An Assembly Such as This fdg-1

by Pamela Aidan

  Certain Evils

  With Fletcher’s help, Bingley’s man had his master ready to leave at precisely noon. By twelve forty-five they had left Meryton behind them and were bowling along down tolerably good road at a ground-eating pace in Bingley’s carriage. Although he was dressed and breakfasted, Bingley’s only contribution to the first hour or so of their journey had consisted of gentle snorts and snores. The sway and dip of the well-sprung equipage had been encouragement enough for Darcy to doze as well, as against all reason he had awakened at his usual early hour from a very troubled night. It was not until they made their stop at a coaching inn for a change of horses that Darcy put the first movement of his campaign in motion.

  “Bingley! Charles, do wake up.” Darcy leaned over and, firmly gripping his friend’s shoulder, gave him an ungentle shake. “We are changing horses, and I, for one, need to stretch my limbs a bit. A pint would not be unwelcome, either. Shall we sample the local brew?” He cocked a brow at the muffled groans that issued from the folds of Bingley’s neckcloth. “Perhaps some coffee would answer better. Come, sir; up and out!”

  Bingley opened one eye and, seeing the inflexible face before him, gave a great sigh and roused himself enough to stumble down the carriage steps. Darcy grabbed his arm and, laughing, propelled him toward the inn’s wide doorway. His query “A room, innkeeper?” was quickly answered, and a buxom daughter of the house curtsied them into a comfortable private dining room with a window that commanded the yard. An order for something hot and stimulating was given as Bingley slumped down into a worn but respectable couch.

  “How can you be so infernally awake, Darcy?” Bingley yawned, squinting up at his companion’s profile against the sun streaming in through the window. “You were later than I to bed and up hours before me, I’ll wager, if your Fletcher had anything to do with it. That man is a positive martinet! He had my poor Kandle in such a quake he could barely hold my razor steady. I had to shave myself this morning, or he would have presented you with my corpse rather than — Don’t laugh, I swear to you, I’m not exaggerating!”

  “Corpse, indeed! Bingley, you do nothing but exaggerate, or worse, allow your imagination to run away with you.”

  “Now that is doing it a bit too brown, Darcy.” Bingley frowned, mildly affronted. “But if I am to be so accused, tell me, sir, how one is worse than the other so I may decide whether I am insulted or amused.” Bingley straightened his waistcoat and tugged at his coat. “Harumpf.” He cleared his throat sonorously and, picking up a spoon, solemnly tapped it on the table. “You may proceed.”

  “The man who exaggerates is perfectly aware that he does so,” Darcy began as he leaned carelessly against the window frame, his arms crossed upon his chest, “and does not expect anyone to take his protestations to heart. He may come to employ it habitually, but he is still in possession of the truth of the matter and, if pressed, will admit it. But the man in thrall to his imagination has relinquished the command of his faculties to an illusion and will hold to it despite all facts to the contrary. Further, he will demand the rest of the world’s credulity in the matter and regard any who refuse as enemies or oppressors or —”

  A knock on the door interrupted his discourse. The innkeeper’s daughter entered and deposited a steaming tray of mugs and covered dishes. Bingley’s study of the spoon in his hand prevented him from seeing the cheery smile of the maid as she dipped a curtsy in his direction and quietly closed the door on her way out.

  “— Or at the least, a very dull fellow indeed,” Darcy concluded lightly. He crossed to the table and began lifting covers to examine what had been brought for their repast. “Charles, are you not hungry? This looks passable.” He held out a plate. “Charles?”

  Bingley looked up at the sound of his name and, shooting Darcy a quick, wry grin, relieved him of the plate and joined him over the tray. “I believe I shall choose to be amused, particularly because you are such a ‘dull fellow.’”

  “Just so,” Darcy replied before they fell upon the plain but honest offerings.

  After a brisk walk about its environs, they were glad upon their return to the inn to find the coach ready for them. Heated bricks inserted, they clambered inside. Bingley gave the command; the horses leaned into their harnesses, and the two fell back against the squabs. When the horses achieved an even gait, Darcy leaned over and opened his traveling bag, withdrawing Fuentes d’Oñoro from its hold, and settled in closer to the window.

