by Jane Grix
Elizabeth moved back to Gracechurch Street. She made inquiries and learned that Mr. Bingley had married again and now had another child. She wished him well and hoped that he had found some happiness.
There was little possibility of her mother or her sisters seeing her, for Mrs. Bennet’s house was an acknowledged brothel now and Mr. Gardiner would have nothing to do with her.
Then Mr. Gardiner died, and now Elizabeth was employed by Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth sighed. She looked forward to a quiet life of taking long walks and reading.
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Lewis informed Darcy that Mrs. Holt had arrived that morning and was now settled in her room. Darcy was pleased. For the first time in a long time, he had something to look forward to. He asked Mrs. Lewis to inform Mrs. Holt that he would like her to join him in the library at two p.m. for her first reading session. “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Lewis said.
Darcy met with his steward and took a walk in the garden and then retired to the library to wait for Mrs. Holt. He walked slowly about the room, breathing in the scent of old books and running his hands over the spines of leather volumes, thinking that at last, their pages would be open to him again.
Darcy smiled. Earlier in life, he had been impatient, becoming unpleasant when he had nothing to do, but his blindness had taught him patience and the pleasures of anticipation.
He arranged two comfortable chairs so they faced each other and then sat in one. He waited.
A footman announced Mrs. Holt.
Darcy stood and motioned to the chair by him. “Please be seated,” he said.
He heard the swish of her long skirts as she walked quietly to the chair and seated herself. When he looked at her, he saw a blurry figure and could see movement, but he could not see her features clearly. He had not been able to see another person’s face clearly for years. He said, “Is your room adequate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Mrs. Lewis has given you a tour of the house?”
“Of the kitchen and the main rooms of the house, yes, sir.”
“Then let us begin,” he said. “I thought we should start with a novel that my father read to me when I was a child. Robinson Crusoe.”
He motioned to a table beside her where the book was located and saw her blurred figure move to pick up the first volume. He said, “Please read slowly and distinctly. If I wish you stop, I will hold up my hand.”
“Yes, sir.”
He heard her turn pages to the beginning of the book and she began reading, “Chapter One. Start in Life. I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving off his trade, lived afterwards at York, from whence he had married my mother, whose relations were named Robinson. . .”
As Mrs. Holt read, Darcy was reminded of his father who had read to him in the evenings when he was a child. He did not learn until he was much older how rare that was. Many parents of his class ignored their children, rarely seeing them until they were older and capable of civil conversation.
But his father had enjoyed his childish questions and interests. At one time, Darcy had planned to read to his own children, but he did not anticipate having children now. He would satisfy his paternal instincts by being a pleasant uncle to his sister Georgiana’s children.
When Mrs. Holt finished the second chapter, he held up his hand. “That is enough. Thank you, Mrs. Holt. You may go now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, and then she was gone.
FOR THE NEXT MONTH, Elizabeth read at least once a day, most often twice, to Mr. Darcy. She read Robinson Crusoe first and then The Vicar of Wakefield. Elizabeth understood his first selection for it was an adventure and often popular with men, but The Vicar of Wakefield was a sentimental novel, and she was surprised to find that Mr. Darcy liked it.
He often smiled at the descriptions and one time he laughed out loud and said, “Marvellous.”
Elizabeth paused in her reading.
“Go ahead,” he said after a moment, when she said, “Sir?”
“You may proceed,” he said. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, sir.”
Something of her own thoughts may have shown in her voice, for he said, “Mrs. Holt, is there a problem?”
“No, sir. I am merely surprised by your response.”
“You did not find the passage amusing?”
“Yes, slightly.”
“I never thought to ask,” he said. “What do you think of the Vicar and his family?”
She had read the novel years before and had enjoyed it, but now that she was older and hopefully wiser, she thought it was melodramatic. She said, “It is only a novel, and therefore, not realistic at all.”
“No,” he agreed. “It is a satire. Some might say it is a modern version of Job.”
“Without all the deaths, perhaps. And the skin boils.”
Darcy laughed out loud. “Mrs. Holt, you surprise me.”
She did not know how to answer that, so she said nothing.
He said, “Are you one of those women who disapprove of novels?”
“No, indeed. I find that novels can be a solace or a distraction.”
“And what are your favourites?”
“I suppose Camilla.”
“You are a romantic, then.”
“When I was younger, perhaps.”
Darcy said, “You make it sound as if you are in your dotage. What is your great age, if I may ask?”
For a moment, Elizabeth was reminded of Darcy’s aunt, the unpleasant Lady Catherine de Bourgh who had once demanded that she tell her age when she was only twenty. Elizabeth did not want Darcy to think that she was too young for her position, so she said carefully, “I have not yet reached my fortieth birthday,” she said, not precisely lying but implying that she was thirty-nine.
Darcy nodded. “Not much older than I am, myself, then,” he said. “So, I refuse to let you call yourself old. We are neither of us young, but we are not in our graves yet.”
