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The mysterious nonappearance of Mr and Mrs Bingley had become their major topic of discussion. Lizzy wished to write to Mrs Hurst at Netherfield, and at once, but Mr Darcy was understandably reluctant.
“Caro…read,” he contended.
“Surely not,” Lizzy disagreed, fearing how anxious Jane would be; if Mr Bingley had received the letter from Georgiana and herself via Mrs Hurst, it would place her whereabouts with the Darcys. At the very least, Jane would wonder why no letter had arrived after the one from Ramsgate, begging for sanctuary. But none of it explained why the Bingleys had failed to arrive in Brighton, and Lizzy was equally anxious, hoping and praying that Jane was well.
Still, she understood Mr Darcy’s concerns; Caroline Bingley might be in the pocket of Lady Matlock. If she was, and Louisa Hurst shared the information, she might inform the earl. Even if Lizzy did not mention Mr Darcy’s presence, he insisted it to be unsafe. Although Mr Frost claimed he could vouch for the silence of the stable boys, and James for Bertie’s, Colonel Fitzwilliam could be a ferocious interrogator. He might have discovered Lizzy’s departure with the Darcy carriage, and for all either of them knew, the earl was combing hill and dale for his missing nephew. Mr Darcy wished to gain as much strength as possible before that discovery. They finally compromised; he gave one of his trusted men of business instructions to reveal to them that he had provided her with a safe, if hidden, place to reside until his full recovery. They might be appalled, but they both agreed that the Bingleys would keep the secret.
But the letter no sooner was sent than a letter arrived, and although providing some news, it also increased her puzzlement. Mrs Davis brought it from the nearest receiving office, looked at it curiously, and handed it over to Lizzy. ‘The Breakers’ and ‘Brighton’ were both legible on the front, but the rest was an indecipherable scribble. She took it to Mr Darcy at once in the book-room. He glanced at it and laughed.
“Can you read the name? Do you know to whom this is directed?”
“Never…rutting read…at my best. Clay-brained Bing. Seal is his. Know…anywhere.”
“Mr Bingley? This is from him? You are certain?”
He nodded, and she studied it carefully.
“Do you know, I think he meant this to go to Mrs Davis—he does not use her name, but I believe he writes ‘To Caretaker or Housekeeper.’ Oh, I am dearly tempted to read it.”
He glanced at her then held out his hand for it. She handed it over, but he only broke the seal, unfolded it, and handed it back.
“You,” he said. “Care-take.”
She hesitated, but there was no question that she was running the establishment, so to speak. Seating herself near a window for the best light, she scrutinised the document. It was not lengthy, but it was so full of blots and scored words, it took her some time to make it out.
“Mr and Mrs Bingley have been unavoidably delayed by business, he says, and will be unable to occupy the house. He instructs her to close it and not to expect him at all! What could have happened?”
“Nutting…n-nothing else?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Do you think he will have sent a similar letter to the house agent? Will the house be leased to someone else?”
Mr Darcy shrugged. “Bound for…term. Michaelmas earliest.”
“Michaelmas? That is but a few weeks away!”
He looked surprised, a little. And a bit sad. Time had no meaning, she supposed, when one was ill or recovering. The desk before him was covered in blotched, ruined attempts at writing; in contrast, she recalled the strong, even penmanship she had witnessed in his letters from Netherfield Park.
“Shall I take a letter for you?” she suggested, only hoping to distract him, and was pleased by his quick agreement.
In his trunk had been a stack of letters, which he now handed across to her—obviously wanting her to search for the desired correspondents from amongst them.
“Rutting…no…writing…my men of biz.”
She read the names aloud as she thumbed through them: “George Saxelby, Edward Gardiner—” she halted, peering at the letter more closely. “I have an uncle by this name, evidently—I have never met him. But your man has a different address—mine resides in Cheapside.” She shrugged and continued reading. “William Grayhurst, Henry Nelson.”
“Gard,” he said, “Sax.”
She nodded, setting aside the requested correspondents and putting pen to parchment.
“George Saxelby, next to the Dove & Olive Branch, in the Cloisters, near West Smithfield, London,” she recited, reading the direction aloud in case he had anything to add to or change about it. “My father has always been contemptuous of those who, like my uncle—apparently—‘sully their hands’ with commerce, accepting payment for their labours. I admit I do not quite understand his hostility.”
He looked over at her with that little half smile she loved, the one revealing his dimple. It was one of the things she liked most about him, that he seemed pleased by her questions rather than annoyed, never chiding her for her curiosity in topics none of her concern. Also, even though his muddled speech embarrassed him, he never hesitated to offer answers and did so once again now, explaining how youths were leaving farms in favour of factories, how England’s manufacturing capabilities were transforming the very fabric of society.
“Future…England…fawning footlicker…no…not agri-culture. Must…change with country,” he concluded.
She considered this. “If all you say is correct, it hardly matters that my father’s property is entailed away from us—for it could not support us all indefinitely regardless.”
He shrugged. “My…groats…in motley manufacturing. Trade…inventions…promoting bloody efficiencies. For…grandchildren. Would that frigging farms…survive. Hope. Plan if…not.”