  “Oh, you wish to read?” Bingley’s voice held a note of disappointment.

  “Yes, if you would not mind. There is no more than an hour of light left, and I promise to put it away before the lamps must be lighted. Would you like Badajoz? It is right here in my bag.” Bingley shrugged his acceptance, and Darcy handed him the volume, little worse for the wear of Miss Bingley’s perusal and its careen across the library floor. It was plain that Bingley wished to continue their discussion from the inn, but Darcy kept resolutely to his plan. Leaning back again into the light, he fingered the ends of the embroidery threads that held his place before sliding one finger into the slight breach and opening the book. The colorful threads lay nestled in the crevice of the binding, an intricately feminine knot gathering them at the top. With one eye on his friend, he quickly secreted the token into his coat pocket and then devoted himself to his book, not returning the mark to a new resting place until the shadows made it impossible to read any longer. As he put it away, Bingley returned the other and remarked that they were almost to London. “Do you join me for dinner at Grenier’s?”

  “Your invitation is appreciated, Bingley, but I must remain at home. I have a full schedule of appointments to attend to tomorrow. What say you to dinner at Erewile House tomorrow evening?”

  “ ‘Capital!’ as Sir William Lucas would say.” Bingley chuckled briefly and then sobered. “Darcy, I’m thinking of making an offer on Netherfield.”

  “An offer? That is rather premature, don’t you think?”

  “I thought you approved of Netherfield.”

  “Yes, it is well enough” — Darcy measured out his words — “but I would not advise you to purchase it, at least not yet. This was but your first taste of country living. You found it agreeable. But I find it incumbent upon me to remind you, your sisters did not.”

  “Oh, Caroline!” Bingley replied disparagingly. “Only something as grand as Pemberley would satisfy her, and even if I were to fall into such an estate, we both know that I am not ready for it. Netherfield is perfect!”

  “Perhaps. Still, I should not call it wise to be hasty in this. You hold a contract to rent for a year? Take that year. Hertfordshire is not the only bit of country in England.”

  The carriage slowed as they approached the Highgate Toll. The busy tollgate’s noise being inimical to further conversation, Darcy leaned back into the shadows and covertly watched his friend. Bingley’s brow was creased in a rare furrow that bespoke a mind suddenly cast into uncertainty. As the carriage rolled toward May-fair, though, he appeared to shake free from his disquiet.

  “I hope that you will not have to spend all your time in business affairs before you leave for Derbyshire.”

  “Not all my time, no. There is the pleasant duty of searching out Christmas gifts for Georgiana. I should look in at my club as well.”

  “Certainly, but what of enjoyable things like…a play or a look in at St. Martin’s. Belcher is to display against Cribb, I have heard, and after deal with a newcomer, a fellow from Belgium. Blerét, I think.” He did not give over at Darcy’s shrug. “L’Catalani is to perform at Lady Melbourne’s; surely you will be finished with your accounts by then?”

  “You are singularly well informed, Charles,” Darcy replied dryly, his voice edged with a sudden, inexplicable irritation. “Pray, leave your recommendations with Hinchcliffe, and I shall endeavor to oblige you as often as I can.”

  “Your secretary! Oh, I would not dare. I don’t believe he entirely approves of me, Darcy.”

 
“Has Hinchcliffe been impertinent to you? I am sorry for it.”

  “Do not apologize.” Bingley smiled at his friend’s perturbation. “I know how invaluable he is to you. Both he and your Fletcher are quite well regarded, you know. I have, in fact, overheard any number of gentlemen of our acquaintance lament their inability to entice one or the other of them away from your employ. Such complete loyalty!”

  Darcy winced guiltily at the appellation and looked away to the window. The carriage turned into Grosvenor Square and came to a gentle stop in front of Erewile House. “Besides, it is likely a great honor to be snubbed by him. Further, if he should ever discover it is I who peached on him, Hinchcliffe will deny me the services of the nephew he has been training. So say nothing, I beg you.”

