Page 2 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

Lifting it to his eye, he glanced down at the ledger. The effect was immediate: the words crisper, the lettering clearer. He pulled it away and once again, the writing was muddied. More than a little concerned for the strength of his eyesight, Darcy walked over to the side table where he had left open a volume of Wordsworth. He could easily read its lines without help from the lens. Relieved, he returned to the desk, pocketed his father’s note, and leant over the ledger with the quizzing glass.

I shall use it here, rely on it for assistance as I pore through Pemberley’s records. But only when needed, he assured himself, wondering whether his father had believed that dependence on it would weaken the eye. That was a danger indeed.

And so he proceeded for the next hour, glancing up from his work only when the door opened and a housemaid entered. She held the tinderbox in one hand, but paused, looking about the room rather than stooping to light the fire.

“A fire is not needed. It promises to be a warm day.”

Startled, the girl dropped the tinderbox. She stared at Darcy, eyes wide, her hand to her chest. “Pardon, sir! I didn’t know you be in here.”

He stared through the glass as she gathered her things. Why, he wondered, is she covered in soot? “Have you fallen? Was there an accident with the coal?”

She shook her head as if confused. “No, sir. Please, sir, excuse me.” A moment later, she disappeared through the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Setting down the glass, Darcy rubbed his eyes tiredly before turning back to the ledger. One last page before I call for coffee. Or perhaps abandon this in favour of a ride. He lifted the quizzing glass to his eye, and only a moment later there came a sharp rap on the door, and the voice of the butler was heard. “Sir?”

“Come.”

“Pardon, sir, the household thought you were abed. Did you not wish the fires lit?”

Darcy looked up, glass still to his eye, alarmed to see an odd glow about the man.

“Buxton!”

“Sir?”

Darcy lowered the quizzing glass to find nothing unusual beyond a puzzled expression on the weary face of his very proper butler.

“Sir, the housemaid says you did not wish for the fire to be lit?”

“Um, no. I shall be going to my chambers shortly. Please have coffee sent up.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Buxton, are the maids to be mucking about in the hearths now, or was there an accident with an ash bucket in one of the rooms?”

Another curious look came his way. “No, sir. Not to my knowledge.”

“You saw the maid? Was she not covered in soot?”

Buxton shook his head. “Hannah looked as ever she does when I met her in the corridor. Red-cheeked with some embarrassment, but no more.”

“I see.” Or I do not. Darcy stood, rubbing his eyes. The girl should have knocked first, but I have embarrassed her, and myself, enough.

“Sir? Is there anything else?”

“No,” he replied. “Thank you.”

As soon as the butler closed the door behind him, Darcy exhaled deeply. Too little sleep, too much reading, possibly too much reliance upon a quizzing glass. He would strike a balance, he vowed. Breakfast and a long ride, and if he did grow tired or feel idle in the afternoons, he would not turn to a book or a ledger. He would rest his eyes. Sliding the glass back into its pouch, he reached for the box. It slipped from his grasp, its edge hitting the desk before tumbling to the carpet at his feet. Reaching for it, he saw the box’s age-old velvet bed had loosened and a thrice-folded age-darkened slip of paper had fallen out.

Unfolding it carefully, Darcy found words written in a hand he recognised from ledgers of a hundred years past.

Its gaze may pierce the veils of men, yet use it sparingly and with a heart most steadfast. Let it pass not into faithless hands, lest its power be turned to ruin.

The whole of it was dashed odd.

Darcy read the words again before folding the paper and returning it and the quizzing glass to their secure place. He locked the drawer, and staring down at the key in his palm, chuckled uneasily.

TWO