Page 95

Glancing around uncomfortably, Anne spied the model of the townhouse, which was now complete. Elizabeth had picked up the fourth storey, housing the servants’ quarters and the roof, from Covent Garden that morning.

“Oh! What a beautiful dollhouse!” Anne breathed, approaching and bending down to look into a window. “The front door even opens! It is on tiny hinges!”

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, waiting for a response, but he had collapsed back onto his pillows, his rose-tinted glasses pointed at the canopy. The silence was deafening.

“It is a model of the townhouses Mr Darcy is building,” Elizabeth offered, getting up. She supposed the best she could do was to help while away this embarrassing interlude. “Would you like me to show you?”

Elizabeth spent several minutes demonstrating the model of the townhouses to Anne and describing its features. It was a pity that Clara had gone away, else she might have been able to help Elizabeth take it apart, to show it to Anne level by level. Lizzy dared not ask Miss de Bourgh—or was she Lady Anne?—to help her lift the pieces comprising the individual floors. She looked like she might break into two if she picked up anything. But Anne could not have been more delighted by the exposition. She became quite animated in her appreciation of the tiny furniture and other miniature accoutrements of the model.

“The doorknobs even have tiny keyholes!” she exclaimed. “Are there keys?”

“Ah, no,” replied Elizabeth. “I believe the keyholes are just for effect.”

Elizabeth was asking herself how much longer she was going to have to keep up this charade when she heard someone climbing the stairs ponderously. She braced herself for the return of Lady Catherine.

“I always wanted a dollhouse,” said Anne wistfully.

Mr Darcy seemed to have heard the footsteps also and raised himself upright in the bed.

“When the townhouses are finished, I will give it to you as a present,” he said to Anne, as if in apology for his less than civil behaviour just before. “I think you had better go back downstairs now.”

The words had no sooner issued from his mouth when there was a perfunctory knock. The door opened to admit a robust middle-aged gentleman wearing a neat periwig and walking with a limp. He was richly dressed in fancy breeches and a matching tailcoat, with lace at his chin and dangling from his sleeves. He creaked slightly, as if his girth was confined by corsets.

“Good morning, Nephew, Anne,” the gentleman said.

Immediately recognising the earl by his voice, Elizabeth curtsied.

“Ah! Uncle!” said Darcy, his voice full of sarcasm. “How good of you to visit! Do I have you to thank for my aunt’s belief that I am syphilitic?”

“Darcy!” said the earl. “There are ladies in the room!”

“Oh! Do not worry!” Darcy said airily, “Anne already knows I am stricken! Aunt has just decided it will make an excellent excuse to hasten the marriage!”

The earl frowned. “Anne, your mother is about to take tea in the saloon. Perhaps you would like to join her?”

Anne silently made her way to the door. Taking this as her cue, Elizabeth dropped another curtsey and followed her. The earl did not even wait for her to close the door before continuing:

“Please accept my apologies, Nephew. Catherine arrived on my doorstep when I was still in my dressing gown. I did not say you were poxed, I merely implied it, and with the noblest of motives, I assure you. I said you had caught your malady in a brothel, which Richard did say was the origin of your illness! I thought for sure Catherine would drop this silly notion of your marrying Anne once she knew that, but it would appear that I miscalculated!”

Embarrassed that she had heard so much, Elizabeth fled as far as the dressing room door but hesitated there, unwilling to continue her uncomfortable role as host by accompanying Anne down the stairs. She determined to hide in the study until Mr Darcy’s unwelcome guests had departed. Lagging behind Anne on the stairs, Elizabeth arrived in the hall just as Miss de Bourgh made her way into the saloon. She stopped suddenly when she thought she recognised a familiar voice issuing from the door. Elizabeth crept closer, hoping she was mistaken.

“Ah, Miss de Bourgh! I was just saying to your mother that I would be more than pleased, nay, honoured, to say a prayer at your cousin’s bedside to ask forgiveness for his sins and beg the Lord to hasten his recovery!”

Good Lord! thought Elizabeth, for it was Mr Collins. What a mercy he had not accompanied his patroness upstairs! Not only would Elizabeth’s identity have been exposed, but her cousin would have discovered she had abandoned her post as superintendent of Longbourn!

Elizabeth retreated hastily to the study. Collapsing into the chair in front of the hearth, she felt herself shaking. She had been sitting there for several minutes, trying to calm her nerves, when she thankfully remembered her lost cameo. Thinking it would at least keep her occupied, Elizabeth began to search the seat cushions. Of course, her inspection of the upholstery was fruitless, and she had just dropped down beside the wing chair to search under it when the door of the study opened and Farley walked in, followed by Mr Collins. Mostly hidden by the large chair, Elizabeth froze.

“The commode is in this cupboard, sir,” said Farley, opening a door to a closet before withdrawing from the study.

Elizabeth was aghast. Her haven had suddenly turned into a trap. Should she sneak out of the study after Farley? She dared not cross the room lest Mr Collins emerge while she was doing so, but she felt terribly exposed behind the chair! Mr Collins would be facing directly towards her once he stepped out of the closet. Glancing at the window, Elizabeth saw the voluminous curtains in the study did provide a reasonable hiding place and she quickly slipped behind them, standing on her tiptoes so that her slippers would not be exposed. Her cousin seemed to take an interminable time over his business. Elizabeth even fancied she could hear him making grunting noises. She could only be glad of the light patter of rain outside for some distraction. Never having been in the same room as a man using a chamberpot before entering the Darcy household, Elizabeth could not believe her ill luck in having to endure it twice in one week. She supposed it all came of growing up in a houseful of women! Pinned in her hiding place, Elizabeth’s feet began to ache.

When finally her cousin opened the closet and departed, Elizabeth sank back down onto her heels with gratitude. Emerging from the curtains, she turned the wing chair so that its back faced the door, then curled up into it with a book, drawing her feet up onto the seat to more effectively hide herself should anyone else enter the study. One part of her thought she was being ridiculously overcautious. But she was thoroughly glad she had taken the trouble when the door opened not five minutes later to admit someone else. Peeking round the corner of the chair, Elizabeth saw with relief that it was Clara, come to empty the chamber pot. Standing up, she stretched and yawned loudly to alert the maid to her presence.

“Oh, there you are, ma’am! Farley was wondering where you got to! The earl has left Mr Darcy’s bedchamber, if you wish to go up. I’ll be back up as soon as I deal with this,” Clara said, cheerfully brandishing the lidded chamber pot.

Given Mr Collins was about, Elizabeth would have preferred to remain hidden, but as she had been missed, she ran the risk of exposure by staying put in the study, which she was known to frequent. Carefully opening the door to the hall, she was relieved to hear Mr Collins’s unctuous voice still issuing from the saloon. Her silken slippers glided noiselessly up the first flight of stairs, confident of her cousin’s position. Achieving the second landing undetected, Elizabeth slowed down to mentally prepare herself for rejoining Mr Darcy after the latest embarrassing interlude. She wisely decided to say nothing of the incident, but a little mental preparation was required to act accordingly. Re-entering the room, Elizabeth discovered that her employer was not similarly sanguine. She found him staring in the direction of the canopy, a despondent look on his face. Despite his summary ejection of his relatives, the whole incident had clearly cast him down. He seemed to have progressed from irritability to despondency.

“Well, sir, should I continue with the story, or would you prefer some mathematics?” she asked.