  Grunting in agreement to Bingley’s request, Darcy began arranging his traveling bag to be brought into the house. The carriage door was pulled open by a footman. Behind him, holding high a lamp, was Erewile House’s venerable butler, a look of relief warring with deference.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir. So good to have you safely home.”

  “Thank you, Witcher,” he returned as he descended from the carriage, “but you should not be out here in the cold, my good man.”

  “Thank you, sir, but Mrs. Witcher was just that certain the weather would turn before you arrived that only my personal assurance of your safety will do.”

  “I desire, then, that you go and inform her so, directly. The footman can handle what is needed.” Darcy turned back to the carriage door. “Bingley, I will not keep you from your dinner. Eight tomorrow evening?”

  “Eight it shall be.”

  Darcy nodded curtly at his reply, and the footman shut the carriage door. He mounted the steps as Bingley’s carriage pulled away, in seconds gaining the warm, welcoming hall of his London home.

  “Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Fletcher wishes to know if you require a bath to be drawn before dining.” Witcher stepped up behind him to help with the divesting of coat, hat, and gloves. “Monsieur Jules begs leave to inform you that dinner can be served within the hour if you so desire, and a nice hot toddy is on its way to the library at this very moment.”

  Ah, yes, it is good to be home, Darcy thought wearily. “You may tell Fletcher that a bath is highly desired. Dinner in an hour and a half would please me immeasurably.”

  “Very good, sir. And the toddy, sir?”

  “I am on my way to the library. Thank you, Witcher.”

  “Mr. Darcy.” Witcher bowed as his master started up the stairs to his sanctuary. Upon entering, Darcy found a fire blazing cheerily in the hearth and the promised hot drink on a tray at the side of his favorite chair. A quick look at his desk’s burnished top revealed his appointment book and correspondence neatly arranged and precisely annotated in Hinchcliffe’s clear hand. His books were already unpacked and lying in wait of his attention on the shelf reserved for his current reading.

  Everything was as it should be. Sighing to himself, he strode over to the jug of hot liquor. He poured a comforting amount into the mug on the tray and blew out the candle before settling down into the hearthside chair and propping up his heels on the footstool before it. He took a long draw on his drink and, closing his eyes, leaned back. He tried mightily to think of nothing but the hot, sweet liquid sliding down his throat and the pleasurable sensations of once again being home, among his own people and possessions. But the vision of Bingley’s troubled face in response to his purposeful remarks would not be dismissed.

  Bingley! He groaned aloud and, sitting up, leaned forward to stare into the fire. It is all to good purpose, he told himself for the thousandth time, and it is of no matter how the whole affair makes you feel. As he took another draw from the mug, his eyes strayed about the room and fell upon the book he had been reading in the carriage. Remembering what lay inside its pages, he quickly turned away. Surely Fletcher was ready for him by now! He set the mug down upon the tray and strode out the library door.

  The next morning found Darcy awaking from the first night of true repose he had experienced in some time. Almost before the bell pull had stopped swaying, Fletcher appeared and, with quiet expertise, prepared him for a day devoted to his business affairs. Breakfast and the perusal of the morning’s newspaper, Darcy noted, had been blessedly devoid of Miss Bingley’s chattering interruptions, and when both were finished, he looked up to be informed that his secretary awaited his pleasure in the library.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir.” Hinchcliffe rose from his chair set directly across the wide desk from Darcy’s own.

  “Hinchcliffe” — Darcy acknowledged his slight bow — “it appears we have quite a day ahead of us. Did you receive the instructions concerning the disposition of the charitable funds for this year?” He sat down opposite his secretary, who then resumed his own seat.

  “Yes, sir.” He drew Darcy’s letter out of the leather case in his lap and lay it on the desk for his master’s approval. Each recipient of Darcy’s yearly largesse was noted and checked off in Hinchcliffe’s neat script. “Expressions of gratitude for your interest arrive daily, sir.” He withdrew more letters from the case and laid them beside Darcy’s. Darcy swept up the letters and glanced through them before pushing them back across the desk.

  “Very good, Hinchcliffe.” An almost imperceptible nod of the head was the sum of his secretary’s response to his words. Its curt nature and Darcy’s unconcern over such procacious behavior in a servant would have surprised many of his acquaintances. Of course, they could not know that Hinchcliffe had been his father’s secretary, engaged into his service since Darcy had been a lad of twelve.

