by Robin Helm
“There now,” said Darcy as he came back to the window arch, “I think he may be considered successfully occupied with some other employment. Perhaps he will now get him to rest.”
The young lady laughed, her eyes twinkling at him. “‘Crammed with distressful bread?’”
“Just so,” said Darcy with a grin. “May I help you down?”
“Thank you,” said the young lady, letting her feet hang down and holding out a book to him. “Perhaps you ought to take this before I get down.”
Darcy glanced at the volume held out to him: Julie ou la Nouvelle Héloïse. His eyebrows lifted in surprise—he had expected something of Mrs. Radcliffe’s—but he said nothing, holding out his other hand for hers. She slid down to the ground easily, but gave a little cry on landing.
“Are you hurt?” asked Darcy, still holding her hand.
“Only a little,” she replied. “My foot came down on uneven ground, and twisted a little. It is not much.”
“You are certain?”
“Oh, yes. A moment’s rest will be enough.” She held out her hand for the book. Darcy relinquished it, thinking amusedly that someone with a suspicious mind would be concerned about this woman. Caught in a lonely place, reading French, and cornered by a dog—weren’t dogs good judges of character? And hadn’t his cousin described Elise Benét as a dark-eyed beauty? He would have to tell him about this encounter—he would find it amusing.
“I thank you, sir,” said the lady. “I had meant to be returning home before now, but the dog delayed me.”
He found himself studying her surreptitiously. Clothes neither elegant or shabby, well-spoken, intelligent enough to read a foreign language, and a sense of humour.
“May I know whom I had the honour of rescuing?” he said.
She smiled, and made a small curtsey. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth Bennet! Elise Benét? Impossible! And yet…
“And may I have the honour of knowing who my rescuer is?”
Darcy hesitated for only a moment. “The Reverend Mr. Williams,” he answered, bowing. Why he gave a false name, he could not have explained. Even if she had been involved in espionage, what danger would he be in? And certainly she was not anything other than she appeared: a tolerably good-looking, gently-bred English girl enjoying the fresh air of a sunny winter day.
“Can you walk on your ankle?” he asked.
“I believe so,” she replied, and walked a few steps to show him. “I am not going far—only a mile or so to the village of Rowsley.”
“You are limping a little,” Darcy said. “May I give you my arm at least to the village?”
“I hate to give you the trouble,” said Elizabeth, frowning in thought.
“It is no trouble to me,” said Darcy, thinking that perhaps more time in conversation would confirm that this young lady was exactly what she seemed to be, and he could go on his way without worrying about her any more. “The dog may come back, you know, or there may be a wicked bull on the loose. Or highwaymen, or …” he almost said “spies,” but changed it to “brigands.”
“Well,” she said with a chuckle, “I suppose I am safer being escorted by a clergyman.”
It was a bit of a shock to remember that she was referring to himself. He hoped she would not begin asking him theological questions that he would be unable to answer. He retrieved his horse, and they walked toward the village with him leading his horse with one hand and giving her his other arm to lean on. He was pleased to see that she did not take advantage of his help by leaning more heavily on him than she needed to. Several girls, probably seeking to entice him into matrimony, had at various times made much of very slight or even imagined injuries, casting him in the role of delivering knight. He suddenly realized that this Miss Bennet did not know he was the wealthy Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, and might not think he was worth attracting. He found himself wishing she knew his real position.
“Do you live nearby?” she asked.
“No, I live in…” he searched his mind rapidly for a place he could claim to hail from. Somewhere at a distance, so that she would not expect him to have great knowledge of the area. “I live in Hertfordshire.”
“Oh! Where in Hertfordshire?”
What was the name of that town I stopped in?
“Meryton.”
Elizabeth faltered in her step and looked at him sharply. “Meryton?” she repeated.
“Yes. A small town, surrounded by lovely countryside.”
Elizabeth’s mind reeled. She knew the vicar of the church in Meryton, and this man was certainly not Mr. Kilburn. Why on earth would this Mr. Williams lie about such a thing? Into her mind came Millie’s words: I hear the spies often disguise themselves as something very innocent—did not one of them masquerade as a clergyman?
She glanced at the man beside her. He looked nothing like a spy. In her imagination, spies were furtive in their manner, looking slightly seedy, with a rakish mien about them. This man looked every inch the gentleman, and his manners matched his appearance. But how would he know about Meryton, an insignificant town where few visitors came? There must be some mistake. Perhaps there was more than one place called Meryton in Hertfordshire, as unlikely as it seemed.
“And have you lived here always?” Darcy said, breaking into her thoughts.
“No, no, I am merely visiting—a friend.” Elizabeth thought rapidly. She could not tell him that she came from Meryton. If he were lying, he would know she knew his deception, and if by some chance he lied because he was playing a dangerous game, it might be the worse for her. She did not want to answer any more questions until she had time to think. The best thing was to ask more questions herself, to keep him talking.
