Humbly,
Mr Henry Wilson,
Gentleman’s Valet
He cringed when reading his own note, but it could not be helped. It was a mercy that he would likely never have cause to see this Edward Gardiner face to face if the man lived in Cheapside. He dipped his pen again and started the second note.
Mr Darcy,
I shall keep this note brief so that it might be sent the sooner. I have indeed sent word to Miss Benwick’s family, as you requested. I hope I havebeen able to read the direction properly, as your note was only partially legible due to the sort of paper on which it had been sent.
Lady Catherine has sent at least half a dozen footmen out on various errands, but I do not know for what purpose. A solicitor has called again, and I heard some inquiry being made about Miss Darcy’s settlement. Additionally, there is a parson who called earlier in the day and held a private conference with Lady Catherine. I believe he is her own rector from Kent, for he paid her the most gracious homage.
I have learned that Miss de Bourgh is indisposed. This condition came upon her rapidly, following an unannounced caller. He had the appearance of a gentleman but was not well received by Lady Catherine or Miss de Bourgh. I was near the room where the short conference was held, and though the words seemed carefully chosen for the purposes of obscurity, I was able to discern that this man holds some knowledge of a private affair directly involving Miss de Bourgh. He was dismissed and, dare I say, roundly abused by his hostess. I know not what such a visit might portend, but I presume it was not insignificant.
Please advise, sir. I do hope you have been able to recover the information you required.
With respects,
Wilson
Wilson tucked the notes he had written, as well as the one from Mr Darcy, into his breast pocket and stole out of the house, toward the mews. It was short work to persuade the head groom to send two of his sharpest errand boys in opposite directions with the notes, although Wilson now had one less flask of his stash of spirits to look forward to as a consequence. No matter, for if he were successful, he was certain that Mr Darcy would amply make up for the deficiency.
He returned to the house, feeling rather accomplished, but three steps after he had left the servant’s entrance, he was arrested by the glowering face of the head butler. “Well, now,” he frowned down his long nose, “taking the air, Mr Wilson?”
He straightened and dipped a short bow. “Only attending to my duties, sir.”
“When did a valet’s duties include a secret trip to the stables?”
“Lady Catherine had requested that I speak personally with the head groom about some new horses—”
But the butler was not listening. He extended two long fingers and withdrew the barely visible tip of paper from Wilson’s breast pocket. “Here, what is this?” He held it out in some distaste, rubbing his fingers against one another and finally withdrawing his handkerchief so that he might not be sullied in touching it.
“It is nothing, sir!” Wilson lied quickly. “Only a baker’s order; one of the kitchen maids had asked it to be carried.”
The butler unfolded the note, and his bushy eyebrows lowered. He looked over the edge of the paper at the cowering Wilson and shook his head. “I imagine Lady Catherine will find this most interesting. You, sir, shall confine yourself to your chambers.”
As if this disgrace were insufficient, the butler nodded to one of the footmen standing at the end of the hall. “See that Mr Wilson is kept in comforts in his room until he is called for.”
Chapter twenty-one
He could not explain himself. The words of the old madman in the Hermitage had shaken him more than he would confess, and for no reason he could comprehend. Miss Elizabeth did him more justice than he deserved, for she declined to question him very seriously about it. She, too, appeared mystified by the riddles spoken by the odd little man, but she seemed to brush it off the more easily.
It was several minutes before he felt secure of his powers of speech once again, though when he ventured so much, he only managed an inarticulate, “There,” when they passed the spectacle of the golden statue of Aurora. She paid it little more notice than the rose hedges among which it was situated, for her eyes frequently turned up to his face to see that he was, indeed, well. Again, he felt a warmth spreading through his chest. No woman of his acquaintance had ever been quite so sensitive to his moods, save perhaps his mother.
There was no time to reassure her that he was not displeased or offended by something, for in their path stood a curious personage. He was dressed in an affected manner quite similar to a penguin, complete with his long tails and frilly white cravat. CH Simpson himself, the self-proclaimed master of ceremonies at the Gardens. Darcy suppressed a groan, and would have tugged Miss Elizabeth off the path and in another direction, had he been escorting her as a proper gentleman. However, as he held only her parasol and not her hand, the odd fellow was upon them before he could protest.
Arching his back and placing one foot forward with dramatic flair, Simpson tipped his hat and bowed gallantly before Miss Elizabeth. “Greetings, gentlefolk! Welcome most humbly to our fair Gardens, where you may seek any pleasure, revel in any delight which might suit your most excellent fancy.”
Darcy bit back a sigh and could not help a roll of his eyes. Simpson was a useful sort of buffoon, no doubt, as some parties simply adored being fawned over, and others had their grievances diffused by such obsequious absurdity, but Darcy could not tolerate this brand of nonsense. Perhaps it was all an act, but when a man spent every day for the whole of his life affecting the manner of a toady, he could not help but become one.
Simpson was addressing only Miss Elizabeth now, bowing and scraping once more with that flamboyant touch which was his own trademark. “My dear lady, what a fair afternoon to grace us, so condescendingly, with your magnanimous presence! How wise you are to partake of the delights of the floral gardens before the evening entertainment renders them less beautiful by comparison. Pray,” he bowed again, “if there is anything that can be done to enhance your enjoyment of our fair Gardens, you have but to call for Mr Simpson! And so that I might know to respond with all due alacrity, might I have the pleasure of learning who might summon?”
Miss Elizabeth smiled; the patient, bemused smile of one who had decided upon humour rather than annoyance, and that soft little chuckle of hers bubbled fourth again. Darcy hated to confess it, but he had become rather fond of that sound this day. It was no mindless giggle like so many young ladies, nor rather was it the braying laugh of the courser sort. It was simply an effusion of delight, simmering up from a heart of which he had come to think the impossible: genuine, unaffected kindness, bound up in a soul of wit and fire, to forge the sort of woman who might have stepped from mythical pages.
She curtsied in reply to the officious greeting, then with a playful glance his way, she introduced herself. “I am Miss Bennet, and my attendant here is named William. We are most pleased to be received so graciously. I thank you for your kind attention, but we are not in need of anything.”
“Oh!” he protested, “but you have no refreshments! My dear Miss Bennet, this simply will not do. We have so much to see here and so many wondrous events this evening to delight the eye and uplift the spirit. You simply must be properly restored so that you may not weary before you have experienced all!”
