A Very Austen Valentine

by Robin Helm

  The more he thought about it, the more Darcy wished he had not accepted the invitation to dine. The food was likely to be bad, for one thing. From the look of the house and its occupants, he surmised that Miss Milsom made do with a maid-of-all-work who likely had no idea what good cooking was. He would also, no doubt, be answering questions about himself; he must hope that none of his answers would expose his deception.

  In spite of these things, he still wanted to see Miss Bennet again. This worried him more than the rest. Notwithstanding his suspicions, he had found her personality attractive, and her sparkling eyes haunted him. The last thing he needed was to fall in love with her. If she were a spy, such a thing would be unthinkable. And even if she were not, she was entirely unsuitable to be his bride. She could not be from any distinguished family, else he would have met her before now, or at least known her name. Where was she from? On their walk he had been so busy trying to avoid questions he wouldn’t know how to answer that he had not been thorough in asking her questions. Well, no doubt he would find out the answer tonight. Really, he told himself, it was a good thing he was going, to put to rest these ridiculous apprehensions. And of course, his heart was safe enough; it was absurd to think that it would be lost to Miss Bennet in one or two days. He was on his guard.

  These thoughts satisfied him for a little while, but as he was getting ready for dinner, the annoyance crept in again. How he had let himself be entangled in such an outrageous situation? Here he was dressing for dinner without his valet or manservant or anyone. The boots at the inn had done the polishing of his shoes (and very inferior work it was, too), his neckcloth was limp, and he was wearing the same waistcoat that he had worn the day before. He looked, in fact, like a clergyman. He smiled wryly at his reflection in the mirror. It was all his cousin’s fault, and he would be sure to tell him so when he saw him next. And if James had the audacity to think the whole thing was funny… well, of course he would. Darcy could see him laughing uproariously at the straights he was being put too: taking a false name, masquerading as a clergyman, putting up at an inferior inn, buying a house and improving it—Darcy ticked off the list on his fingers.

  He sighed and brought his wandering thoughts back into line. No doubt this dinner would clear up any doubts about Miss Bennet’s true identity, and he would only need to wait until the house purchase was completed (for having made a bargain with Mr. Madderly, he was loathe to be unfaithful to his side of it) before leaving this place and escaping from all this anxiety and strain. In fact, he would not go back to London but instead to Pemberley, to Georgiana and his comfortable life. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and set off to Miss Milsom’s house.

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  Having made up his mind that he was only in Miss Bennet’s presence to confirm or disprove her innocence, and determined to be no more than civil, he was dismayed at his own joy in seeing her again. He conversed with the two ladies about inconsequential things while they waited for dinner to be announced, and he could not but be impressed by them both.

  Miss Bennet was unquestionably a lady in her demeanour and manners. He could not help contrasting her with the young lady at Lanesborough House that he had been dining with only last week, or even with that sister of Charles Bingley’s, both of whom, he knew, had tried to present themselves in a matrimonial light. Neither girl was precisely vulgar, but neither did they have the quality that this one did. Or, he reminded himself, the quality that she appeared to have. She might be a very good actress. It was only by making a supreme effort that he kept his eyes from continually straying to her face.

  During the course of the dinner, he learned that she came from Cheapside, in London, and she talked about it in such a way that she was obviously very familiar with the place. He struggled to remember if his cousin had mentioned where Elise Benét had grown up, but he didn’t think he had. From the conversation between Elizabeth and Miss Milsom, he gathered that she was the orphaned daughter of a gentleman of very few means, and she had come to visit her old schoolmistress. This was all very plausible, Darcy thought. In due time, Millie asked him what he was doing in the district.

  “I have inherited a small house nearby,” he said. “As I have no need of it for myself, I have determined that it shall be put to use as an orphanage. It is in a bad state, and I am looking to repair it.”

  Elizabeth schooled her expression into one of mild interest, but she remembered the rogue Millie had told her about who had told the same story. She had been impressed anew with Mr. Williams during their before-dinner conversation, and had found it difficult to remember that he could not be all he seemed.

  “I expect it will cost a great deal to have it put to rights,” said Elizabeth, giving him a chance to ask for money, and so confirm her suspicions.

  “I daresay it will,” said Darcy, who thought suddenly that it must seem unlikely that a humble vicar would have enough money to do such a thing. “My patron, Mr. Darcy, is bearing the expense himself. However, he would rather that not be generally known.”

  “What needs to be done to the house?” she asked.

  “I hardly know yet,” he returned, “as I have not made a complete survey of the property. I had only just arrived in the district, you know, when I had the pleasure of meeting you at the abbey. I hope to go tomorrow and make a thorough inspection of the place.”

  Darcy thought he could detect a faint look of disbelief in her features, though why she should doubt him he had no idea. He had not ever really intended to turn the house into an orphanage; only to set the place to rights and then sell it again, but now it seemed very important that Miss Bennet not find him to be a liar.

  “I will need to look for caretakers and teachers, too,” he went on. “Perhaps,” he said, turning to Millie, “as you have a connection with a school you may know of a lady who would care to instruct the orphans?”

