern he remembered. He could see his mother there nevertheless, leaning forward to assure him that he supported Georgiana’s head properly.

He sat down.

His knees were too high now. At thirteen he had sat stiffly here, afraid to move while Georgiana slept in his arms, and fiercely proud of being trusted with her. He could not decide whether the recollection made him wish to laugh or shut the door behind him and never enter again.

Reynolds moved the cover to the table. She gave him time, as Martha always did. He was beginning to resent the necessity of being given time by everybody who had known his sister.

“Miss Bennet has spoken to me about Anna.”

“I see, sir.”

“She thinks the child ought to live with her family.”

Reynolds smoothed the cover once. “What do you think?”

Darcy looked up sharply. He had expected assent or an opinion carefully offered as a practical concern. The question was much less convenient.

“I think I ought to have considered it before I was required to do so.”

“You were grieving.”

“I am grieving still.”

She did not contradict him.

From this chair he could see both doors and the window. Through the open doorway lay the room where Anna might sleep. He could also imagine Martha entering with something she had made for the child, and Thomas bringing an absurd contrivance which entertained Anna far more successfully than an expensive toy.

“They must not suppose I am dissatisfied with them,” he said.

“Then you must tell them.”

“I do not mean to send for Anna and have her brought here without warning.”

“I am glad of that, sir.”