Page 2 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy did not ride in the carriage with me. He and his cousin rode alongside.
We arrived in London in the late afternoon.
The bustle of the city slowed us to a crawl and the drizzle of rain at dusk seemed a fitting accompaniment to our miserable arrival at my husband’s townhouse after such a wedding.
The household lined up to greet the new mistress.
I heard the shuffle of feet, a few discreet coughs, and the noise of the carriage taken away to the mews as I solemnly met them.
I suppose I deferred the inevitable moment my husband and I were left alone by asking the butler, Mr Harrison, and the London housekeeper, Mrs Spencer, to introduce me by name to each of the footmen, the maids, the cook, and her kitchen girls.
With their hands clasped behind their backs, Mr Darcy and his cousin stood expressionless in the hall during this formal proceeding.
Mr Harrison then directed us into an elegant saloon where the aroma of lemon oil and gleaming surfaces daunted me nearly as much as the grim faces worn by the two men who faced me.
Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed and excused himself with a curtly uttered, “Mrs Darcy.”
Mr Darcy seemed on the verge of speaking when Mrs Spencer entered and asked whether we would sit down to dinner.
My husband gestured that the decision would fall to me, so I cleared my throat and said, “A simple supper in an hour would do very well for us, Mrs Spencer. Although,” I said meekly, “I do not know where to suggest we sit down.” At home, we had always used the breakfast parlour for our light and casual suppers.
“Even on occasions when they have no company, Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy prefer to use the dining room in the evening, ma’am,” she replied.
I thanked her for the suggestion and agreed to be led to my room to refresh myself. I looked once at Mr Darcy before I curtseyed and left the room. Perhaps I wanted to assure myself I was not dreaming.
Mrs Spencer spent ten minutes acquainting me with the suite, ascertaining if I had any particular preferences, and introducing Naomi Wilson, newly hired, to serve as my personal maid.
Wilson began to make immediate arrangements for me to wash and turned to empty my trunk.
“We leave for Pemberley first thing in the morning,” I said, “and aside from a few things, I see no need for you to have to unpack only to put it all back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked to be above the age of thirty, once quite pretty and now mellowing into a somewhat formal and unreadable woman.
I realised with a start that this one person would be privy to a great deal, so after a moment of indecision at the dressing table, I turned and said, “Wilson, I am afraid I must be unforgivably blunt.”
She looked up sharply, as though she expected a criticism. “Ma’am?”
“My father is a gentleman from a small estate in Hertfordshire with five daughters and the estate entailed to a cousin we have never met. I did not come to this marriage with any dowry, nor did I bring with me a trousseau. We will make do with what I have for now and begin to address the matter of gowns when we reach Derbyshire.”
Wilson’s back had straightened to rigidity as she listened to this speech. Once she comprehended that she was not being dismissed, and further, that I was confessing my humble origins, she softened ever so slightly.
“Very good, Mrs Darcy. Might you show me what I should press for tonight and tomorrow’s travels?”
“I would rather you suggest what you think best.” I smiled, albeit sadly, for the first time in weeks. “I am afraid I am not a pattern card for what is a la mode.”
We quickly agreed on my second-best dinner dress.
She stowed my nightgown, robe and undergarments in the dressing room, and set out a serviceable carriage dress and warm shawl for the morning.
I then submitted to being undressed by a stranger, to washing whilst assisted, and lastly to being dressed, groomed, and declared fit for a simple supper.
Throughout, underneath our footsteps, underneath the sound of water being wrung out of a cloth into the basin, and underneath the swish of my dress falling over my shoulders, I heard the breathless silence all around me.
“Thank you, Wilson,” I said. I could not keep the quaver out of my voice as I stared at my reflection in the looking glass. For some reason, the intimacy of that quiet hour had left me shaken. My maid glanced up in surprise, our eyes met in the mirror, and thus, our alliance was forged.