“Have you lived in your present parish long?”
“Indeed, yes,” he said glibly. “My father owns an estate near there—Netherfield Park.”
“How interesting,” said Elizabeth. So he did have some knowledge of the area, and it was not some other Meryton he came from. Before she could ask another question, Darcy had thought of one.
“Have you read your book before?”
“Oh yes,” she said, keeping to herself the information that it had been at least five years since she had last read through it.
“And do you read French novels often?” he said.
“Very often,” she replied, intent on changing her character and situation as much as possible. That was before she recollected that such an admission might lead him to ask her what other French books she had read, and if he was a reader himself, might lead him to want to discuss them with her, something she was certainly not in a position to do.
Darcy had no intention of pursuing that topic. It seemed incredible that she could actually be a dangerous spy—there must be a mistake somewhere—but he knew that he ought to find out for certain. She was in the right location, she matched the description, her name was so like the spy’s name as to seem like an obvious substitute, she read French novels often, she admitted to only visiting the area… it seemed to be too many things to be mere coincidence. If he went back and stayed at the hotel in Southend, she might disappear in a day or two, perhaps with valuable information. If there were any chance, any chance at all that she was a spy, he would not let her betray his country when he had the power to stop it.
He began to form a plan. Right now, this Miss Bennet (better not to call her Miss Benѐt, even in his own mind, until he was sure) thought he was a clergyman. He might pass for one, too, without his carriage, servants, and evening clothes. He could find lodging in Rowsley, making some excuse about needing a quiet place to… to do something. What could he do? Write a book? Could he say he was on a fortnight’s holiday to work on a book about…ruins? Or theology? No, no, that would keep him shut up in his rooms all day, trying to write something, and there was always the risk that someone would ask him about his work and he would have nothing to say.
No, better to say that he had inherited an old house in the district and was lo
oking to repair it. Even better, that he was going to turn it into an orphanage, a small one. That was something that a clergyman might do, and would be in character. He supposed that he would have to actually find a house and purchase it to make his story believable for more than a day, but he could always sell it again later.
It was the most uncomfortable walk either had ever had. Both were afraid of asking too many questions, and afraid of starting any topic of conversation which would lead to the divulging of too much information about their own lives. Consequently, the bulk of their discussion centred around the scenery they were passing through, the state of the weather (it was agreed that it would probably rain before nightfall), and the likelihood that such a low-lying area was probably prone to flooding.
Millie was just coming out the door of her house as they approached it, and was surprised to see Elizabeth coming down the lane escorted by a handsome gentleman leading an equally handsome horse. The morning’s adventure was explained to Millie, and she was so grateful for the rescue of her beloved Elizabeth that she immediately invited the young man to dine with them the next day. Darcy accepted the invitation and bid them farewell, his thoughts in a whirl; but the enduring image in his mind was the face with the very fine eyes that had twinkled down at him from the window arch.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
“What a very fine young man!” exclaimed Millie when they were alone. “And what a fortunate chance that he was there to deliver you from that dangerous dog!”
“Millie,” said Elizabeth, “I believe I have discovered a spy.”
Millie laughed. “To be sure, my dear. He is a clergyman, is he not? An excellent disguise!”
“You do not understand. I know he is in some degree an imposter. I asked where he came from, and he told me that he comes from Meryton, in Hertfordshire, and that his father owns Netherfield Park.”
Millie gaped at her. “Did he! And I assume you never met him in Meryton.”
“Never. And of course, the owner of Netherfield is Mr. Caulfield, not Mr. Williams.”
“Why would he lie about that? And to you, of all people?”
“I am quite certain he does not know where I come from. I did remark a slight hesitation before he answered my question, as if he were trying to decide what to tell me.”
“Good heavens! He is trying to deceive us, then. However, he may not be a spy, you know. There are other reasons men tell lies.”
“A confidence trickster, you mean? Well, that is possible. Although I never heard of one taking on the persona of a clergyman before.”
“I did, once,” said Millie. “A man who used to ask people to subscribe to his charities—an orphanage was one of them, I remember—and keep the money for himself.”
“I suppose if he asks us to subscribe to an orphanage, we will know what he is about.”
“At least, my dear, you will be on your guard with him. He is charming and well-favoured, and has the air of a gentleman, and I would not like to see you taken-in.”
“I will not be.” Elizabeth got up to stir the fire. “I do wonder why he chose Meryton to be the place he comes from. He must know the place a little, for he knew about Netherfield. However, I told him my name and he did not seem to recognise it. He must not be very well acquainted with the place.”
“That is true.” Millie sat in silent thought for a moment. “My dear, I think you had better not tell him too much about yourself tomorrow. We had better say that you come from some other place.”
“Yes, but where? I do not know where he really comes from, and wouldn’t it be dreadful if I said I came from, say, York, and it turns out that he knows all about York?”
“I suppose the only part of the country you know well, other than Meryton, is the part of London where your aunt and uncle live, in Gracechurch Street.”
