Page 28 of The Last House in Lambton (Pride and Prejudice Variations #6)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

S itting in the understated elegance of a magnificent dining room lit with dozens of candles, nibbling at the most savoury fish course, introduced to me by the footman as les soles au gratin et aux truffes, I reflected that I had succumbed to a fit of madness to have accepted—asked for—Mr Darcy’s invitation to Pemberley.

I sat subdued, conscious of my green silk dress, in spite of it having been perfectly pressed by Miss Darcy’s personal maid.

And though my hair was arranged by that same expert into an elegant chignon, and I wore my garnet cross strung on a gold chain, I felt extraordinarily dowdy.

There sat Mr Darcy in the most light-obliterating black coat and pantaloons, startlingly elegant when juxtaposed as they were against the dazzling white of his silk waistcoat, stockings, and cravat.

Across from him sat Miss Darcy, whose gown of gold satin, topped by an embroidered velvet bodice, was crafted with obvious precision and cut in lines that only a Parisian-trained seamstress could achieve.

I became acutely aware that Aunt Philips had, with the help of her maid Sally Fisk, sewn up my own poor dress well over a year ago.

Even more unsettling than finding myself so far out of my sartorial depth, was the sudden understanding that my entire escapade to Lambton on Mrs Gardiner’s behalf had been a stupid, obdurate indulgence.

I had an unbecomingly strong will and could persuade almost anyone to bend to my wishes.

Even my uncle, who was no one’s gull and did not like the idea at all, had been unable to withstand my single-minded intent to go north.

The realisation struck then and there that I had insisted upon this folly out of a wish to escape my perfectly acceptable circumstances, and not only had I failed to see it through, I must now endure whatever end was yet in store for me.

I sank under the consciousness that in addition to partaking of the next remove—a decadent poulets à la reine —I was also being served up an enormous helping of humility.

I wondered at my naiveté in thinking, upon meeting him at Netherfield Park, that Mr Darcy was no different from any other landed man, possessed of an independent fortune and privileged to do as he pleased.

The fact was he was rich as Croesus and orbited an entirely different sphere from that of Mr Bingley.

His arrogance, his affectation of privilege, and his impatient distaste for Hertfordshire manners came into sharp focus as rather more understandable, and only with great resolution was I able to quell the mortifying memory of my mother’s penetrating whisper at the Meryton Assembly about his suitability to marry one of her daughters.

“I believe I should write to my uncle,” I said quietly as the meal began to wind to its inevitable end. “Might you excuse me this evening while I do so, Miss Darcy?”

“But of course! I shall see to it you have everything you need. There is an escritoire in the little parlour across from your room that is very comfortable for writing. ”

Mr Darcy himself escorted me upstairs on pretence of helping me find my way.

In truth, I suspect he had done so for the purpose of telling me that he would have my letter sent express if that were my wish, or if I did not want to startle my relations in London, he would see it put in the regular post and sent on its way at a more sedate pace.

I was tongue-tied before him and stammered my thanks. I checked on Mrs Jennings, who was listening to Mrs Annesley read one of the overly-sweet romances so popular in ladies periodicals, begged that lady not to trouble herself in the least on our account, and went back to the escritoire.

There, I sat before a blank sheet of paper in a state of dread.

Nothing came to me, and after a quarter of an hour, I slunk back to our room, and sat in a bundle of shawls while Miss Darcy’s companion’s voice lulled me into a stupor.

I would write to my relations in the morning, I decided.

Seeing us both with drooping eyelids, Mrs Annesley finished her chapter, asked if we needed anything save the upstairs maid to help us change into our night things, and bade us good night.

Very soon after we had finished our evening ablutions, Auntie succumbed to her nightly draught, and I fell into a profound sleep.

In the morning, I took tea in the little parlour at the escritoire, while Miss Darcy and Mrs Annesley visited Mrs Jennings in her room with a basket of kittens.

I longed to join them, to forestall my duty to write to my uncle, and to otherwise forget that life would soon crumble around me, and I would again be idle and adrift at Longbourn until such time as I became Charlotte Collins’s poor relation, privileged to serve as her unpaid maid.

