by Pamela Aidan
The door suddenly burst aside on its hinges, and a large blur of brown, black, and white launched itself across the floor. Darcy bolted to his desk and dropped his cup before the whirlwind could come upon him. “Trafalgar — sit!” he bellowed and braced himself for certain impact, but the moment the words left his lips the hound’s hindquarters hit the polished wood floor. The animal skidded the last several feet, his front feet wildly pawing for purchase before coming to rest against the toe of Darcy’s boot. A large pink tongue flickered over the black tip before the animal raised deliriously happy eyes to his master’s face.
“Mr. Darcy! Oh, sir…I am so sorry, sir!” Darcy looked away from the ridiculous grin of his errant beast to behold one of the junior grooms standing in the doorway seesawing from one foot to another while wringing his cap between his fists. “I was bringin’ ’im in, as you ordered, Mr. Darcy. He gave me the slip, sir. He’s that canny.”
Darcy looked down at Trafalgar, who meanwhile had turned his head back over his shoulder to observe the groom’s recital. If he had not known better, Darcy would have sworn the animal was laughing. He shook his head. “You may leave him with me, Joseph, but should he escape you again, march him back to the steward’s entrance rather than letting him into my study. He must be made to learn some manners.” Darcy leaned down and grasped the hound’s muzzle, lifting it to his gaze. “That is, if you wish to continue a gentleman’s companion.” Trafalgar snuffled a bit at his tone but then barked his agreement, sealing it with a surreptitious lick of Darcy’s hand.
“But, Mr. Darcy, I never let ’im in!”
“You did not open the door, Joseph?”
“No, sir; never, sir! He was in your study afore I reached the hall corner.” Both men looked sharply at the hound, who was totally occupied at the moment with exhibiting behavior appropriate to a beast belonging to the most discriminating of gentlemen.
“You mean to tell me that he opened the door himself?” Darcy demanded incredulously. The young groom twisted his cap again and shrugged his shoulders.
“Excuse me, but it is quite possible the hound did open the door on its own,” a smoothly modulated, feminine voice interrupted gently. “I have seen it done as a trick, although the animal must first be trained to it.” The groom moved away from the door and tugged his forelock at the lady as she came around him. She smiled and nodded to him before turning to Darcy and making her curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Mrs. Annesley!” Darcy glanced at the clock, which faithfully displayed the fact that the time was indeed nine and his appointment with Georgiana’s companion was upon him. This was definitely not how he had envisioned their interview to begin. But the consternation he was feeling at being caught off guard was deftly hidden. “Please come in, ma’am.” Darcy stepped back and indicated a chair.
The lady inclined her head and entered the study, walking gracefully past the groom. Trafalgar looked at her with interest and rose to carry on an investigation, but the impulse was quelled by a stern look from his master. He lay down instead at Darcy’s feet, his muzzle on his paws and his eyes flicking from one to the other in anticipation.
Mrs. Annesley appeared to Darcy much as he remembered her from five months before, save, perhaps, for the amused twinkle in her eye as she surveyed Trafalgar, who had taken upon himself guard duty of his master’s boots. Last summer, Darcy had looked not for a merry heart, but for a steady character, whose motherly understanding and firm principles might rescue Georgiana from the depths of heartache and self-recrimination into which she had fallen after Ramsgate. Apparently, the lady had possessed such a heart in addition to his requirements and had succeeded beyond all his hopes. Whatever her method, he thought, he was prepared to be extremely generous.
“Mrs. Annesley,” he began as he looked at her across his desk, “am I to understand you believe this misbegotten beggar has learned to open doors?”
“It is quite possible, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with a gentle smile. “My sons taught their dog all manner of tricks; opening doors was one of them. Although” — she looked down into the hound’s attentive face — “I think we may allow in this case that the last person to leave your study may not have brought the door completely shut. But with one such success, I have no doubt that an intelligent animal like Master Trafalgar will continue to try his luck.”
