Page 100 of A November to Remember

Behind him, Boodles straightened his cravat and permitted himself the smallest smile in the history of the human countenance. He lowered his hands, restored his face to its habitual arrangement, and addressed his master.

“Shall I have the kitchen send out champagne, my lord?”

“Boodles,” Robert said, “you are a national treasure.”

Boodles nodded. “Yes, my lord. I am aware.”

Epilogue

November 26th, 1816

A grand ball at Pemberley was not a mere social gathering; it was a comprehensive trial of the estate’s foundations.

For the first four years of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s marriage, the twenty-sixth of November had passed with the unruffled dignity appropriate to a grand house in winter. In eighteen-twelve, his wife was in her confinement for their son, Thomas. The following autumn had brought the arrival of their daughter, Anna. The year after that had demanded their prolonged presence in London for business, and the previous year had seen them trapped in Cornwall at Robert’s estate in an unseasonable blizzard.

Now, exactly five years after the madness of Hertfordshire had irrevocably altered his existence, Pemberley was finally opening its ballroom doors. Judging by the sounds echoing up the grand staircase, the house was protesting the decision.

Darcy stood before the tall mirror in the master’s bedchamber, staring blankly at his own reflection. A heavy thudding reverberated through the floorboards, followed by the screech of dragged furniture.

Darcy closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are they dismantling the east wing, Dawson, or merely dropping the statuary from the gallery?”

Dawson was behind him, working a bone-handled brush over the shoulders of Darcy’s waistcoat. “I believe Mrs Reynolds is directing the relocation of the potted ferns in the ballroom, sir. She considers their current placement an affront to symmetry.”

“Symmetry,” Darcy mused. “I shall be fortunate if the roof remains attached by nightfall.”

Dawson set the brush onto the washstand, picking up a white cravat. “The household is merely enthusiastic, sir. It is a monumental occasion. And, if I may be so bold, it has been a pleasure to welcome certain visiting valets back to the estate.”

Darcy lifted his chin, allowing the man to drape the starched linen around his neck. “Boodles and Dickinson have settled in comfortably, I presume?”

“Most comfortably, sir.” Dawson began folding the complex knot. “Lord Keathley’s man and Mr Fitzwilliam’s man are always elevating company in the servants’ hall. We engaged in a spirited game of Brag late into the evening.”

Darcy met his valet’s placid gaze in the mirror. “A three-handed game of Brag against Robert’s valet and my cousin’s man. That is a perilous undertaking, Dawson. Dickinson guards his cards like a badger defending its burrow.”

“Mr Dickinson is indeed intense, sir.” Dawson smoothed the front of the cravat, stepping back to assess his handiwork. “However, his zeal makes him predictable. Mr Boodles is far more deceptive, but he has a tell involving his left eyebrow when he pretends to hold better cards than he does.”

Darcy turned away from the glass, reaching for his morning coat. “Am I to understand you emerged victorious?”

“I relieved them of fourteen shillings, a silver pocket comb, and a tin of imported boot blacking.” Dawson handed his master the morning coat, not a muscle twitching in his face.

Darcy paused, his arms halfway into the sleeves, offering a smile of appreciation. “Excellent work, Dawson. You have upheld the pride of Pemberley admirably. I expect you will bankrupt them before the week is out.”

“That is my intention, sir.” Dawson adjusted the collar of the morning coat, patting it flat.

A tremendous crash echoed from the floor below, rattling the crystal droplets on the chandelier above Darcy’s head. It was followed by the muffled shriek of a housemaid.

Darcy moved to the door, a cold prickle down the back of his neck. “Wish me luck, Dawson.”

He descended the staircase, tracing the source of the crash to the primary drawing-room. He pushed open the door, bracing himself for the sight of shattered porcelain.

What he found was a disaster of a human composition.

Richard lay on his back on the rug, submerged beneath a writhing pile of small limbs, linen shirts, and pinafores.

Thomas, Darcy’s four-year-old son, sat astride Richard’s chest. The boy gripped his uncle’s cravat in two sticky fists, bouncing hard. “Go, horsie! Go!”

“I am not a horse, Thomas, I am a victim of my own good nature,” Richard groaned, raising a hand to protect his nose.

On Richard’s left side, Jane and Robert’s twin girls, Eleanor and Victoria, babbled in an incomprehensible torrent of words. Victoria was trying to stuff a crushed piece of shortbread into Richard’s ear. Eleanor patted his cheek with hands covered in jam.