“No, sir.”
“Go ahead. Continue reading,” he said, and she returned to her task.
Over the next few days, Elizabeth was surprised that Mr. Darcy now wished to converse about her readings. She enjoyed their discussions. Darcy was an intelligent, well-read man.
After the Vicar of Wakefield, they started reading Gulliver’s Travels.
And then one night, he said, “That is enough. Put the book down, Mrs. Holt.”
She closed the book. “Do you wish me to leave, sir?”
“No. Not yet.” He sighed. “I feel that Mr. Swift’s description of mankind and society is brutal but accurate and I wish to pause for a few minutes.”
She sat with her hands in her lap, her back straight, waiting for his instruction. He said abruptly, “Do you read the newspapers?”
“Am I permitted?” She had seen older newspapers stored in the library but had not felt free to move them. She had merely read whatever papers were on top.
He looked at her, frowning. “Yes, you are permitted.”
“Then yes, I sometimes read the newspapers.”
He smiled as if amused by her admission. He then said abruptly, “What do you think of the King’s divorce?”
Elizabeth hesitated. In July, a bill had been introduced to Parliament to deprive the Queen of her title, rights, and privileges and to dissolve her marriage with the King. The prosecution had made its case, and now the trial was adjourned for three weeks. The matter was of discussion among the servants at Pemberley, but Elizabeth, as one of the newer members of the household, had not expressed her opinion.
“Come now, tell me what you actually think. I will not dismiss you if your opinion does not match mine.”
Elizabeth said, “I believe that neither of the parties have acted admirably, but as woman, I am sympathetic to the Queen. I do not believe the
King ever gave her the respect she deserved.”
He said, “I am sympathetic as well. For all her faults, she is still Queen, and the King cannot change the past.”
She said, “Some say Mrs. Fitzherbert should have been queen.”
He nodded in agreement. “She is another woman he treated abominably.” He added, “We live in tumultuous times. I wonder if the monarchy will survive, and then I wonder if Pemberley will survive.”
“Pemberley is not in danger, surely.”
He said, “Perhaps not. But without my vision, I cannot be certain. I feel as if everything is outside my grasp.”
Elizabeth said gently, “Is there no cure for your ailment?”
Darcy said, “No. I have cataracts.”
Elizabeth nodded. It was a common problem. Many elderly people had clouding in their eyes. It was a shame that it had affected Mr. Darcy so early in his life. She said, “I have heard that there is surgery.”
Darcy said sharply, “It is not reliable. I have researched the matter for years.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was an awkward silence and then he said, “You are an easy woman to talk to, Mrs. Holt, and I have spoken beyond the scope of your employment. Forgive me.”
Elizabeth was touched by his apology. She said, “I take no offense. Indeed, it is just talk, and I understand the desire to talk about one’s problems even if there is no solution. You are my employer and if I may be of assistance, I am happy to do so.”
Darcy smiled wryly. “Thank you, Mrs. Holt. That will be all for this evening.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Darcy woke in the middle of the night, his skin filmed with sweat, his heart pounding. He hastily lit a candle on his bedside table.
He had dreamed of Elizabeth Bennet again.
In the dream they were at Netherfield, and they danced, but this time, he did not merely talk about Wickham politely. Instead, he told her that Wickham was a villain, that he had tried to elope with his sister Georgiana, and in the dream, Elizabeth had believed him.
And then, instead of separating after their dance, he took her outside into Bingley’s gardens and there, he kissed her.
She had been warm and willing in his arms, giving him kiss for kiss, until he woke, frustrated that the dream had not continued.
He groaned and lay back on his tangled sheets and stared at the ceiling, for all the good it did him.
He lived in a world of shadows and shapes.
But in his dream, Elizabeth’s face had been bright and clear and beautiful.
Although he often thought of her, it had been years since he had dreamed of her.
He felt as if God were punishing him, reminding him of the woman he could not have. The only woman he had ever loved.
He turned on his side and closed his eyes, wishing that he could fall asleep and dream of her again.
EVERY DAY ELIZABETH did not know what to expect from Mr. Darcy. Sometimes when she read aloud, he made no comments. Other days, he wished to converse with her and little reading was done.
In addition to novels, over the next two months, she read poetry, the Bible, and sometimes, even the newspapers. They read about the King’s divorce, which had been abandoned because it did not have sufficient support in Parliament.
“Perhaps things will be more settled now.” Elizabeth said.
“I doubt it.” Darcy said dourly. “The King and his brothers will not live long. Is our only hope to be Princess Alexandrina?”
She was the infant daughter of the Duke of Kent. “Princess Adelaide might still have children,” she said. According to the papers, she had two children who had died the year before.
Darcy shook his head. “We are all putting our hopes that these infants will somehow live to adulthood.”
“What else can we do?” Elizabeth asked.
Darcy sighed. “I don’t want to be like the Americans and elect presidents.”