“I fear you are right.” Darcy cocked a brow down at the “beggar,” who took the moment to yawn and innocently blink back his regard. “You mentioned sons,” he continued. “Are they at school?”
“My younger son, Titus, is at University, sir. He was admitted to Trinity last year under the sponsorship of a friend of his late father. Roman, my older son, is graduated and serving a curacy in Weston-super-Mare. If it pleases you, sir, I hope to spend Christmas there with them both.” She returned his gaze pleasantly, the openness of her request inclining Darcy to grant it immediately and, further, to offer her transportation to the very doorstep. “You are very kind, Mr. Darcy,” she responded, the light in her hazel eyes glowing warmly before she bowed her head.
“It is the very least of services I would offer you, Mrs. Annesley.” Darcy rose from his chair and stepped to the window, his jaw working as he searched for an avenue that would take the interview where he wished it to go. “I am very much in your debt, ma’am. My sister…” His throat seemed to close up at the remembrance of his joyful homecoming. He began again. “My sister is so wonderfully changed, I can scarce believe it! You know what she was when you came to Pemberley, so broken…” He turned away to the window behind him, determined to maintain his dignity. “But even before that horrible business, she had been shy and retiring. Only in her music did she express herself freely. Now…!” He turned back to her sympathetic eye. “How did you do it, ma’am?” His eyes bore down upon her as his voice gained stridency. “My cousin and I did everything in our power, all we could conceive of, to recall Georgiana to herself; but it was for naught. You have succeeded where we had failed, and I would know how!”
The lady made no immediate reply, but the compassionate cast of her countenance gave him to know that his imperious words had not offended her. “Dear sir,” she began quietly, “I am sure you did all that you could to aid Miss Darcy. But, sir, her sorrows were deep — deeper than you know — deeper than it was in your power to reach. You must not berate yourself or your efforts.”
Darcy sucked in his breath in surprise. How dare she patronize him? Not in his power! He drew himself up, looming over the small, seated woman. “Then, ma’am, I must inquire, by what ‘power’ did you descend to my sister’s great depths and pull her out?” he returned stiffly, his lips curled in a sneer. “Will charms and potions be discovered among Miss Darcy’s bonnets and reticules?”
Mrs. Annesley’s eyes widened briefly at his tone, but her composure did not desert her. She returned his bold look, albeit not his incivility. “No sir, such things you will not find,” she replied firmly. “The human heart is not so easily mastered. Trumpery will not turn it aside of its course.”
Darcy’s face darkened, his brows slanting down in distaste. “You speak of her feelings for…” He hesitated and then spat out the words, “her seducer?”
The lady did not recoil at his frankness but answered in kind. “No, Mr. Darcy, I do not. Miss Darcy’s melancholy was never from lovesickness for that man. When you discovered them at Ramsgate and confronted Mr. Wickham, Miss Darcy’s eyes were opened to his character. She has not spent these months in regretting him.”
While she spoke, Darcy resumed his seat at the desk, his lips pursed in dissatisfaction. “You have revealed what Miss Darcy’s thoughts were not, and for what it is worth I am relieved on that score. But you have yet to reveal what they have been, or what you have done to effect their remedy. Come, Mrs. Annesley,” he insisted, his shoulders stiff with hauteur, “I require answers.”
The lady’s brow wrinkled slightly as she returned his gaze, her lips pressed together, in apparent consideration of whether
to meet his demand. Taken aback at her hesitancy, Darcy felt a niggling doubt arise in his breast that the woman before him would comply with his wishes. Accompanying that thought was the conviction that the merry heart he had detected earlier might just beat before a backbone made of steel.
“Mr. Darcy, do you give any credence to Providence?” That she had answered him with a question startled him no less than did its subject.
“Providence, Mrs. Annesley?” Darcy stared at her, his late dissatisfaction with the ways of the Supreme Judge hardening the set of his features. What has Providence to do with this?
“Do you hold that God directs the affairs of men?”
