Page 16

The Bennets had kept the same servants for years and years—despite Mrs Bennet’s nerves, Mrs Hill ran the house splendidly, and the others were more like family. Elizabeth had never hired anyone, and was thankful for her aunt’s steadying presence.

“Oh, and a letter for you arrived by post yesterday,” Mrs Hawthorne added. “I put it in my pocket this morning so as I wouldn’t forget.” She removed an envelope, and handed it to Elizabeth. Expecting that it would be from Jane, Elizabeth was surprised to see the handwriting—bold and distinctly masculine.

That writing was not entirely unfamiliar; she knew she had seen it before—at Netherfield, on letter papers spread before Mr Darcy as he wrote to his sister. Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy has written!

Mrs Hawthorne acted deliberately uncurious—sending a message, Elizabeth presumed, that the correspondence of the mistress of Meadowbrook was no business of hers. Whether that was true or not remained to be seen, but Elizabeth tucked the letter away to be dealt with later.

“Unload the trunks, Hawthorne,” Mrs Hawthorne commanded, and he obediently moved towards the post-chaise.

Mrs Philips and Mrs Hawthorne went on ahead, both chattering away, but Elizabeth lagged—wanting to experience what might be her home for the rest of her life, quiet and uninterrupted.

She walked into a small foyer—small, but the ceilings were high and corniced, and the floor, an elegant marble tile. Beyond that, to her right was a spacious drawing room floored in oak, and to her left, a stylish, curved staircase led to the first floor. The drawing room’s chimney-piece was in a marble matching the tiles in the foyer, and one entire wall was lined in bookshelves of walnut. The mouldings gave the walls an elevated appearance, and she could just imagine the chamber repainted in a pale blue. There was no furniture within beyond a small table, and the draperies had seen better days, but the light coming into the room from two wide-paned, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows promised that it would be a perfect space to read, to write, to live.

“Lizzy, come upstairs and see,” her aunt called.

For just a moment, she lingered; for the first time, something much closer to true enthusiasm began to fill her. My home, she thought. This is to be a home of my very own. Her future was growing brighter with every minute that passed. Unconsciously, her fingers touched the letter weighing down her coat pocket. Then, she turned towards the stairs and hurried to join the other two ladies.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ADVICE AND ENTREATY OF SO NEAR A RELATION

Elizabeth was exhausted. Despite their lengthy journey, her aunt was indefatigable. After speaking for what seemed like hours to Mrs Hawthorne about likely merchants and the needs of the house, Mrs Philips had begun examining the inventories. Elizabeth understood that if she wanted any say at all in the future design and requirements of her home, she had better study them with her, as well as take part in writing out the subsequent lists of needs.

Mrs Hawthorne prepared them a lovely meal for their dinner, over which Mrs Philips spoke of fabrics and rugs and wall colours in nearly endless detail, continuing on through the evening. Elizabeth had forgotten just how much her aunt loved to shop, to think of shopping, and to plan for more of it. It was not that Elizabeth despised the practice, only that she would be in much better frame to think about it and the future after a good night’s rest.

Possibly, the envelope she had placed carefully in the top drawer of the bureau in her chamber should wait until then as well.

“Well, Lizzy,” her aunt said, rising, “I am too tired to see straight. We can decide on paint colours in the morning.”

Thank goodness. “Yes. It will be important to see these spaces again in the light of day before arranging and organising further,” she agreed aloud, standing as well.

“Who was the letter from?” Mrs Philips asked, apropos of nothing.

Elizabeth started a little; she had hoped her aunt had forgotten it. “I do not know for certain, as I have not yet opened it,” she said carefully. “Yet, it appears to be in Mr Darcy’s writing, which I have seen once before, when at Netherfield. I suppose he wishes to provide additional details regarding…all of this.” She waved a hand to encompass the whole room.

Her aunt raised a brow in open curiosity, but just as quickly, her expression changed to one more thoughtful. “I expect I ought to read it before you do, but frankly, dear, it seems to me that if you are old enough to have your own home, you are old enough to read your own mail. Nevertheless, if he is going to be a regular correspondent, I feel I must warn you—it is not only me, or Mrs Hawthorne, or any other whom you must satisfy. Such news gets around, no matter how discreet one tries to be. Soon everyone will know you are receiving letters from a bachelor, and they will draw their own conclusions.”

“I realise that, Aunt,” Elizabeth answered. “Truly, I am as surprised as you are to receive it. I cannot imagine this correspondence is about anything other than some sort of lingering estate business, and will be the sole letter of its kind.” I know for a fact that he would never have communicated with me unless he was forced to.

“Well, he ought to have such letters come from Mr Barnes, if that is so. Already, if it is well-known that this property belongs to the Darcys, I am sure there will be those who believe that you must have had some sort of secret liaison with Mr Darcy or his father, despite the facts of the matter. I worry myself that Mr Darcy suspects something of this kind, as well.”

“What?” Elizabeth felt the colour draining from her face.

“Well, only think of it, dear. You have been gifted a house. An allowance. A large sum of money. Why do you believe your father was so upset? He knew how it could be perceived. Are you so naïve to appearances that nothing of the sort ever crossed your mind?”

Elizabeth sat back down again. “I must be, for it never did. Aunt, I gave a handful of coins to a young lady who appeared to be in distress. That is all!”

Mrs Philips did not resume her seat, but only smiled benignly. “I believe you. Your entire family believes you. In fact, we all find such suppositions to be utterly preposterous. That is because we know you. Soon, your neighbours will know you as well, and any who might be wondering if your morals are corrupted will decide it to be impossible or, at least, extremely unlikely. But for now, you must be especially on your guard. If you decide that a reply to his letter is in order, you ought to have me write it, or at least enclose it in a letter of my own. I shall inform him of just how inappropriate I find it that he wrote to you at all, and that if he harbours any thoughts of you excusing such impropriety, he has reckoned without Begonia Philips.” She yawned, and turned towards the stairs. “A pleasant goodnight to you, my dear.”

Elizabeth remained in shock, right where she was. I was but fifteen years when old Mr Darcy died! she wanted to shout to her aunt, to nosy, presuming neighbours, to Mr Darcy, to anyone who might wonder. Surely, he did not believe such a thing. Yet…as credulous as she must have seemed to her aunt, she was not entirely innocent of how the world worked. Doubtless, there were fifteen-year-olds who had been lured or forced into such situations. Hopefully, Mr Darcy had enough assurance in his father’s character to realise such a conclusion was, as her aunt had said, preposterous. But what did she know of Mr Darcy’s father? Precisely nothing, except her aunt’s family had ‘revered’ him, and that he had a godson out in the world somewhere who hated him. Oh, and that he had gifted her a house and an income because she had rescued his niece from a brutal man named ‘George’. Old Mr Darcy had not known much about her, either, because she was now certain that Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy had not realised her role in Miss de Bourgh’s rescue until the lady herself had revealed it to him, despite the fact that he had, apparently, been searching for a woman named Elizabeth Bennet for six years.

What, exactly, did Mr Darcy know of what Miss de Bourgh had done? Did he know everything his father had known, especially about the mysterious ‘George’? Oh surely, surely he did, and knew the matter did not precisely rest upon a handful of coins. Still, if he had not been told all the details, what would he believe it rested on?

Everything had happened so quickly, she had been unable to sort out all these implications in her mind before finding herself in Sheffield, in a home that might someday belong to her.

Why had he written to her at all, instead of having his solicitor deal with the matter?

It seemed the letter could not wait for morning, after all.