Page 3 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

As May turned to June, the gardens were in full bloom, the bright yellows, pinks, and lavenders of their blooms seeming a betrayal of the sombre atmosphere inside Pemberley. Its door remained bedecked with black crape, the servants continued to wear their armbands, and Darcy’s melancholy persisted. Letters from Georgiana beseeched him to take care and avoid high-strung mounts; those from his friends spoke of their adventures in town or abroad. Missives from Bingley raised his spirits. As ever, his friend’s handwriting was a disaster, inky blotches and scores marring his distinctive broad loops. No one, not even his old, arthritic uncle, wrote so poorly. Darcy’s name and the direction were legible, but once unfolded, every third or fourth word of the letter was smeared or blotted. Sighing, he lifted the quizzing glass to his eye and began to read.

Darcy,

I hope you do not remain too sombre and will not resent me for sharing happy news. My sister Louisa is to be wed to the gentleman I mentioned—Robert Hurst, the son of my late mother’s cousin. He is a bit of a swell, with a mean hand at cards and billiards, and quite fond of Louisa, thank goodness. My father is pleased with the engagement...

Darcy knew Hurst’s elder brother, also ‘a bit of a swell’ and as dedicated to his mistress as he was to his estate in Devon. Was Bingley’s father unaware? He peered closely at the writing. Bingley truly was slapdash with a pen.

In need of a stretch, he rose and strolled into the corridor towards the morning room, where he knew a warm breeze, fragrant with garden blooms, would greet him.

“Not me, Mrs Reynolds! It must’ve been Millie who broke the thing!”

“Millie?”

“Yes, I’m certain of it.”

Darcy turned quickly into the blue parlour where Mrs Reynolds and a maid stood, pieces of shattered vase at their feet. Reluctant as he was to involve himself in household affairs, hearing the name of his gamekeeper’s niece invoked as a wrongdoer caught his attention. Nodding at his housekeeper, he glanced at the young housemaid, whose defiant expression faded under his scrutiny. It was Hannah, the girl who had mistakenly entered his study a few weeks earlier to light the fire.

He gestured at the porcelain shards littering the tiled floor.

“An accident, sir, whilst Hannah was cleaning.”

“Weren’t me, though, sir,” the girl said defiantly. “It was Millie.”

Mrs Reynolds appeared stricken. “There is no need to cast blame when a vase is knocked down by accident, Hannah. I am puzzled, however, that the vase was broken but a moment ago and there is no sign of the maid you say is at fault.”

“She ran, ma’am. That way.” Hannah gestured towards the door, where a footman now stood.

Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “And yet I was in the corridor and saw no one emerge. Did you, Frederick?”

“No, sir.”

Noting the maid’s anxious glances behind her, he stepped towards the hearth, where a slim door was concealed by a panel. He and Wickham had hidden themselves there many times after discovering a passageway behind it, blocked off by long-ago renovations. When he slid it open, a young man clutching a bulging cloth sack stared back at him.

“Step out,” Darcy commanded, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Mrs Reynolds, do you know this man?”

“No, sir.”

“And you?” he asked the maid.

“Never seen him before, sir!”

Darcy eyed the fine cut of the man’s threadbare jacket and the wild look about his eyes. “Your name?”

“Potter.”

“You are on my property. My footman will inspect your belongings.”

Potter’s eyes darted furtively past him, towards the maid, before he handed the bag to the footman. Frederick pulled out two silver candlesticks, a small gold clock, and a pair of silver bon-bon dishes before Darcy held up his hand and sighed angrily. “I wonder how it is you entered my home, and who might have directed you here.”

“He be working with Millie. I saw them,” muttered the maid.

“Who be Millie?” cried the man. “You said there was gold here.”

“I never seen him before!”

His patience at an end, Darcy lifted his quizzing glass to peer at the maid. Her apron, which had appeared a pristine white, was now a blackened grey, as was the air around her. The alteration clearly was not caused by ashes.

‘Its gaze may pierce the veils of men.’