Georgiana, though she did not know the details, seemed very little grieved. Indeed, Elizabeth was obliged to reassure her that her fear that she was exhibiting an unnatural indifference to the news was unnecessary, and that she was, in fact, demonstrating the natural reaction of someone treated as she had been for the last few years.
Elizabeth decided not to write to her husband until she had seen his boyhood home and could report in detail about what she found there. She made careful arrangements to have any letters forwarded by express as soon as they arrived and wrote to subscribe to the Naval Chronicle, also to be posted straight to Pemberley.
Mr. Gardiner spent the intervening period at Longbourn, suffering with his usual kindly grace the complaints of Mrs. Bennet and consulting with Jane about the business of the estate. Mr. Lester had been his efficient self during the winter, and all was set fair for the coming months; indeed, that gentleman indicated that such was Miss Bennet’s administration of the estate that he felt himself surplus to requirements, and unless there were any objections, he would look about for another position and engage for the estate a rather less well-qualified man to do what little work remained.
Georgiana and Mrs. Darcy left for Longbourn, accompanied by Anderssen and the newly arrived Haslam, for no one knew the whereabouts of the miscreant clergyman Wickham. Puttnam stayed at the house, for it would have been cruel to drag him away from his garden, and it was thought as well to have a man stay to keep watch. Elizabeth had never seen herself as a target, and she was confident in the escort of her uncle and of the colonel and his man.
They set off on a bright Tuesday morning. The colonel proved himself to be an easy travelling companion with a fund of interesting conversation about his travels in Spain and Portugal. Mr. Gardiner had considerable interests in the Oporto wine trade, and their mutual familiarity with the country soon broke down any reserve there might have been. Elizabeth had been slightly worried that the colonel might not have taken to a man, no matter how gentlemanly his bearing and behaviour, who made his living from trade. Mrs. Gardiner’s correspondent in Lambton had informed her that the colonel’s father, and consequently her husband’s uncle, was Lord Matlock, the Earl of —, and many men in the same position as the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam would have been much less friendly and conversable than the colonel.
As she wrote to her husband in the latest portion of her letter/journal, “Your cousin has been all that is helpful and courteous and has made what might well have proved an uncomfortable journey almost pleasant. My father wrote that every travelling party should include a naval officer, to which I can add that an army officer is of equal utility.”
They were having breakfast at an inn on the morning before they were to arrive at Pemberley when the colonel attempted to prepare her for what she would find. “The house and grounds, while not much damaged by the fire, have been neglected for many years. It appears that my late cousin preferred to hoard his rents rather than spend them on those repairs necessary for every great house, nor did he spend anything on modernising it.
“The prospect and situation are undeniably fine, but there is much that needs to be done to the house, and to the estate as a whole. Luckily, there appear to be considerable monies available for the work, but you are likely to be assailed on all sides by the tenantry who have been unable to undertake any improvements or even repairs.” He paused and appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “My father is an excellent gentleman in every respect, but he is somewhat old-fashioned. For example, he would not have corresponded with your husband whilst he was at odds with the head of his family. My original mission to Hatfield was to obtain your consent to his taking over of the estate until such time as your husband comes home from sea. I knew from the moment we met that this was unlikely to meet with your approval.” Mr. Gardiner laughed and the colonel looked a little embarrassed. “Please do not think that I myself disapprove; having seen the masterly way you ensured Miss Darcy’s peace and safety, I am confident that you are well able to see what must be done and make the necessary decisions. I have endeavoured to express this to my father, but not having had his reply, I cannot say how successful I have been. If he appears a little…impatient, I would ask you bear with him, for whatever his manner, his only desire is to be useful to you and your husband.”
Elizabeth was a little taken aback. “I hope, sir, that I will always know how to distinguish good intentions from bad,” she said. “And I certainly hope you did not represent me to him as some dreadfully managing termagant. I am well aware that I will need a great deal of help and am only too grateful for any that is offered.”
The colonel looked relieved. “In which case, I have a great pile of papers for you to look at, and it occurs to me that we might as well make a start on them as we drive. I saw yesterday that the motion of the coach does not upset you, and there is a lot to be done. I am sure,” he added with a bow, “that Mr. Gardiner’s assistance will be invaluable.”
So that day, as they drove through the countryside that was just springing into bud, he opened a great bag, and they began on its contents. There were questions about tenancies unfilled, rivers silted up, legally obligatory bridge and road repairs not undertaken, dozens of tenant requests, and much correspondence from the parish and the county. It was as much as all three of them could do to arrange them and make memorandum of their contents, and it was obvious that Mr. George Darcy had simply let his correspondence accumulate unanswered; many pages were missing their covers, several letters missing one or more pages, and an unpleasant number were stained with food and wine.
This occupied the party for the rest of the day. They stopped only briefly at noon for a hurried meal, and it was getting late in the afternoon when they finally arrived at Pemberley. The gatehouse was empty and the road unkempt, but the woods through which they drove were glorious, and Elizabeth breathed in the scent of the new leaves and promised herself hours of happy rambling. She spun round in her seat as they passed a glade with a carpet of new daffodils and, when she sat back, saw her uncle watching her, his expression affectionate.