“I am fully aware of the meaning, Mrs. Annesley. I was well catechized as a child,” he rebuked her icily, “but I fail to see…”
“Then, sir, how does it go? Do you remember?”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed dangerously at her challenge. Through clenched jaws he recited the catechism passage quickly, “‘God, the great Creator of all things, doth uphold, direct, dispose, and govern all creatures, actions, and things, from the greatest even to the least, by His most wise and holy providence.’ I had forgotten, ma’am, that you are the widow of a clergyman. Doubtless, you are used to seeing all about you as directly from the hand of the Almighty, unlike the majority of us, who must strive in the world of men.”
His sarcasm went wide of its mark, for she only smiled gently at his answer. “Very good, Mr. Darcy. You were quite perfect in your recitation.” She rose from her chair, her movement exciting Trafalgar’s interest once again. The hound pulled himself up, shook himself thoroughly from ear to tail, and looked to Darcy expectantly.
“Mrs. Annesley.” Darcy scowled darkly as he also stood. “You have in nowise given me a satisfactory account. I am indebted to you, certainly, but I am not accustomed to obtuseness from my employees. I insist upon a straightforward answer, ma’am.”
“When my husband died of a pneumonia contracted from his parish work, Mr. Darcy, leaving me with two sons to raise and no means to keep a roof over our heads, I was cast into a deep sorrow much like Miss Darcy’s.” She bowed her head for a moment, whether to collect herself or to escape his disapproving scowl, Darcy did not know. Raising her head, she continued with feeling. “I was recalled to the ways of Providence by a friend who reminded me of two convergent truths. The first was from Scripture. It begins, ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’” She looked intently up into his eyes, her memories kindling her face. “The second comes from the Bard:
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
“You ask me what I did for your sister, Mr. Darcy, and I must tell you I did nothing, nothing more than my friend did for me. It was not in your power or mine to comfort Miss Darcy and bring her from sorrow to joy. For that, you must look elsewhere, sir; and the place to begin is with Miss Darcy herself.”
Most definitely made of steel! Darcy looked down into the small woman’s steadfast countenance. She was correct, after all. The answers he wanted could come only from Georgiana, whether this woman had performed magic or had merely quoted Scripture to her. Whatever the case, he would have to dare the permanence of his sister’s recovery. The thought chilled him.
“You are a plain speaker, I see, when you finally come to the point, Mrs. Annesley,” he drawled as he came around his desk. “I will take your advice concerning Miss Darcy, although I will admit to being disinclined to tease her about it until I am convinced of her complete recovery.” He stopped before her and inclined his head. “I do truly thank you, ma’am, for whatever your influence has been over my sister. You came highly recommended by your previous employers, and my own staff sings your praises.” Darcy had begun stiffly, but as the truth of his words made itself felt in his breast, his voice softened. “Please accept my sincere gratitude.”
Mrs. Annesley smiled at his speech and dropped him a curtsy before fixing him once more with twinkling eyes. “Your gratitude is received with welcome, Mr. Darcy. Miss Darcy is the loveliest young lady I have had the pleasure to know, and she will, I have no doubt, grow into a noble womanhood. Do forbear quizzing her, as you have said, but give her your time and love. She will blossom, and you will discover all.”
“May it be as you say, ma’am.” Darcy inclined his head, signaling that the interview was at an end.
The lady responded in kind and turned to leave, but she stopped short at the door and faced him once again. “Pardon me, Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes, Mrs. Annesley?”
“Did you wish Master Trafalgar to have the freedom of the house now that you are returned?”
“That is my habit, Mrs. Annesley; although he usually stays by me.” Darcy looked around the study, but the hound was nowhere to be seen. “Did you open the door just now?”
“No, Mr. Darcy, it was open already. I think Master Trafalgar became impatient with us.”
A high-pitched wail echoed beyond the door, followed by the drumming sound of paws hitting the wooden floor of the stairs and then pounding down the hall.
