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A cursory look inside the bureau drawer she had indicated revealed letters from some of her London friends, and one dressmaker’s bill from Madame Marchand, but nothing from the earl. However, atop her bureau there stood a miniature I had never seen before; I was certain it had not been there yesterday, or any of the many other times she had required me to fetch and carry. The frame was silver and needed polish.
Mr Darcy’s solemn eyes bored into me; beside him posed a lavishly dressed golden-haired beauty, the sleeves little puffs at her slim shoulders, her forehead noble, her nose slim, her mouth a rosebud, her unusually coloured bluish-green eyes sparkling. I picked it up, staring. On the back was engraved ‘September 2, 1812, Our Wedding Day, Mr and Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy’.
It was almost impossible to think that the vibrant female in the portrait should be dead. Mr Darcy appeared exactly as I remembered him from Netherfield Park—unflappable, distinguished, handsome, staid. Yet, the artist had caught a hint of puzzlement in his eyes. What am I doing with this diamond of the first water? his eyes asked. She is much too alive for me! And yet, she was dead, and he was in the parlour enduring Lady Matlock.
Life was beyond strange, at times.
The only other letter in the drawer was written in the firm, masculine scrawl that I instinctively knew was his. I remembered suddenly, the time that Caroline Bingley had remarked upon his handwriting with such excessive flattery. Caroline Bingley! I had not thought of that name for so many years! Obviously, she had not succeeded in capturing her prize, and idly I wondered what had ever happened to her. I unfolded it—for if I was wrong about the author, and it was, indeed, from the earl, I should never hear the end of it.
My Lady Aunt,
I shall be in the area the first of December, and perhaps you will agree to a visit of a fortnight or so at Rosings Park. Write to me at Darcy House in London if it will be an inconvenience.
Yours&c,
F.D.
And that was all. Evidently, the gentleman no longer believed in long letters to his relatives. I smiled to myself at the thought.
In the absence of any letters from the earl, I happily considered myself dismissed, retiring to my room to enjoy a bit of time to myself with a book—a wonderful luxury, because Lady Matlock hated for anyone to be reading while she talked aloud to herself. But the words would not right themselves on the page, insisting upon blurring, coaxing my thoughts towards a past that ought to be dead and buried like my parents.
Why was he here?I wondered. I knew, of course, that Mr Darcy was related to the earl through his maternal line; I would never forget my cousin Collins introducing himself so boldly and embarrassingly at the Netherfield ball. But I had not heard his name mentioned in so many years, he had faded into the past. I had paid little enough attention to the countess’s rambling outpourings upon receiving his letter, but I doubt any clues had emerged. That he was grieving, I was certain—his visage was a study in mourning. Perhaps he was making the rounds of all his relations, avoiding his own company, getting through the first year of loneliness by passing time with his family. But after my year with Lady Matlock, I would think the earl’s company to be a good deal more favourable.
I peered up at the clock, noting the time. It had been half an hour since I left aunt and nephew. I would try to escape for a walk before it grew any later, I decided. I dared not leave the house without permission, but if the countess was attempting to keep all his attention upon herself, she would not hesitate to grant it. I paused by my looking glass, trying to see what Mr Darcy would see: no longer a girl, a woman past her first blush of youth, a too-determined chin, dark-eyed, in an old-maid’s lace cap. Defiantly, I tugged it off and exchanged it for my Sunday best. Not that it would impress him—nor was I trying to. The alteration was for myself. My hair was both the bane of my existence and my greatest pride. It was heavy, full and thick, and even with an iron, would never behave in such smooth fashionableness as the dead Mrs Darcy’s, instead curling madly when the weather was wet or sultry. It fell almost to my waist when unrestrained, with not a hint of grey in it.
I am eight and twenty, and in my heart—if not to the world—a girl yet. I do not care what he thinks. Even so, I tugged a few curls down at my ears, and they obligingly coiled flatteringly, framing my chin—which was still thankfully firm, if too sharp in other ways—and donned my wrap.
As I approached the parlour, all was quiet; perhaps they had both retired to their rooms. I peeked in.
The countess was snoring, her chins compressed against her ample bosom. Mr Darcy was, once again, staring out the window. But I had not been as quiet as I supposed, for he turned suddenly and looked at me. I opened my mouth to say something, but he held his hand up peremptorily and strode towards me, his eyes fixed upon me. Rather like a predator, I thought fancifully.
I fell into step beside him as he motioned me out the door in his somewhat imperious way. However, I could not blame him for making his escape, and as soon as we were well away, I attempted to make mine.
“I will take you to Mrs Jenkinson, and she will show you to your rooms,” I said. “We usually dine at eight, if it suits.”
“Where are you going? Out of doors? I was watching at the window—I thought I might see you leave,” he said. “I remember you liked to roam the countryside.”
Was this a criticism? It seemed an odd thing to mention or even remember, but of course, he had endured an hour of Lady Matlock and her stuffy parlour. It made memories of roaming extremely attractive; I bolted whenever I could.
“Yes, that is—my hours of wandering are few, but I wish to stroll in the garden before nightfall,” I said with some hesitation. “It is walled and quite safe. I shall see you at dinner, then?”
“May I walk with you?” he persisted.
Internally I sighed; I had no wish to be rude to a guest, much less someone in mourning. If he wanted company, I ought to be a good enough person to provide some for him. But I could summon no enthusiasm.
“Very well,” I replied, and walked briskly to another parlour overlooking the terrace. He hurried to unlatch the door before I could reach for it, and then, finally I was out. It had not rained for a few days, but it probably would again, soon. For now, the air was fresh and clear and felt delicious in my lungs.
For some time, we walked silently together amongst the plantings. Mr Darcy had not much changed, it seemed; as I recalled, he had never been overly fond of conversation. I mostly ignored him, pretending he was only a large, gloomy shadow, and fixed my attention upon the greenery, inhaling deeply of the evening breezes, trying to centre myself within their refreshment.
“I am sorry about your parents,” he said at last, startling me.
“Oh…thank you. It has been many years. I am surprised you heard.”
“My aunt mentioned it. How do your sisters fare?”
Lady Matlock had probably prattled off what she knew of them as well; hopefully, she had not said everything she knew. “My sister, Jane, is married to the earl…er, your cousin’s vicar, Mr Tilney. They have three children with a fourth on the way. Her life suits her very well.” I could believe he did not know this, since he had never been interested in those of less importance than himself. Because he had been at least partially responsible for crushing Jane’s long-ago hopes for Mr Bingley, revealing to him of her current happiness was a matter of pride and I would probably have said the same thing no matter its accuracy. Fortunately, it was very true. “It was Mr Tilney who kindly arranged this position for me after my uncle Gardiner died, and my aunt removed to her elderly mother’s home with her three youngest.”
He did not contribute any useless platitudes, or worse, any congratulatory ones—only nodding—which I appreciated. “Kitty resides with my aunt and uncle Philips, with her husband, who is my uncle’s law clerk, in Meryton. They have one son. My sister, Mary, is yet at Longbourn with my cousin Collins and his wife and their two children.”