Then they turned a corner, and there was the house. It was not, as Elizabeth had half-expected, in the modern Palladian style, all smooth stone and great symmetrical pillars. This was an older building from the period when James Stuart first came down from Scotland, and it was wholly beautiful, from the barley-sugar twist chimneys, past the many-paned windows, to the overgrown knot garden in front, the whole built in a golden stone that caught the setting sun.
The colonel rapped on the carriage roof and ordered a halt so that she could drink it in. “I was afraid you might find it old-fashioned,” he said softly.
“No,” she breathed. “I find it…” She struggled for words before choosing, “magnificent.” She saw him heave a sigh of relief.
“So many people are prey to the mania for improvement,” he said, “I last saw it as a boy at your father-in-law’s funeral, and I thought then it was a jewel.” He rapped on the roof again, and they drove down to the stable courtyard.
Closer to the house, the years of neglect were more visible. Grass grew between the cobbles in the yard, and there were slates, or rather great sheets of stone, missing from the stable roofs. The house too showed signs of unrepaired damage, windows had been boarded over, and some were entirely blocked by ivy.
As she endeavoured to explain in her letter, “Your cousin thinks I am dazzled, and I am, but not so dazzled that I do not see that there is much work to be done. We will start tomorrow to assess the damage. However, none of it detracts from the beauty. The house is like a handsome woman who has let her face grow dirty and her clothes ragged; it is all on the surface, and underneath there is such loveliness.
“I know no decision has been made as to what to do with the house, and while I cannot conceive of anyone willingly selling such a place, I know that decision rests with you. However, even if you ar
e minded to sell, the property will fetch a much higher sum if it is in good order, and I have resolved to do my utmost to bring it to such a condition.”
That night they slept in three of the guest bedrooms, well away from the room where the fire had taken place. Servants were there from the Matlock family home at Alfreston, and they had done their best in the time available, though they were few and there was much that needed doing.
Lord Matlock drove over in time for breakfast the next morning, and Elizabeth could see how easily his manner might have been misunderstood. “Your uncle was indeed a little brusque when he arrived,” she wrote, “and if it had not been for the colonel’s warning, I might well have taken it amiss. However, once I expressed my gratitude for his help and requested his further counsel, he hemmed and hawed once or twice, and we soon became the best of friends. He is astonishingly like you, you know. He has your height and, although it is more grey than black, your hair. I wonder where the colonel’s red curls come from.”
The first order of business was the house. Apart from anything else, Georgiana was anxious to return to her childhood home, especially now that the source of all its unpleasant memories was gone. Remembering the few times her sister had spoken of Pemberley, Elizabeth enquired whether the former housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, was still to be found in the area. Mr. Gardiner tracked her to her brother’s farm on the other side of Lambton, and Elizabeth persuaded her to return and help set the house to rights.
In Mrs. Reynolds’ wake came a growing stream of former servants, discharged by the late owner but willing to return. Mr. Gardiner reduced the household’s books to something like order, and Elizabeth was able to access the funds that had been hoarded and set them to work. Craftsmen came from nearby towns and started upon the repairs, the ivy was carefully torn away, and the house began to shine once more. The master’s apartments were stripped to the rafters and joists and the whole remade so that most of the former bedroom became the dressing room and other offices.
As predicted, the tenants soon began to arrive, and Elizabeth had to beg for their patience. At Mr. Gardiner’s suggestion, she sent for Mr. Lester, who rode the estate for her and made up a schedule of the most urgent works for her to inspect. The colonel drove out with her, Mr. Gardiner making one of the party for propriety’s sake, although as he pointed out himself, the countryside was by no means his metier. There was some grumbling, especially from those tenants whose concerns were not to be immediately addressed; however, a meeting of the tenantry was called at which Lord Matlock presided, and the grumbling largely quieted.
Georgiana and Mrs. Darcy arrived home just in time for Mr. Gardiner to leave, having neglected his own business for too long. “I shall miss my Uncle Gardiner,” she wrote, “not only for his business acumen and steady good humour but for his confidence in me. He seemed to conceive of no reason why I should not manage, so I have told myself there is no reason why I should doubt myself. The colonel is ordered to return to London, and we shall all miss him. Luckily, Lord Matlock, or Uncle Alfred as he told Georgiana and me to call him, will visit regularly, and he assures me that I can request his assistance at any time.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam undertook to take this latest letter to London and have it sent through Admiralty channels, so she ended it:
We have not heard from you for several months, and though there is no bad news in the Chronicle, I cannot help but grow anxious. I know you will not keep us unnecessarily in suspense, but I look to hear from you that you are safe and well and on the way home to those who love you.
Amongst whom are numbered your devoted wife,
Elizabeth
PS. Your cousin is to take this to London. I hope it will not be delayed because I did not send it by Lieutenant Grace.
