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“I remember Uncle explaining it,” I agreed, wondering what all this had to do with Mr Martin. “He said that gentlemen might be criticised for participating in trade or appearing to work for their livelihood, but that he had a few silent partners of the gentry, at various times.”
She nodded. “Yes. He seldom learnt the identity of those silent partners, for that was Mr Ferrars’s realm. Now, as you remember, in Mr Gardiner’s final venture—the largest, riskiest project he had ever undertaken—everything collapsed in disarray with his sudden death. The ship’s cargo docked and was warehoused, but the ship’s captain made false claims of ownership. Paperwork went missing. Mr Gardiner’s partners were none of them silent, I promise you; they all contributed threats to see me ruined. I suspect at least one of them to have been in league with the dishonest captain. Mr Ferrars proved ineffectual. I knew coming to Lambton was our only hope, and I would have arrived here penniless except for receiving a generous eleventh-hour offer on the Gracechurch Street property.”
It was my turn to nod, for I knew all of this.
“I informed you, at your last visit, that everything had come right. Mr Ferrars had managed the business after all, realising a profit far beyond what even your uncle anticipated. That, it seems, was not quite true.”
“It was less profitable?”
“No. But it was not Mr Ferrars who concluded the venture. He sent me some final papers not long ago, which included a signature I was not expecting. As it turned out, he had included the paper quite by accident, and was very embarrassed when I wrote to him, questioning about it. But at last he gave me the answers I sought.”
I was still confused. “So…was Mr Martin a-a silent partner?”
She gave me a serious look. “No, he had naught to do with it. The signature was Fitzwilliam Darcy’s.”
I was absolutely flummoxed, and more confused than ever. I could only stare at her, mouth open.
“Mr Ferrars explained that Mr Darcy had often been a silent partner in their projects. I promise you, it was a complete surprise to me, and would have been to Mr Gardiner as well.”
“It seems so unlikely,” I said at last. “And…Mr Darcy was an unknown, silent partner in Uncle’s final venture?”
“Not at all. Mr Darcy knew nothing about it, evidently, until he happened to learn of my need to sell our property on Gracechurch Street—and I have my suspicions about why he learned that—and, it transpired, was its purchaser, through his solicitor. At that point, he approached Mr Ferrars with questions regarding what had happened to my husband, and what investments he had been developing when he died. And then… he intervened. It was a dreadful tangle, and it took Mr Darcy some time to settle matters. But settle matters he did. Mr Ferrars tried to pay him from his own portion of the revenue, but Mr Darcy refused it, telling him that Mr Gardiner had helped his earnings with more than enough profit over the years, and if he wished to make things right, he ought to give the proceeds to his widow. Which was precisely what the very honourable Mr Ferrars did. It was an extremely large sum.”
I sat in silence, trying to comprehend. Mr Darcy had purchased the Gracechurch Street home? But why? It could not have had anything to do with me—Anne was still alive then. Had it truly been a gesture of respect for a man who had earned him profits in the past? But my aunt was not finished with her explanations.
“I have gradually, over time, acquired the habit of divulging to Mr Martin a good deal more than lists of chores. He is articulate, sensible, and an excellent listener. And when I poured out my confusion and astonishment over Mr Darcy’s very welcome interference, he revealed more of his own identity.”
“Who is he?” I almost whispered.
“He is, as you so astutely deduced, no mere labourer, but one of Mr Darcy’s wealthiest tenants. He farms a large property held by Mr Darcy, but which he has leased for decades, and his father and grandfather before him.”
This was both incredible, and made less sense than ever. “Why would Mr Darcy send him here? Why would he agree to such a request?”
“Mr Darcy did not send him, precisely. He only went to him for assistance with a recommendation. Mr Darcy had learnt, you see, of the state of the property here. He knew my financial situation at the time was bleak, and he intended to subsidise a hired man who could see to needed repairs at the miniscule rate I could afford. Mr Martin knows a goodly number of qualified men and could well advise him on the subject. However…”
Her voice softened, tears coming to her eyes. I remained silent until she could speak.
“Mr Martin lost his wife six months before I lost your uncle. He was in a state, he said, of near despair, missing her quite desperately. Upon hearing my story from Mr Darcy, he could picture it as if his wife had been left impoverished and alone with young ones, trying to start over again. Nothing would do for him except to see to everything himself. The servants not from Gracechurch Street, including our cook, are from his own home. Mr Darcy is his ‘silent partner’ in it all, I am certain, though I feel as if…as if Mr Gardiner himself arranged for my care. Likewise, Mr Martin feels as if his own dear Harriet brought us to him. I know it sounds odd, but we…we find much comfort in the situation. He needed a family, and I needed…a friend who could understand.”
I was silent for long moments, but there really was only one thing to say. “Well, Auntie, I believe Mr Martin ought to begin joining us at the dinner table forthwith. Do not you?”
* * *
That night, as I lay upon my bed, I tried to think what it all meant. I could understand it at face value—Mr Ferrars was somehow known to Mr Darcy, and so he had invested in a few schemes, privately. He had never known either my uncle or aunt first-hand, though…so nothing else made sense. Why would he buy the Gracechurch Street home? What possible use could it be to him? If he were not affected by that final partnership’s dissolution, why involve himself? And if it were only a matter of gratitude for the efforts of an infrequent former investment partner, why would he put himself to the trouble and expense of seeing to my aunt’s immediate welfare, knowing, as he had, that it would all come right in the end?
My uncle had been dead for two years now. My aunt had struggled along on Mr Ferrars’s reassurances for nearly a year before we deemed it hopeless and I went to Rosings, and she to Lambton. I had been at Rosings for a year before Mr Darcy’s arrival. His wife had been dead only three months when he proposed. We had been married but two.
It meant that fourteen months ago, unbeknownst to me, Mr Darcy had saved my family yet again. I had accepted that he had felt some responsibility for Lydia’s downfall, due to his silence on the matter of Wickham’s character during his time at Netherfield. But there was no possible obligation this time. My uncle’s heart had failed, not his character, nor anything to do with any possible connexion of Mr Darcy’s.
I could not take it in. Finally, I arose again, lit a candle, and took out my letter case. I would not be able to sleep until I put pen to paper and asked my sister, Jane, a burning question: Just how did Mr Tilney gain the living at Matlock?
I had a feeling that I already knew.
