Page 13 of The Last House in Lambton (Pride and Prejudice Variations #6)

CHAPTER TWELVE

W hat a horrible, horrible visit!

I hoped this time I had disgusted Mr Darcy sufficiently that he would refrain from paying us any further duty calls.

“The gentleman did not go to the door, miss,” Doreen said, slipping into the room.

“What?” I cried, as I slipped Mrs Jennings’s slippers off her feet.

“Hannah, what is wrong?” the old lady asked tremulously, and so I turned my attention calmly and fully back to her, taking my time settling her in the bed, replacing her lace cap for a warm one of flannel, and clucking like an old hen as I tucked the shawl around her shoulders.

“Sit with her, Doreen, and tell her happy stories.”

The maid looked at me as though I had asked her to recite the Book of Genesis, but I closed the door on her and went down to the parlour to confront my lingering guest.

“Forgive me. I stayed to assure Mrs Jennings is?—”

“She is as well as can be expected,” I replied crisply, wishing I could add that if he ever chose to visit again—which I strongly doubted he would do—he was forbidden to wear black.

Instead, I faced him head on.

“I believe you are suffering under a misapprehension, Mr Darcy. Mrs Jennings is not my blood relation. She is the aunt of my maternal uncle’s wife.

That lady would have come herself, but she has small children and a life full of responsibilities, and upon my insistence, I have come in her stead.

None of us knew of Mrs Jennings’s debility.

If we had, do you believe we would let her live out her days in such a way? ”

“No, I?—”

I stood my full height. “I will not write to Mrs Gardiner and cause her the anxiety of knowing her last living relative in Derbyshire is in such a sad condition. I believe Mrs Jennings’s housekeeper must have helped her write her letters in such a way so as to disguise her failing wits, and though it was misguided interference, I believe the woman meant well.

Meanwhile, the situation is manageable until Mrs Burke returns to Lambton.

I can assure you, when I am relieved of this duty, I will go to London and make the situation known to Mr and Mrs Gardiner.

The winter will be subsiding and travel more convenient by then, and something will be done, whether my uncle sells the house and brings her to London or some other suitable plan is made. ”

He looked downcast and on the edge of formulating a vague reply, but I was intent upon trampling him down entirely.

“I am a gentleman’s daughter, sir, but I am not so gently bred I cannot suffer the indignities of a little work.

No doubt you mistook me for having the delicacy of any number of elegant—perhaps I should say temptingly handsome —ladies of your acquaintance, but I assure you, I am not the least bit fragile. ”

His eyes flew up to meet my own before they fell abruptly. He fidgeted with his hat brim and said, “At least let me send the squire’s wife to you.”

“What?” I gasped.

“Lady Pembridge is a kindly lady.”

“I am sure she is to you, Mr Darcy. Would she be as kind when Mrs Jennings refers to her as Joan of Arc or the laundress or her long-dead governess? I am reluctant to subject Mrs Jennings to any more snubs than she already enjoys from the good people of Lambton.”

“Will you allow me to at least speak to her?”

“To the squire’s wife? I cannot imagine why you would.”

“I would be more comfortable if you had at least some support.”

We both jumped out of our skins then, for the door, next to where we stood speaking, began to shake from Mrs Edmonton’s determined pounding. I covered my face with both hands and released a faint, though unladylike, roar of irritation.

“Allow me,” he said, and before I could stop him, Mr Darcy opened the door and towered over Mrs Edmonton. That is the last I saw, for he closed the door behind him. I could hear him speaking however, and stood rooted to the spot to listen.

“Cease your knocking, madam. Mrs Jennings is resting.”

The neighbour mumbled something I could not hear, but I plainly heard his reply. By the sound of his voice, I thought Mr Darcy had reached the frayed end of all patience.

“You had better go home. The ladies are not taking visitors for the rest of the day.”

The next sound I heard was Mr Darcy’s coachman whipping up the horses of his elegant carriage.

