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Chapter Eight
Islept poorly.
My first instinct had been to go to him regardless of the closed door between our rooms, but his desire to be left to himself was obvious. If our concerns had only involved furniture rearrangements, I would have. But I remembered, only too well, my own times of overarching grief, clouding my every thought. In those moments, I did not want Jane or my aunt; I did not want to have to be something for someone else. Not very often, or even for very long, but I had needed times of respite from the company of others.
Still, it was astonishing how quickly I had learned to expect him beside me as I slept. It did not occur to me until the morning that he might believe that if he was not in the mood for intimacies, he should not come. Well, that would be an awkward conversation.
I hoped, however, to speak to him a little at breakfast—not regarding bed-sport schedules—and urged Clara, the maid Mrs Reynolds had assigned me, to hurry.
Alas, I was disappointed, for he was not alone. The gentlemen stood when I entered the breakfast parlour, and he soberly introduced me to his steward—and second cousin—Richard Williams. Mr Williams was a paler version of Mr Darcy—thinner, with sideburns I thought overwhelmed his slender face, but of a similar height.
The men talked to each other like the old friends they plainly were. Mr Williams was a bit shy with me, clearly more comfortable in conversation with my husband. Still, I did my best to draw him out, until he finally eased his manner a little, asking after my family and Hertfordshire. He was perfectly pleasant, but I believed him happiest when the conversation veered back to plantings, orchards, and sheep.
“I have had a letter from Georgiana,” Mr Darcy announced as the meal concluded. “She and Mr Bingley will arrive this afternoon.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Do they live nearby? The weather looks to be awful again.”
“Bingley purchased Haddon Hall two years ago. ’Tis but thirty miles of easy road.”
“Except for your drive,” I smiled.
Mr Williams frowned. “The drive should be in excellent condition. If you noticed anything amiss, that ought to be attended to—”
“My wife is teasing,” Mr Darcy said, for the first time looking at me directly with none of yesterday’s travail in his expression. “She does not care for the slope of the road, and suggested a tunnel be built through the hillside instead.” And he gave his small half-smile, one that meant he was remembering my little joke, perhaps with fondness. One that meant he was trying to re-establish our connexion. I returned it in full. We were both weary of distress and difficulty, I believed. We had come together to leave the past behind and start anew. I took heart in his farewell as he departed, for he bent to kiss my cheek. I did not need to be told that affectionate displays were unusual for him. Even Mr Williams looked a bit surprised, and then…affronted?
Mrs de Bourgh did not come down to breakfast, though I waited. I did not wish to put off a confrontation; as much as I sympathised with her grief, she could not be allowed to bully me or my servants. But it appeared she would hide from me, for now.
I noticed with pleasure that the library fire was already lit when I entered, as if in anticipation of my arrival there…and then was astonished to see that a desk—the writing desk—had been installed in a spot near the larger desk, a bit closer to the fireplace. When Mrs Reynolds entered with the tea I had requested, I asked her about it. She appeared a bit uncomfortable.
“We, all of us, have been too long accustomed to putting most decisions for the household before Mrs de Bourgh. When you asked Robert for the writing desk, he mentioned it to her, and she was distressed. I heard a fuss was made. Mr Darcy asked me last night if I knew what, exactly, you wanted done to the library, and I told him that, to the best of my knowledge, you only wanted this desk placed within it.”
Of course, servants always heard everything there was to hear; I had no doubt that Mrs Reynolds had discovered every word of Mr Darcy’s reprimand to me, which was a bit embarrassing. But there was nothing to be done about it.
“Did Mrs de Bourgh take charge of the house while Mrs Darcy was alive?” I asked. It would be helpful to know just how much authority the older woman habitually exercised. Yesterday, I think Mrs Reynolds might have evaded the question. But Mrs de Bourgh had made a tactical error in blaming one of her people for my mishap, and especially one of her most dependable ones.
“It is difficult to answer, Mrs Darcy. Not exactly, no. But Mrs de Bourgh was Mrs Darcy’s…voice, so to speak. She was always more fastidious, more exacting than Mrs Darcy, and dealt with details too insignificant to demand the mistress’s attention. I promise you, she has never before behaved in such a manner as yesterday.” She straightened. “But we have all been reminded that you are mistress of Pemberley now. It is to be hoped she will be able to quickly adapt to the changes.”
It was not precisely an apology, but then, Mrs Reynolds had not precisely done anything wrong. To her, Pemberley was mistress, and she had always done the best she could for her. Interesting too, that she had referred to Mrs de Bourgh as Anne Darcy’s ‘voice’. One could surmise that all plans and preferences, simple and affirming, came from the mistress, while her mother was responsible for the less desirable duties involving discipline and corrections. Clever, really. Without ever receiving a harsh word from Mrs Darcy, a strict order was maintained—and none would really blame Mrs de Bourgh for acting in her daughter’s place.
When Mrs Reynolds departed, I went to the writing desk, envisioning Mr Darcy here, directing the arrangement of the furniture. I opened the drawers, finding writing materials of excellent quality. There was also a piece of paper, folded in half. I picked it up, read it.
Forgive me.
It was unsigned, but the writing was unmistakeable. An apology from my husband.
* * *
I awaited the arrival of Mr and Mrs Bingley with anticipation, curiosity, and some nostalgia. Anticipation, because I remembered Mr Bingley as being sweet-tempered and amiable, and of course, I was anxious to meet my new sister. Curiosity, because naturally I wondered about the kind of man he had become, and I only had Mr Wickham’s word on the character of Mrs Bingley (which word was certainly unreliable). He had described her as proud and disagreeable, so she was likely humble and kindly. And nostalgia, oh yes. In many ways, Mr Bingley represented the close of a very happy chapter of my life—even my youth.
He had raised my sister’s hopes and then disappeared; she had suffered. But it was impossible to imagine her with any other than my brother Tilney, now. Looking back, we were all very young then. Even Mr Darcy, whom I was accustomed to believing so much my senior, had only been eight and twenty—my current age. It did not seem so very elderly and mature to me now.
Mr Darcy met me in the green parlour just as Robert gave word that the Bingley carriage was at the top of the drive. I hoped he had not been avoiding me, but since his hair was damp and curling at the ends, it was more likely he had arrived home from his engagement with Mr Williams only just in time to ready himself for the Bingley arrival. I reached my hand towards him, and he took mine in his, squeezing reassuringly. Together we walked out onto the portico; the rain was coming down in sheets. A footman held a large umbrella over the lady, and they dashed up the steps. She was laughing as they neared us, and she threw herself into her brother’s arms, heedless of the damp.
“Fitzwilliam! I know I should have waited, as it was a terrible drive and I am sure our coachman will not forgive me for ever so long if he takes a chill, but I was so happy to hear your news!”
While she spoke, Mr Bingley approached. “Mr and Mrs Darcy! Ho-ho!” he said, laughing also, while my husband herded us all indoors before we allowed in any more of the damp and wind. Then there was a flurry of coat-taking and more greetings and moving into the welcome warmth of the green parlour.
But once we were seated, there was an uncomfortable pause while Mr Darcy had a word with the butler. Mrs Bingley looked flushed and rather helpless—as I would later learn, conversation with unfamiliar persons was difficult for her. Mr Bingley simply stared at me for a few moments before finally seeming to realise the gap. And then he put his foot in it.
