Her disappointment was immediate, though she tried to hide it. “Only a week?”
“I have duties to return to, and some business to attend while I am in town. Darcy House must be inspected, and there are accounts and leases requiring attention.”
“But you will be here for my birthday?”
“I should not have come otherwise.”
That comforted her a little. Darcy reached for her hand where it rested near her plate and squeezed it gently. “We shall make it a very excellent week.”
Georgiana lifted her chin with a dignity that did not conceal her pleasure. “Then you must promise not to spend all of it with letters and business.”
“I promise to spend only an unreasonable portion with such matters.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It was not intended to be. It was intended to be honest.”
Milton sighed. “Poor child. You should know by now that Darcy’s idea of devotion is reducing paperwork by one quarter.”
Darcy rose when breakfast concluded, bending to kiss Georgiana’s cheek as he passed her chair. “I will return in time for dinner. I have an errand to run first.”
She caught his sleeve before he could step away. “Not a dangerous errand?”
“In London? The danger will consist chiefly of mud, bad paving, and excessive politeness.”
“That is not amusing.”
“No,” Darcy said, smiling faintly. “But I must laugh to give strength to courage.”
Georgiana studied him as though deciding whether this was acceptable, then released his sleeve. “Do not be late.”
“I shall endeavor not to offend your sense of punctuality.”
A short time later, Darcy left Matlock House on foot. The rain had stopped for the moment, and a thin, uncertain brightness filtered through the clouds. It seemed foolish to waste such rare clemency upon a carriage, particularly when London streets had become so congested with repairs, deliveries, and the endless aftermath of flooding. He had several errands in mind: a brief inspection of Darcy House, a visit to the solicitor handling its lease, and then, if the day permitted, a call at Mr. Gardiner’s warehouses.
That last errand drew his thoughts most strongly.
Edward Gardiner had once offered him grace when Darcy possessed neither money nor pride enough to ask for it properly. The debt had been repaid in coin long ago, but Darcy had learned that some obligations outlived ledgers. If the floods had damaged Gardiner’s business, then at the very least Darcy could offer what assistance or influence he possessed. It might amountto very little. A militia colonel with a recovering estate and dwindling funds was not precisely a powerful patron.
Still, he owed the man the courtesy of trying.
The distance from Grosvenor Square to Gracechurch Street was not insignificant, but Darcy found the walk preferable to the confinement of a carriage. The rain had ceased for the first time in what felt like weeks, leaving behind a pale, watery light that gleamed upon the paving stones and dripped from eaves into already overflowing gutters. London smelled of damp brick, coal smoke, horses, and river mud. As he walked eastward, that last scent grew stronger.
At first, the evidence of flooding appeared only in small signs: a line of silt gathered against the base of a wall, straw and rubbish caught in an iron railing, a shopkeeper sweeping brown water from beneath his threshold. But the closer Darcy drew to the river, the more visible the destruction became. Several cellars stood open to the street while men carried out ruined crates and waterlogged ledgers. A woman in a soaked apron scolded two boys attempting to salvage warped planks from a heap of debris. Near one narrow lane, three laborers argued over a cart piled high with spoiled cloth that sagged under its own weight. Darcy slowed more than once, struck by the scale of it. Lord Matlock had spoken of merchants being injured by the flood, but seeing the damage gave the words weight.
He found the warehouses after asking directions of a porter carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder. The man pointed him toward a row of buildings near the river, where several doors stood open and men worked with the grim industry of those who had no time for despair. The name Gardiner & Co. appeared upon a painted sign above one entrance, though the lower half of the sign was streaked with mud.
Darcy stepped inside and felt his heart sink.
The warehouse was nearly empty.
Not entirely. A few crates remained stacked upon raised pallets, and several barrels stood near the far wall. But the room, which ought to have been crowded with goods, echoed with absence. Damp patches darkened the floorboards, and a faint line upon the wall showed how high the water had risen. The smell here was worse than in the street—river, spoiled wood, wet rope, and something sour that spoke of ruined goods left too long before discovery.
For a moment Darcy simply stood there, taking it in.
Did Gardiner lose everything?
The thought struck harder than he expected. He had come with banknotes folded carefully inside his coat, intending at last to settle a debt that had long troubled his conscience. Instead, he found himself facing the possibility that the man whose generosity had once preserved Darcy’s pride might now require assistance far beyond anything Darcy could give. He had little enough still; Pemberley improved, but slowly, and militia pay did not make wealthy men of its officers.