  Their first meeting had not been an auspicious one. Elated to be home on a short holiday from Eton, Darcy had run into Erewile House straight out of the carriage, through the entry hall, and right into a tall, black-clad form just coming into the hall. When the last bit of paper had finally drifted to the floor, he’d found himself lying across the legs of a stern-eyed man of about thirty years. The fall had knocked the man’s wig askew at a comical angle in such a marked contrast to the granite set of his jaw that Darcy had been unable to prevent a sign of the humor of their situation from escaping him. That had lasted only until the strange servant untangled his limbs and rose to his full height. To Darcy’s twelve-year-old amazement, the man had seemed a giant and one with a darkling eye focused wholly upon himself.

  “Master Darcy, I believe,” the giant had rumbled.

  “Yes, sir,” he had responded in a much subdued voice, sure that he had been unlucky enough to have tumbled over an unknown schoolmaster engaged to keep him at his studies during the holiday.

  “I am your father’s new secretary, Mr. Hinchcliffe,” the giant had continued, his diction precise and his voice stentorian. “You, sir, are awaited in the library. You will pardon me if I do not announce you, as I have an unexpected task to complete. I suggest you bestir yourself before your father comes in search of you.” Fixing him with a final, stern look, Hinchcliffe had turned and begun retrieving the papers that littered the hall while Darcy walked quickly up the steps and slipped inside the library door to safety.

  For years Hinchcliffe had been a rigid fixture among the servants whom Darcy had learnt to appreciate only when he had come home from university to find his beloved father’s health in an alarming state. During those two harrowing years before his death, Hinchcliffe had tutored Darcy on all his father’s business interests and concerns, and he could conceive of no other more suited to be his own secretary than the man who knew the Darcy interests so intimately and had kept them so faithfully and so well. He did not look for warmth from Hinchcliffe, nor did he expect deference. It was enough for Darcy to be certain that he had merited the respect and loyalty of a man who had known of all his concerns since boyhood and, further, tendered him the services of a true master at his craft.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir, there is one thing more I must bring to your notice.” Hinchcliffe withdrew yet another letter from his case and, carefully opening it,
laid it on the desk. “I received this from Miss Darcy a few days ago. Shall I do as she has requested, sir?”

  Darcy took up the letter and read it softly aloud:

  21 November 1811

  Pemberley House

  Lambton

  Derbyshire

  Mr. Hinchcliffe,

  If you please, make out a check from my Charity Funds in the amount of twenty pounds to be given over to the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country, the address follows, and see that a check for one hundred pounds per annum is made over to them hereafter.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Georgiana Darcy

  Eyebrows arched high in surprise, Darcy looked over the top of the letter at his secretary. “The Society for Returning Young Women! Hinchcliffe, are you acquainted with this society?”

  “I was not, sir, previous to Miss Darcy’s letter. I have made inquiries, and it is a legitimate society with connections to Clapham, sir. Very respectable board of directors, subscribers are from the best families and even a few peers. Nothing objectionable, sir.”

  “Hmm,” Darcy replied, staring at the letter thoughtfully. “That may be so, but I object to my sister knowing of such women…such evils,” he amended. And further, that she did not consult first with me! Why did she not? He frowned.

  “Shall I comply with Miss Darcy’s directions, Mr. Darcy?” Hinchcliffe’s voice rumbled quietly.

  “Yes,” he answered slowly, drawing out his assent to the request. “Make over the twenty-pound bequest, but do not send the hundred until you have heard from me on it. I would speak to Miss Darcy first.”

  “Very good, sir. Your first appointment is with the manager of the warehouse that handles the imported goods from your shipping interests. Shall I show him in?”

  Darcy nodded, and the day began in earnest with a series of meetings and negotiations. Bargains were struck and funds withdrawn or invested in quick succession, with only a short pause in the late afternoon for a cold collation and glass of ale. This had been pressed upon him most insistently by his watchful housekeeper, Mrs. Witcher. When the door had closed behind the last man in his appointment book, the clock was very near to striking six.