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While there was an increased military presence preventing riots, agitation was fermenting. Mrs Philips flatly refused to leave her in Whitby’s care, refused to allow her into town, and absolutely refused to return to her own house in quiet Meryton.
“Oh, bother,” Elizabeth grumbled. “The papers have not reported any more incidents of violence in the marketplace.”
“Flour is up to seven per stone. There be meetings held every night, with folks getting more an’ more agitated,” Mrs Hawthorne did not hesitate to call out from beyond the parlour door.
But it was not merely a matter of finding herself unable to shop, Elizabeth knew, and Mrs Philips’s worries were not entirely related to riots.
Of all those calling cards she had left when making the rounds with Mrs Sutton, very few had yielded visitors in return. A couple of the younger matrons had called, but most had sent their cards round with servants, conveying bare acknowledgements of her existence. A few of the higher-born neighbours had ignored her card completely.
Mrs Treadwell, one of those who had returned the call, had confided in her the reason for the absence of visitors at her doorstep. “I think hiring one of Mrs Davies’s girls as your maid-of-all-work might have passed without notice, but employing that Stretton woman was going altogether too far, especially for those who care about pleasing the Rochfords,” she commiserated. “It matters not at all to me—I do not care what the High-and-Mighties think. Everyone knows that Miss Stretton is no siren, nor do they really worry that she is leading you away from the path of virtue. But Lady Rochford hates her, and will do her best to make life unbearable for you, besides coercing the other old cats to take her side.”
Elizabeth seethed.
“It is so unfair!” she complained to her aunt. “Not that I would have ever called upon Lady Rochford in the first place, had I known how loathsome she and her awful husband are. What is more, everyone else knows it too! Yet, she is accepted and welcome everywhere, whilst I am not!”
Elizabeth could not decipher the look upon her aunt’s face at these words, and was too enraged to be concerned.
Mr Travers was in the habit of reading the post with his afternoon meal, taking a tray at his desk. He had opened the letter posted from Sheffield first, he told Darcy, hoping Hawthorne was not reporting bad news. What was enclosed, he had found somewhat unusual.
“I brought it over straight away,” he explained, once admitted to Darcy’s study. “I assumed you would wish to read it immediately. It was enclosed with a brief note from Hawthorne.”
Darcy frowned at the unfamiliar handwriting on the sealed envelope, along with the more familiar crabbed hand of John Hawthorne. Along with his signature, it said,
Mrs Philips asked me to send this to you for Mr Darcy.
Dismissing his steward, Darcy sat at his desk to break the seal on the missive from Elizabeth’s aunt.
Dear Mr Darcy,
Forgive this intrusion, but I feel helpless to remedy a misfortune I unintentionally brought upon Elizabeth.
Upon my recommendation, we engaged a woman whose young son is rumoured to be the natural child of Lord Rochford. Her son acts as our errand boy and resides with us as well. Lady Rochford has consequently given Elizabeth the cut direct, and too many are following her lead.
If you have any counsel which might help restore her to the good graces of the neighbourhood, pray advise me.
Your obedient servant,
B Philips
PS Do not suggest she dismiss the girl. She won’t do it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
TAKEN BY SURPRISE
“Perhaps you would care to enlighten us as to why we are jouncing along in this antique, rather than taking one of the newer vehicles?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked.
Darcy glanced across at his cousin; his sister, sitting beside him, peered at him with equal interest. It was not strange that they were curious; this carriage was heavy and not nearly so well-sprung as the much newer landau, despite its pristine appearance. But it possessed the gilt and polish that his mother had once loved, pulled by an impressive four-in-hand that excited admiration wherever it drove.
Darcy thought about rebuffing the comment; he was unused to explaining himself, especially before his young sister. Moreover, the colonel was Georgiana’s co-guardian, and he might very well disapprove of this errand, should he know the whole truth.
“Does it have anything to do with the reason why you wanted me in my regimentals?” Fitzwilliam added, with a careless wave at his high-collared scarlet coat, gleaming brass buttons, and gold epaulettes.
Darcy guessed that his cousin had surmised part of his purpose, and he was not wrong. Neither could he be completely correct.
“I need to impress a girl,” he said finally, and saw the laughter in Fitzwilliam’s eyes. Well, let him laugh.
The woman sitting beside the colonel elbowed him before speaking to Darcy. “How wonderful, that you should bring us out in such state for someone important to you. We are happy to be shown off.” For all that the new Mrs Fitzwilliam was the wealthy niece of the powerful Lord Hampton and daughter of Hampton’s heir, she was not at all the type of female he had ever expected his cousin to marry, let alone fall head over ears in love with and engage in a hasty match that had taken the ton by surprise. She was older, Darcy’s own age at least, a little near-sighted, and a known eccentric. But she was friendly, warm, and enthusiastic and eager for any adventure—just the sort of person whom one was always happy to see. Frankly, he had not credited Fitzwilliam with enough good sense to choose her.