“Yes, I could well say that I am from Cheapside. It is too crowded for him to expect to know everyone there, and I know the place enough to pass muster as someone who has lived there.”
“Another advantage, too, is that you can pose as a merchant’s daughter, perhaps; that would discourage him if he is a fortune-hunter. No, there are such things as rich merchants, and he might think you worth snaring. Perhaps your father was a gentleman, but a poor one.”
“And what shall I say I am doing here? I told him I was visiting a friend.”
“Let me be your school mistress from the female seminary you attended; that is close enough to the truth, anyway.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “And I am staying with you while I am looking for a situation as a governess.”
“A governess, my dear?”
“The last thing a fortune-hunter would look for. I think he will not find it hard to believe; he saw me read a French novel and heard me quote Shakespeare. As long as no one asks me to perform on the pianoforte, I think I am safe.”
“I think that is a good plan. You show quite an aptitude for invention.”
Elizabeth smirked. “I can’t help but be amazed that you, who taught me to be truthful above all things, are now encouraging me to tell lies.”
“My dear Elizabeth, this is not the same thing as lying. You have heard the saying, ‘set a thief to catch a thief’? That is what we are doing. If by a little trickery we may discover if he means harm to people, and frustrate his plan, we will be doing what is right. Besides, it will give me great pleasure to watch you take a part. You were always the best actress when you and Jane and Mary put on your little theatricals for your parents.”
Elizabeth paused in thought for a moment. “Do you think we ought to make some excuse and not let him come for dinner? He is obviously not someone we want as an acquaintance.”
“No, let him come. We are the only ones who know him for an imposter, and our knowledge may protect the people of the village if he begins some sort of scheme that imposes on them.”
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
Darcy engaged a room for two weeks at the Sun, a modest but clean-looking inn in the middle of Rowsley. He then rode back to Southend at a quicker pace than he had left it that morning. It took him an hour to apprise Hopkins of his change of plans, pack a portmanteau with clothing, and write a note for his cousin. He elected to keep the room at the Royal Hotel; his servants and trunk and travelling carriage would remain in Southend to more easily hide his true identity. If James read his letter and travelled immediately to Southend, Hopkins would be able to give him the note and keep him from asking around Rowsley for a “Mr. Darcy.” He refrained from telling Hopkins the whole reason for his change of abode; he said merely that it was connected with a commission his cousin had charged him with. He journeyed back to Rowsley in time for his evening meal.
The next morning he arose early and explored the lesser-travelled roads leading away from the village. After two hours, he saw what he felt was the perfect house for his subterfuge. It was a good size: it would have five or six bedrooms, he thought, as well as an attic and an outbuilding. It was standing empty, and looked as though it had been so for quite some time. A farmer walking down the road was able to give information about it. It was owned by Squire Madderly, up at the great house, just yonder. No, no one had lived there for donkey’s years; it had used to be a dower house, but it had been shut up now for a long time.
Darcy thanked the man and continued on his way. The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea. The house was more than two miles outside of Rowsley; close enough that it would not be thought strange if he were staying in the village, but not so close that everyone there would know exactly who owned it and what the arrangements were.
He was admitted to the house of Mr. Madderly and given an audience with him. He found the squire to be a jovial, friendly sort of man, who positively welcomed the idea of selling the house.
“It’s in a bad state, you know,” he said apologetically. “I’ve only had the estate for two years, and my great-uncle, who was the owner before me, hated to spend a groat more than he needed to on anything. I’ve been try
ing to set things to rights since I inherited the place, but I haven’t done anything to that house. Were you thinking of living in it yourself?”
“No,” said Darcy, who had thought through a story beforehand. “My patron, Mr. Darcy, wishes to establish a small orphanage, in honour of his mother, who was a great benefactress of the poor. He will buy the house and furbish it up nicely, and fund the caretakers and the running of the place. He thinks that a place in the country would be better for children than keeping them in a town.”
“A very generous man! I congratulate you on your patron. I have often contributed to the foundling hospital in London, but I have never done much charitable work myself. I foresee that this Mr. Darcy will become a respected name in these parts.”
This was exactly what Darcy was afraid of—that his story about the house being inherited would by contradicted by the squire.
“Mr. Darcy would prefer his name not be brought into it,” he said. “My patron will purchase it, but he would rather no one know who the benefactor is. He would probably prefer that it be thought that I have somehow inherited the house. He has deputised me to put the house to rights and get it ready for occupation. I will be staying in Rowsley while the work is going on.”
“Capital plan! And you need have no fear that I will spread it about; I will be going up to Town next week to stay for quite some time, so no one will be coming here to ask me why I have sold it. Perhaps you can call again in a day or two, and I will have my man of business draw up the papers ready for you.”
Darcy left the great house relieved that so much had been accomplished. One ordeal had been dealt with. Now he needed to get through this dinner with Miss Bennet and her friend, Miss Milsom.