Page 12 of The Last House in Lambton (Pride and Prejudice Variations #6)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I n spite of my best efforts, Mrs Edmonton would come to mind when the knocker again sounded on the Friday morning after New Year.

The woman was relentless. Having had quite enough, I intended to put her off forevermore, and so I swung open the door to shoo her away, only to stand in the long, dark shadow of?—

“Mr Darcy!”

He looked around him uncertainly, no doubt because my greeting had been a yelp of surprise. “Forgive me. Is perhaps another day better to?—”

I spotted a flash of purple as Mrs Edmonton dashed down her stairs and turned towards our house, and grasping the gentleman by his arm, I pulled him forcibly inside, and swiftly shut the door.

“I-I,” Mr Darcy stammered.

I once again exercised my technique of friendly grapeshot.

“How good of you to come, sir. And in the first flurries of snow, no less. Does it snow a great deal more in January? I have heard that February might be even worse. We get little snow at Longbourn, but my sisters and I delighted in it when it did come. How is Miss Darcy today? I enjoyed meeting her at long last after hearing so much about her many accomplishments. Is she indeed more skilled at the pianoforte than Mrs Hurst?”

The gentleman’s mouth had hung open slightly throughout, as though he might attempt to answer any one of my questions. When at last he closed his jaw in surrender, I relented.

“Do come into the parlour, sir.” And a few steps later, I stood next to him in front of Mrs Jennings and said, “Auntie dear, Mr Darcy has come to visit.”

“Oh! How kind of you, sir. And you have brought dear Mrs Darcy. I have seen her so often of late, I begin to feel guilty. She has blessed me again and again with her many kindnesses.” She reached out her hand to me, and with my face on fire, I went to her.

“Auntie, I am Elizabeth. Do you remember?”

“Elizabeth? Why, I thought your given name was Anne,” she mused in confusion, before brightening and looking up at me once again. “Tsk, I would never be so familiar in any case, ma’am. But where is your pretty green coat?”

“The one with the fur?” I replied faintly. “I did not wear it because you have already seen it.”

She looked dubiously at my plain woollen gown, but had the grace to refrain from stating her opinion of its homeliness. Meanwhile, I did not dare to look at Mr Darcy’s face, such was the depth of my embarrassment.

With my eyes on his boots—an impeccable pair of polished top boots—I took his coat, hat, and gloves, and passed them to Doreen, who had arrived on the scene at the pace of an overworked plough horse. I excused myself to go to the kitchen for tea.

Penny had begun to learn to anticipate me a little, and she had the tray out of the cupboard and was already in the midst of setting it, just as I had taught her.

I commended her lightly as we worked, and in no time at all, we had slipped the cosy over the pot, and I was treading carefully down the hall towards the parlour.

Mr Darcy met me midway. The gentleman was becoming quite familiar with the narrow hall that led to the kitchen.

In fact, he had also lurked in the hall outside Mrs Reynolds’s office at Pemberley, had he not?

I wondered if he might be one of those eccentrics my father loved to lampoon over dinner, and I was smiling to think of it as I approached.

“Allow me,” he said, searching my face. He did not answer my smile with one of his own. In fact, his ungloved hands grasped the tray over my own bare fingers, and he seemed to press them urgently. The gesture was so marked, I looked up into his eyes in anticipation of what he seemed about to say.

“Is there no one in your family who can come to your aid?” he asked in a low voice. “You are here all alone and?—”

“Hardly alone,” I quipped. “If I were to unlatch that door for five minutes, Mrs Edmonton would be encamped in our parlour for the whole of the afternoon.”

Mr Darcy did not look amused by my jest. Instead, he looked upon me even more intently. “Winters here are not easy.”

“My word, sir! Are you suggesting I should not have the charge of Mrs Jennings? That I am not capable of managing such a small house and providing for the comfort of one tiny lady whose needs are so few?”

“I did not mean to imply that you are incapable.”

Unbelievably, he still had a strong hold over both my hands on the tray handles as we spoke, which, in that cramped passageway, rendered him far too close for such a conference. I threw back my head so as to achieve enough distance to stare at him properly.

“Well?” I cried hotly.

“I meant only that you—er, anyone —should have more support. Is there no one to assist you?”

“Ah,” I said grimly. “You have judged my family once again, and we have failed to make your mark, is it?”

“What?”

“Do not pretend you do not understand me, sir,” I said, extricating my hands by force from underneath his own. “You believe we Bennets are a shoddy bunch.” And then in an effort to put an end to the business, I said, “The tea will get cold.”

We proceeded to enjoy our tea in an atmosphere of affront on both sides.

The room seemed to close in around me as we sat with a gentleman, now mute with aggravation, who did not have the sense to get up and leave.

I made a great show of the inconsequential utterances common to settling an elderly lady with refreshments.

“Are you warm, Auntie? Do be careful in case your tea is too hot, though on second thought,” I said, darting an accusatory look at Mr Darcy, “I would not be surprised if it is barely warm.”

We were then entertained by Mrs Edmonton’s determined knocking and a crash of some sort from the kitchen, both of which Mr Darcy and I studiously ignored, but Mrs Jennings could not.

“What was that?” she asked, startled. And then, as was the case when she suffered even a tiny shock, she became sadly flustered. “Forgive me,” she said tremulously, looking uncertainly at us. “I did not know we had company.”

She looked at me as though I were a total stranger and at Mr Darcy even more so. Perhaps it was his dark coat or his habitually closed expression, but something in his countenance then sparked a memory.

“Oh yes, I remember,” she said, one hand going to her forehead. “The doctor…” Her voice trailed off, and the teacup in her other hand began to rattle in the saucer. I took the cup from her, an d she reached for her handkerchief. “What were you saying about my husband, Mr Carlton?”

I knew what came next. Apparently, this Mr Carlton had come down the stairs from the sickroom and brusquely announced Mr Jennings had died from his condition and that it was all for the best or some such dreadful platitude.

“Auntie, this is Mr Darcy, come to pay a duty call. He is the master of Pemberley, you remember? He satisfies his Christian obligation to widows and orphans by stopping to visit from time to time.”

“Widows?” she asked, still teary.

My stupid tongue!

“And orphans, do not forget the orphans,” I replied with a merry chuckle. “I might just serve as a token orphan, you know, for my mother is that put out with me for not having Mr Collins. She did not even send me a letter at Christmas.”

Mr Darcy, visibly alarmed, sat forwards as all this took place, as though he were on the verge of standing up.

I hoped he intended to make his excuses and leave, but I had no time to attend to parting civilities.

Grapeshot was once again required if my great-aunt were to be salvaged from a bout of outright weeping.

“Christmas?” Mrs Jennings was asking as she swiped at a few tears.

I spoke at the pace and animation of the fool in a puppet show.

“Yes, Christmas! Do you remember? We had the most delicious pudding sent from Pemberley. It was shining under a blanket of apricot glaze, and so tender. My own pudding was fit for a doorstop, but I sent it home with Penny and Doreen. And the goose. We had a tough little goose which I cut up and mixed with the eggs in the morning. Though,” I added thoughtfully, “perhaps I need practice with eggs. But take heart, Auntie. Mrs Smith, who cooks for us, returns in the morning—at least I hope she does—so that we shall not have to have porridge again for breakfast.”

“No, I do not like porridge overmuch,” she said, “though it is said to be…What is it said to be?”

“Glue, if I make it,” I quipped, standing abruptly. “Auntie, come dear. I believe you should rest now. Good day, Mr Darcy. I thank you for coming, sir, and do be mindful that Mrs Edmonton is lying in wait for you when you step out.”