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Chapter Ten
After returning from my visit to my aunt, I was in the most optimistic of frames. Mrs de Bourgh, of course, was a gloomy storm cloud, raining criticisms from dawn to dusk, but I attempted patience. Pemberley was a large place, I reasoned, and eventually she would find acceptance of her loss, as my aunt had done. I could not help hoping she might wish to live elsewhere in the near future; I even wondered if Mr Darcy ought perhaps to allow her to set up housekeeping with her own servants in the upper floor of the cliffside wing, once he, too, had achieved his peace with the past.
The morning came, however, that one of her gibes truly hit her mark. I dressed for the day with Clara to help with my hair—she had quite a knack for it—and went into breakfast. Mrs de Bourgh was already there. Her plate was emptied, and with a sigh, I knew she was waiting apurpose to needle me.
Her maid, Parker, a colourless, older woman, entered and brought her a heavy book that she had evidently requested. Mrs de Bourgh accepted it and set it upon the table. Opening it, she began reading aloud. It was an account book, of sorts, having solely to do with entertaining. In her raspy, cultured accents, she read details from the last ball her daughter ever hosted—the sums for flowers and fruit purchased, amounts paid to a certain confectioner for everything from plates and chairs to hundreds of paste stones. Swan ices coloured in gold, musicians from town, new livery to match the theme—all told, she had spent nearly a thousand pounds on it. “She had the place done in gold and hand-cut glass,” Mrs de Bourgh continued. “Everything sparkled; everything shone. Anne is the granddaughter of a duke, and I am the daughter of a baron. She brought a fortune of twenty thousand to the marriage, and a fine property in Ramsgate. Pemberley was her stage; that night, in her simple golden gown, with diamonds in her hair, her perfections, her breeding, and her beauty glittered brighter than anyone and anything else on it. Mr Darcy bought those diamonds for her, and she looked so beautiful, she took the breath away from all who gazed upon her. It was the anniversary of their wedding day. Hundreds came.”
Her lips stretched into a sneer. “And look at you. You are a nobody! Parker dresses better than you do.”
It was, unfortunately, accurate that day. Parker happened to be wearing a dress, probably a castoff from her mistress or even Anne Darcy, with the new lower waist and fashionable sleeves, while I wore another of my remade dresses from the dowager countess, in an unfortunate shade of chartreuse. It did not help that Mr Darcy had never given me anything in the way of jewellery, much less diamonds. She had succeeded, for once, in hurting my feelings.
“I suppose the estate will be the better for not spending thousands on entertainments this year,” I forced myself to answer mildly.
She looked at me with pure hatred. “Nothing will be better at this estate, this year or any other. But I do agree with Mr Darcy’s decision not to entertain.” Leaving the account book on the table, she stood and walked towards the door, turning back to me just before exiting. “You are simply not worth the expense.”
I had been raised with sisters, so I was no stranger to hurtful insults. Lydia had been the grand master of them, able to strike at the heart of one’s most tender feelings with unerring accuracy. She would have met her match in Mrs de Bourgh. If my husband chose not to shower his second wife with gifts, there was not much I could do about it; however, my wardrobe was sadly inadequate. I had been married over a month, and in the course of learning the pleasures and responsibilities of being Mrs Darcy, I had neglected my appearance. While I had no desire to let her know her cruel words struck home, I determined it as my duty to resupply at least some fashion deficiencies from Hopewell. When I approached Mr Darcy with my request, however, he was surprisingly opposed to the scheme.
“We must go to London. There is little of quality to be found in Hopewell.”
“Yes, well, London would be ideal,” I said patiently, “but the weather is turned bad again, and who knows when it would be safe to travel? It could be months! And in the meantime, I look like a frump!”
Annoyingly, he only smiled. “You look beautiful, always, no matter what you wear. And there shall not be many visitors until we can go to town. I promise I shall take you the next time the weather clears. I must leave now, as I am meeting with tenants.” He kissed me on the cheek somewhat dismissively, it seemed to me, and hurried away.