“Step back, Mrs. Annesley!” Darcy warned just as Trafalgar rounded the corner and shot through the doorway. At the sight of his master, the hound checked gracefully and approached him at a slow trot, skirting round him and coming to heel just behind his boots. “What have you done now, Monster?” He sighed. Trafalgar delicately licked his chops as Darcy’s cook came to a breathless halt at his study door.
All thought of putting Mrs. Annesley’s advice to the test was laid aside as the remainder of Darcy’s first week home was filled with the necessity of attending to estate business. Having been absent during this year’s harvest, Darcy had much to do to acquaint himself with the conditions of Pemberley’s numerous farms and concerns. His steward was most anxious for his attention to be lavished upon the quarterly books, as well as for the opportunity to make his report on the success of that season’s venture in the application of Mr. Young’s New Agriculture. Darcy had never been one of that company of landowners satisfied with mere bookkeeping; thus, more than one afternoon was spent on arduous tours of inspection and discussion with workers and tenants alike on the results of their season’s labors. Then, of course, there was Mrs. Reynolds to consult concerning the Pemberley household, Reynolds with whom to discuss the servants and the expenses of the hall, and a myriad of staff to interview on the preparations for a return to the traditional celebration of Christmas at Pemberley and arrangements for the visit of his Uncle and Aunt Fitzwilliam.
By Saturday night, Darcy was exhausted and his mind be-numbed with facts, figures, and the innumerable details requisite to making those decisions that would lead Pemberley and its people to a prosperous future. After his last appointment with his stable manager, Fletcher had anticipated him and, considerately, provided a relaxing bath, followed by correct but comfortable dress for his dinner with his sister. They had dined quietly, but the assurance and modest grace with which Georgiana conducted their meal generated more questions in his breast, questions that clamored against all the others residing there for resolution. His sister could not have missed his distraction, so great was it that he contributed little more than a few syllables to their conversation. Georgiana, a loving smile gracing her face, had assumed that responsibility and entertained him with accounts of events at Pemberley during his absence until, noting his fatigue, she had sweetly offered to play for him when their meal was through.
Sitting back now on the divan in the music room with his eyes closed, Darcy briefly considered his sister’s easy confidence at table and her womanly solicitude for his comfort. Her attention to his mood and need for diversion seemed further evidence of the efficacy of that agency about which Mrs. Annesley had made only inscrutable hints. He made a fleeting attempt to reason it through before he surrendered to the music, allowing it to spread its soothing balm over his weariness. It was not l
ong before he knew himself to be drifting into that seductive otherworld that calls to the unwary caught between wakefulness and sleep. As he listened, too tired to pull back from its borders, the music enveloped Darcy’s attenuated senses and began playing tricks upon them. The figure at the pianoforte shifted curiously and dimmed, gently transforming herself from one dear to him into another, whose dearness in more cogent hours he would not allow. But, at this moment, that dearness seemed perfectly reasonable; and he welcomed her appearance with a languorous smile and a deep, inner sigh.
Contentment with Elizabeth’s presence in his home, with her ease at the pianoforte playing for him, and with the notion of their companionable seclusion warmed his frame like the effects of a fine brandy. He was sure that if he moved his foot just so he would fetch up against her embroidery basket, and if he had the strength to slide his hand along the divan, he would find her lavender-scented shawl carelessly draped over its back. His eyes still closed, he turned his head and breathed in slowly. Yes. He smiled again; he could detect that reminder of her drifting to him from within its silken folds.
The music continued from her hand, softly flowing, seeking out all his hollow places to fill them with longing for what only she could bring to him. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, his voice low-pitched as he acknowledged her power. The music hesitated, then continued on its intimate exploration of his emotions. He knew himself to be enthralled, just as he had been at Sir William and Lucas’s, during the ball at Netherfield. He knew it, and rather than pushing it away, he welcomed it with a joy that he now saw mirrored in her eyes. They were strolling through the conservatory, his parents’ Eden, lush with blossoms, and she was whispering of something that necessitated leaning down close.