With a tremendous sigh of resolution, I took up my pen.

Dear Aunt,

You will be amazed when you read that I am writing to you from a cosy little apartment on the second storey at Pemberley.

To make a long story short enough to fit in the space of a mere letter, I shall only say that we have been singled out by Miss Darcy as her particular friends, that she has invited us…

I stared at the words I had written and saw that I was trying to make silk out of flax in order to escape the scolding I deserved. I tore up the page, and I began again.

Dear Aunt and Uncle Gardiner,

First, you must be easy that all is well. However, things here are not quite as you might expect, and Mrs Jennings and I are temporarily housed at Pemberley…

Terrible.

Daunted, I dispensed with any attempt to write out a fair copy of a letter in the first draft, turned the paper over, and began to compose opening sentences which might ease my way into a disclosure of the unflattering facts.

The weather in Lambton has been dreadful, but we are quite comfortable…

And—

I hope this letter finds you both well. Mrs Jennings is well enough for her age, but I would be remiss if I did not mention there is cause for some anxiety where she is concerned. You see…

Dreadful!

I stood abruptly and went to the window.

There I stared out at a vast estate, beautiful even in the dead of winter.

I longed to walk out on the groomed path that meandered away from the house, past an espadrille of apricots that lined a walled garden, and into the meadow dotted with bare-limbed chestnuts.

I wondered if I dared to go, thought better of it, and instead, wandered down the hall in search of inspiration.

“Are you looking for the gallery, miss?” asked the upstairs maid as I passed her in the hall.

“If you would but point me in the right direction,” I replied.

“Go one floor above you, and make a turn to the right. You will not miss it.”

There I went, and on the way, ascertained that the gallery was the only destination of anyone who wandered that stretch of hall, which accounted for why the maid had directed me there.

I wandered aimlessly, staring at such a variety of objets d’arte as would stuff any exhibition hall in London.

Aside from marble and porcelain treasures, there were countless portraits, many of which showed such a similarity in colouring—dark—and also countenance—brooding, serene, intelligent—as to suggest I was making the acquaintance of Mr Darcy’s ancestors.

One, who looked particularly unwelcoming in his wig and robes, must surely have been the high court judge, and thinking I would rather not wither under his stare much longer, I moved down the gallery to a glass cabinet.

There were displayed a number of miniatures.

George Wickham!

I could hardly believe my eyes. So much had happened since I had left Hertfordshire, I had nearly forgotten Mr Wickham. I stared at the familiar face, framed handsomely and displayed with no less prominence than the rest of the family portraits, including Mr and Miss Darcy.

Baffled, I stood entranced, unable to congeal a thought as to why his image would be so fairly treated if he, himself, was not.

The mind is said to be a labyrinth, and I could well believe it since this curiously unrelated discovery caused me to stiffen into a sudden, sober resolve.

Only conceit led me to believe I understood everything, and while Mr Wickham’s relationship with the Darcys remained mysterious, my duty to my uncle did not.

Jolted out of my apathy and certain of how to proceed, I returned to the little escritoire.

My dear uncle,

Forgive me, sir, but I have need of you.

I have kept from both you and my aunt the true circumstance in which I have found Mrs Jennings.

She has no memory whatsoever, requires constant care, and has no society at all.

I kept these particulars from you when I should have made you immediately aware.

I can only guess what your feelings might now be and do not try to dissuade you from being angry with me.

I ask only that you take into consideration my misguided intent to spare you either the anxiety or the rigours of winter travel, that I thought I could manage for a few weeks more, and that I would have time enough when Mrs Burke returned to make you aware that something else must be done for the lady.

However, the winter has been hard and her help and means insufficient for her comfort.

The only saving grace is that I have had the good fortune to meet Miss Darcy, a local gentlewoman, and she has taken it upon herself to make us her particular friends.

We are, at the writing of this letter, her guests at Pemberley, an estate not five miles away from Lambton, residing in safety and the highest degree of comfort, and it is here you should direct your correspondence to me as to what should be done.