I was upset, even though it was the first time he had ever called me ‘beautiful’; I felt he did not mean it, that he was offering me a conciliatory pat on the head as though I were a trained dog. I understood how to shop, and what one could or could not procure from a town the size of Hopewell; it seemed about the equal of Meryton. Had he even put me off with, “I will take you some other day, as soon as I have the time,” I might have been satisfied. But I was certain that I was hearing his dead wife’s opinion of the place. I already knew her taste to be exceedingly different from my own. I would not require satins and furs! And, there was that hurt, simmering below the surface. It was maddening.
But I had my pin money, and I only required a carriage, not his chaperonage. The weather was awful and I did not relish a ride down the winding drive but, I am sorry to admit, my back was up, my temper high.
Mr Williams came in late morning, as he usually did, for Cook always put up enough breakfast to serve a crowd, and his kitchen was not nearly so gifted. I made a point to greet him, and then presented my request.
I could, of course, have simply ordered the carriage brought around. However, the outcome of the morning’s two unsuccessful conversations seemed a foreshadowing that somehow, some means would be found to prevent me, whether by de Bourgh’s machinations or my husband’s—as well as a persistent feeling of being imprisoned at Pemberley, of being thought a despised, unimportant eyesore.
“I wish to go to Hopewell later this morning, but I am sure Mr Darcy took the carriage,” I said casually to him. “We have more than one, I assume?”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” Mr Williams had always been polite, but he was very shy. He never spoke to me directly if he could avoid it; I was unsurprised he remained a bachelor. “Mr Frost brought him to the Chadwick farm, I believe.”
“We have but one coachman?”
“No, no. Perkins is able enough.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you would prefer to wait for less er, inclement weather?”
Mr Darcy had overruled me, but his steward could not. “No, thank you. Unless the shops are closed due to rain?”
“Um. No, ma’am. I-I will accompany you, then,” he said quietly.
“Why should you? I will take Clara, and John can ride along. I will send Perkins and John both to the pub to wait for me, so they do not take a chill in this wind.”
“Yes, ma’am. I feel Mr Darcy would wish me to, ma’am.” He left to make arrangements without eating his breakfast.
He had not sounded enthusiastic. I felt a bit sorry for him, and a bit guilty for my insistence, but neither did I understand the fuss. How many times had I made similar trips, with only one of my sisters accompanying me, to Meryton? It gave me another pang of the sharpest, bitterest sort of homesickness, a yearning for a home long gone. I grew more determined than ever to reclaim some of myself, that girl who had died with my parents. A shopping expedition was a first step.
The journey down the mountain was, as usual, hair-raising, even more so this first time with Clara beside me instead of Mr Darcy. At times it appeared as though the branches of trees would hit us as they whipped wildly in the wind; at other times the drive looked too narrow, the mountainside too close to its edge, or that we would fly off the very side of it. Mr Williams remained unconcerned, if he did not appear very happy.
When the carriage pulled up to a neat, tidy square, I was happy to see the number of shops—it appeared there would be more choices than Meryton had once provided. After arranging to meet up with the carriage in the same place two hours hence, I entered the first shop, a linen draper, with Mr Williams trailing me like a spaniel, while Clara remained hunched near the door.
The merchants had to realise who I was; the Darcy carriage would hardly go unrecognised, and I had an entourage announcing myself. And yet, the shopkeeper made no move to assist me, and though I smiled at him, he would not meet my eyes. I was puzzled, and then Mr Williams said, “Come now, Davis.”
Mr Davis hesitated, and then asked him how he could be of assistance. I pointed out three bolts I wished to examine, which instruction Mr Williams dutifully repeated before the draper brought them down. I scrutinised them and found two to my taste, ordering several lengths from each. Mr Williams repeated my order until Davis nodded, after which the steward said to me, “Is there anything else you wish to see here?”
I did wish to see more, much more, but the sullen attitude of Mr Davis was off-putting, as was filtering all of my requests through Mr Williams. I shook my head, and he ordered Davis to have the fabrics delivered to Pemberley. We were out the door only ten minutes after we entered.