Elizabeth smiled but said nothing. Their conversation reminded her of her own father and his broad interests. She thought that if her father had been able to meet and converse with Mr. Darcy, they might have become friends.
But that was impossible now, and it would have been improbable even if her father were still alive. Years before, Darcy had not been impressed with her family. She remembered the cutting words he had used to describe them in his letter, telling her that her mother, her younger sisters, and even her father, had acted with a total want of propriety.
Elizabeth smiled grimly. Darcy had been conceited and judgemental, but he had also been right. Her mother had no propriety then and had even less now.
In some ways, Elizabeth was glad that Darcy did not know what had become of her family.
If she had accepted his initial proposal – but no, she would not think of that. She had refused him, and it was for the best. He would have been horrified to learn of Lydia’s elopement and her illegitimate baby.
Her family had become disreputable and Darcy would not have wanted to be aligned with them.
One evening, at the end of a chapter, Mr. Darcy asked Elizabeth if she played the pianoforte.
“A little,” she answered.
“I would enjoy hearing you play, if you are willing.”
Elizabeth did not mind. “Yes, sir.” She walked over to the pianoforte and played one of the half-dozen pieces she knew by heart.
He listened, smiling slightly to himself. When she finished, he said, “That song reminds me of earlier days.”
Elizabeth’s heart felt a moment’s fear. She remembered that she had played the pianoforte years before when Darcy was present. Could he be remembering her performance? If so, she must play something new rather than her few favourites pieces. “What music sheets do you have?”
“My sister Georgiana keeps them in a chest of drawers,” he said and pointed across the room.
Elizabeth found the chest and was pleased to find sonatinas by Ignaz Pleyel, whom she liked better than Haydn. “Ah, this will keep me occupied for many evenings,” she said and carried several sheets of music back to the instrument.
She played for nearly half an hour, until her hands were tired.
“You have stopped,” Darcy said. “Is there a problem?”
“Only that my fingers need practise. It has been several months since I have played.”
He said, “If you would like to practise, you can do so at any time.”
She thought of Lady Catherine who had once said she could practise in the servants’ quarters. “Here? In this room?”
“Yes, for it is the best instrument in the house. There is another smaller pianoforte in what was my mother’s private sitting room, but I don’t know if it is still in good repair.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I would love to practise in the morning if it will not disturb anyone.”
He smiled. “Well, I suppose that depends on what time you wish to play. If you get up with the girls who lay the fires, that might be too early. Please wait until after breakfast, and then you may play whenever you like. I will not mind it and I assume the rest of the household would enjoy hearing the music as well.”
“Thank you.”
He added, “When my sister lived at Pemberley, the house was full of music. I miss those days.”
Elizabeth had never met Miss Darcy, but she had heard of her several times – from Miss Bingley years ago, and briefly from Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and then Mr. Darcy’s prior housekeeper. They had all mentioned her skill on the pianoforte. She said, “Is your sister married?”
“Yes, she married a Mr. Tipton. They live in Staffordshire.”
“Not so far away.”
“No, less than fifty miles of good road. They will be coming to Pemberley for Christmas.”
“How nice for you.”
Darcy said, “Yes, it will be, although I warn you, with her children it will not be quiet.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I think children are one of life’s greatest joys.”
“Do y
ou have children?” he asked.
“No. None living.”
“Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.”
She said, “I do not mind.”
He said suddenly, “Pardon me. I did not think to ask before. Mrs. Holt, do you have family you wish to visit at Christmas? Your aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, perhaps? With my family at Pemberley, I will have less need of your services.”
That was very kind of him to think of her. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I would enjoy seeing my family.”
He said, “Speak to Mrs. Lewis and let her know your plans. There may be a carriage going from Pemberley to London.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But do not stay away too long. I shall need your reading to get through a grey January.”
She was happy to hear that he appreciated her. “Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER FIVE
As autumn passed, Darcy realized that his favourite time of the day was when Mrs. Holt read to him. He enjoyed her reading, but also her conversation which contained some wit. She was a rare creature – an intelligent woman who was not afraid of voicing an opinion that differed from his own. He was accustomed to deference and flattery. He found himself often eating his dinner quickly so he could spend more time with her. He briefly considered asking her to join him for dinner, but he knew that would alarm Mrs. Lewis, so he decided not to ask her. Besides, as he reminded himself, Mrs. Holt was his employee, not his friend, and he must respect her position and not take advantage of her good nature.
He did not want to make her uncomfortable or to make her regret her employment.
From various servants’ comments, he learned that Mrs. Holt walked outdoors nearly every day, sometimes even in the rain. He expressed concern that she be adequately dressed, so she would not catch cold, and his valet assured him that Mrs. Holt bundled herself up well. Apparently, she wore sturdy boots and a wool scarf over her ears. He wondered what she looked like and wished for the millionth time that his eyes worked as they used to.