Two days later, I had finally ceased to think of Mr Darcy day and night.

I could not, in all my wildest imaginings, decide why he had paid us so much attention. From time to time, I would even recollect some conversation or other that I had had with the gentleman, principally during my stay at Netherfield while Jane was ill.

‘The word accomplishment is applied to many a woman who deserves it only because she has netted a purse,’ he had claimed with ponderous assurance, and later, pointing a look at me and speaking in a tone that smacked of lemons, ‘The wisest of men may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.’

These and other such demonstrations of his inflated self-opinion were terribly tempting to pick apart, but I squashed them immediately upon their arrival in my mind.

I missed Jane too much to think of her, even peripherally when thinking of Mr Darcy. I missed everyone too much. I even missed my mother, and I did not want to fall into the sulks. Besides, the balance of power in the kitchen was still undecided.

Mrs Smith returned three days later than expected but bold as a tinker’s mistress, and went about her business as though nothing had ever been amiss.

“Will you go to the butcher this morning?” she asked, standing at the stove with her back to me once again.

“I will go Wednesday as usual,” I replied, and seeing her take a breath to argue, I then added, “but we have fresh cream and potatoes if you will make a soup. That would go nicely with the last of the smoked trout Mrs Jennings has from Christmas.”

The cook did not like my new tone of authority. The following day, she challenged me in a more frontal manner. “I see there are peas in the larder, miss.”

You would have thought she had caught me kissing the vicar by the accusatory tone she chose to use. I answered with impressive indifference.

“Indeed,” I said, taking the tins of tea and cinnamon biscuits from the cupboard.

“We had two pots of a pease soup while you were gone. Mrs Jennings is not averse to a low diet for supper. We have the bone of a ham packed in salt if you would like it for your stock when you use the rest of the peas. When I go to the butcher next week, remind me to get meat for a stew. I made a decent stew, if I do say so myself, but perhaps you might like to try to outdo me, hmm?”

I then took the tins up to my room and hid them in my hatbox.

This was how little I trusted Mrs Smith.

I sincerely wished she were half as smart as she imagined herself to be, for if that had been the case, she would have seen how easily she could trounce me by simply out-cooking me.

What I would not do for a delicate ragout studded with mushrooms.

Lightly amused by this silly intrigue, I went downstairs and sat with Auntie, who was knitting another shawl of great proportion.

This one, I planned to give to Penny. We settled by the window for the sake of the light, and for once the day was fine.

I would have walked out, but I walked too much to wish to go for mere pleasure.

Besides, it was unpleasantly cold. I could tell because the horses on the gig that approached were steaming from their nostrils.

But wait. The gig came to a stop at our house!

I watched warily as a woman stepped down and handed the reins to the youngster who had been standing on the back. She then came directly to Mrs Jennings’s door and introduced herself.

I retrieved my hoard from my hatbox, and we served India tea and cinnamon biscuits to Lady Sarah Pembridge, the squire’s wife.

She was a sturdy woman of perhaps forty years.

She wore black so naturally, I assumed it was her preference because it made her presence all that much more formidable.

Perhaps my impression in that regard was strengthened by a frank and practical countenance which exhibited none of the tell-tale signs of grief.

By her complexion I gathered Lady Pembridge was what some ladies derisively referred to as a country horsewoman.

I had no doubt whatsoever she rode to hounds, shot shoulder-to-shoulder with the men during pheasant season, and could whip a team of four.

This was not a lady much in need of a parasol, unless it was for the purpose of poking a drunk if he was unlucky enough to be in her way.

“So, you are the lady Darcy told me about,” she said, sweeping her commanding gaze over me. I felt measured, weighed, stamped, and shelved, and I wondered how high—or low—I had been placed. “And Mrs Jennings. I am pleased to meet you. You inherited the Frye house, I understand?”

“Did I?” Mrs Jennings asked me in a whisper.

“You did, Auntie. This is the house that Mrs Gardiner grew up in while you were away in Derby.”