Weeks passed, and still there was no word. The house and gardens were approaching their original magnificence and even Mrs. Reynolds was almost satisfied. “If you could only have seen it when Lady Anne had the running of it,” she said one day as she and Elizabeth were going over the household accounts. “It is almost there now, but still…”
“Did you know my husband when he was a boy?” asked Elizabeth, setting down her pen.
“Oh yes, madam. I was stillroom maid then, but I used to see him about the place. Handsome lad he was, even then and so sweet natured. I don’t think I ever heard him say a cross word.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me why he went to sea so very young. I confess I have always wondered.”
Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips. “I don’t hold with gossip, ma’am, as well you know,” she said. “And they do say you should never speak ill of the dead.” It was obvious to Elizabeth that she was only waiting to be persuaded, so she did her best.
“Well,” said Mrs. Reynolds after several minutes of appeal to her knowledge of the family, “Mr. Darcy—old Mr. Darcy that is—was never what you’d call an affectionate man. I don’t mean he was cruel or vicious, not like Mr. George—God rest his soul—just not tender or considerate to his family or anyone else for that matter. He was one of those men—Mr. Tanner of High Farm is another—who don’t need any pleasure or comfort or affection in their lives. And don’t see why anyone else needs them either.” She settled back in her chair and got confidential.
“Someone offered Master Fitzwilliam a place on a ship, so off he had to go, for all Lady Anne was heartbroken. He was terribly severe with Mr. George too—had to be always moiling at his books, no hunting, no going to assemblies, no going to London. It’s hardly a surprise he cut loose as soon as he could.”
“And my husband’s mother? I’ve seen her portrait upstairs; what was she like?”
Mrs. Reynolds considered. “She was beautiful, but…well, she was sad. The marriage was not of her choosing, and he was not the husband for her. She should have had someone gentle and good-humoured, and he was neither. She loved her boys though. I used to see her sitting at that very desk, writing to Master Fitzwilliam and drawing him little pictures.” Then, obviously thinking she had said too much, she added, “Now, about the music room, do you want me to send for the piano tuner?”
Haymaking came and went, and still there was no news. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Matlock visited and expressed their surprise at how much had been done. She continued to write her letters and send them off, but no reply came, and she scoured the newspapers for word from the Mediterranean.
She did receive one strange letter, however, from the office of the Bishop of Derby. It requested Captain Darcy to appoint someone else to the living at Kympton in view of the “absence of the previous appointee who, I understand, has not been seen for several months, having left on a visit to London and not returned. All enquiries in the capital have produced no news as to his whereabouts, and the bishop feels that it is inadvisable to leave the parish without spiritual direction.”
Elizabeth’s own inquiries at Kympton revealed that no one had seen the Reverend Mr. Wickham for some time, and the pot-boy at the King George in Lambton told Anderssen that no one had seen him since “’e climbed into the London coach in one of they driving coats with the extra shoulder cloaks.” Although that sounded an awful lot like the “driving coat” who had taken part in the attack in Hatfield, Elizabeth decided that there was no way to be certain and, in the meantime, they would continue to take precautions. This meant that, although she greatly disliked it, either Anderssen or Haslam followed at a distance every time she walked in the woods.
She was returned from one such walk when she saw an express rider galloping towards the house. She picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could, arriving in the great hall to see Mrs. Reynolds paying off the rider. It was indeed a letter in her husband’s dear, familiar writing. She hurried into the library and sank down on the window seat to read it. She tore open the cover and thought her heart would stop. It began “Dear Madam.”
Chapter Sixteen
The letter wa
s headed “Aboard HMS Achilles, Gibraltar”:
May I first express my profound gratitude for your manifold kindnesses to my sister and her mother? And for the highly effective measures you have taken to ensure their safety and comfort. I am also mindful of the debt I owe you with regard to Pemberley. It would indeed grieve me to know that my boyhood home had been allowed to decay and that the people connected with it were suffering from the deficiencies of my family.
Her breath seemed to have become thick and difficult to draw. How could he talk of gratitude after so many months of silence between them? She read on.
My recent mission was attended with that lack of success that I so often prophesied, and the “Achilles” is currently undergoing further repair at Gibraltar. I regret I was unable to call in at Malta to visit Mr. Bennet; however, a shipmate who was recently in Valletta assures me of his continuing good health, having seen him making one of a party to visit some ruins in the interior of the island. I rejoice that I have been able to repay some of your kindness in this manner.
As for myself, I am returning to England only briefly before taking command of the frigate “HMS Vanguard,” one of the new heavy frigates built on the American model. It is unlikely that I will return to England for some time.
In that connection it occurs to me that, with the recent death of my unfortunate brother, the matter of my sister’s custody is no longer at issue and, since our marriage was never consummated…
She could read no further through her tears and was obliged to leave off and search for a handkerchief. Finding none, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and continued.
Fair Stands the Wind Page 13