Lady Pembridge did not stay long. Nor did she ask intrusive questions of either Mrs Jennings or me.

Instead, we talked of what day of the week I went to the butcher and the baker, if I bought sundries from Stevenson’s or Yorke’s, which coal monger we preferred, and whether the vicar’s wife had visited me.

To her last question, I answered, “I have not met Mrs Wilkes just yet.”

“You have no company at all, according to Darcy.”

“We receive daily visits from Mrs Edmonton,” I replied lightly.

“Who? The brothel owner?” she asked.

“Dear Lord. Is that who she is?”

“Was. She has set herself up to be respectable now but has made no inroads in that regard. ”

“I am surprised she is not now knocking on the door to try to discover who is visiting me,” I said with a defeated smile. “I believe I have made us equally unpalatable company by allowing the acquaintance.”

“Never mind,” the squire’s wife said, rising from her chair. “My rule is never to be squeamish about any person I encounter. I meet everyone standing, and if they are not to my liking, I walk away. My reputation has always been independent of who I meet.”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied in the subdued manner of a schoolgirl told to stand up straight.

Lady Pembridge was a singular acquaintance, and I held her in the category of unknown, having never before met a woman who was powerful in her own right. This was not a lady who leant on her husband’s consequence—she had her own supply—but I suspected she would be hard to warm to.

Mrs Jennings was also tepid in her response to ‘that lady.’ Auntie had no references to call upon with regard to such a formidable woman, and as such, she could not assign even a false identity to her.

I met ‘that lady’ three times the following week. The first meeting took place at the butcher’s shop. I stood waiting for my turn when the door came open, and Lady Pembridge, dressed head to foot in black, strode in. She came directly to me.

“Miss Bennet,” she said dipping her head.

“Lady Pembridge,” I replied with a full curtsey.

This acknowledgement was sufficient to raise my currency with the butcher.

I learnt from the man that the squire’s wife had the richest poultry yard in all Derbyshire, that she successfully raised all manner of birds, and that he was sometimes lucky to receive excesses from that estate for a fair price.

This fortuitous meeting subsequently raised my standing with Mrs Smith, for I was the beneficiary of one of her birds.

“I have brought a fat capon today, Mrs Smith,” I announced proudly as I came into the kitchen with my basket. “And look, a decent rind of pork for bacon.” This triumph had bolstered me to a stupid degree, and I spoke more personably than was usual. “Would you believe it?”

“Lawks!” she cried, also taken off her guard by my success. “I ha’ not seen a capon in a while. I will roast him up fit to feed a prince.”

I clapped my hands and said, “Perhaps you can put the potatoes underneath so they can roast in the drippings. Well, that is how we did it at home anyway, and I once got an offer of marriage from a man who thought I had made those potatoes.”

“The weddin’ potatoes, is it?” she laughed.

We both looked at one another in surprise before she settled back into suspicious dislike, and I retreated to my frosty manners.

I had thought the incident at the butcher shop had been purely coincidental, but when Lady Pembridge again noticed me at the baker’s, I suspected she had chosen me for her project.

That day, I returned home with my usual allotment of two loaves of bread and a dozen buns, but the latter were still warm from the ovens and slightly larger than I had been used to.

When I arrived in the kitchen, I tore open a fresh roll, spread it with butter, and handed it to Penny.

I then did the same for myself, Doreen, Smith, and even Mrs Smith.

We stood in the kitchen in silence as we indulged, each of us in a kind of floury heaven.

The cook passed out cups of milk as we ate, and when I had licked the tips of my fingers clean of butter, Penny helped me make a tray with the same homely delight for Mrs Jennings .

“Only half a dozen rolls left, miss,” Penny said with a sigh.

“True, but we must treat ourselves once in a while.”

I then offered an olive branch to the cook, adding in a voice loud enough to be overheard, “And if Mrs Smith wants more buns later in the week, I will fetch them for her.”