  “I know of one who might,” said Millie, nodding at Elizabeth.

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth quietly. “As it happens, Mr. Williams, I am looking for a post as a governess.” She spoke as if it were hard for her to admit the fact.

  “You?” His tone was more shocked than he meant it to be. He had been glad to know she was of gentle birth—for her own sake, of course—only a short time ago, and to think of her becoming a governess was rather dreadful.

  Elizabeth smiled faintly and nodded. She was sorry to know herself embarrassed by him thinking of her as a governess. After all, why should she care to impress this gentleman, who was certainly a charlatan of some sort? She wondered if his surprised tone had more to do with her lack of a convincing performance as an educated woman, or whether she seemed too genteel for being a governess to seem a natural thing for her to do. She intensely hoped it was the latter reason.

  However sorry Darcy was to learn of Elizabeth’s intended fate, he also felt relieved. Surely a spy would not go so far as to engage herself as a governess on a whim; and why would she go to any lengths to deceive him, a clergyman with no military connections whom she had met by chance? She must be genuine.

  Millie broke into the silence to ask, “Have you had much experience, Mr. Williams, in putting houses in order?”

  “My father and his land steward have more than I, of course, but I have a little knowledge.”

  “I suppose you are in your parishioners’ houses frequently, and see when things need to be put to rights.”

  “I do. Enough, at least, to form strong opinions about replacing cottages when they need it.” Here Darcy felt on firm ground, having replaced several of his tenants’ cottages on the estate in the last two years. He explained his thoughts on the subject at length, describing the best materials to use for laborers’ cottages, defending the idea of a small garden plot for every house, and finishing up with, “I have found that by converting the old, one-room cottages into more modern, two-story dwellings that can house two families, there is a great reduction in sickness among the tenants. More fresh air—more windows—and a less
cramped living space, have a very beneficial effect. It is well worth the investment.”

  Both ladies were given pause; they knew enough about estates and tenants to know that he obviously had personal experience with them. Elizabeth felt that she could almost believe he was totally truthful.

  “Does Netherfield Park have a great many tenants?” she asked.

  He hesitated for an instant before answering, “Yes.”

  It was enough for her to doubt him again. She knew Netherfield had very few tenants.

  Millie changed the subject. “I hear there is a military review tomorrow in Haverford, not far from here. Were you intending to see it?”

  “No. I need to go and look over my new property, and then ride to Southend to—” he checked himself. He really needed to go and see if there was a letter from James waiting for him at the hotel, but he could hardly say that. “…to meet someone.”

  It was the way he stopped himself in the middle that gave him away. Was he, as incredible as it seemed, a spy? Or was he something equally nefarious but not so traitorous?

  When the dinner was over and the tea-things were set out, Darcy noticed the teapot with its “Am I not a man and a brother” image on the side.

  Elizabeth noticed his glance. “Are you a friend to the abolitionist cause, Mr. Williams?” she asked.

  For an answer, Darcy pulled out his snuff-box, whose lid had the same image on it.

  “There may at last be some progress in the cause,” he said. There is a bill that was submitted to the House of Commons only a week or so ago.”

  “Indeed,” said Elizabeth. “And if it passes, it will outlaw the slave-trade throughout all the British empire.”

  “It has been so many years since Mr. Wilberforce first introduced a bill to Parliament!” said Millie. “I am sure he must have despaired many times of ever seeing his cause prosper.”

  “But in recent years public opinion has been turned against the slave-trade,” said Elizabeth, “which is a decided change from the early days of abolition. I have a strong hope that it may succeed this time.”

  “I only wish it had passed earlier,” said Darcy. “For how many souls it has come too late!”

  Their eyes met in understanding, and for the moment all suspicions were forgotten. They were on the same side in a grave conflict, and they each felt the weight of the struggle.

  Elizabeth recovered her wits first. She could feel herself being drawn in by this man, and it would never do. She had better return to the purpose of this dinner: to discover what he was about.

  “Parliament has a grave responsibility,” she said. “And may yet bear a greater burden in days to come. Tell me, if the king descends into madness again, do you think him a fit ruler for the nation? His madness may return, as it did two years ago. And there are also those who think his son would be a far worse ruler than he. Some think England should cease to have a monarchy at all.”

  She knew it was too abrupt, and the startled expression on Millie’s face told her that she had ceased being subtle in her quest for the truth. Having said it, however, she could do nothing but wait for the response.

  Darcy was taken aback. Why would Miss Bennet say such a thing? It was unlike any dinner-party conversation he had ever heard, especially from a female. It was, in fact, dangerously close to treason. Could it be that she was sounding him out, thinking that he could also be a spy? Could she have penetrated his disguise and wondered which side he was on? But how?

  He answered mildly that he thought the Almighty had the situation well in hand, and as there was no crisis in government at all right now, it was not really a subject on which he had formed an opinion.

  She smiled at his answer, and said it was a good one, and his fears were somewhat allayed. He was, however, a little depressed. He could no longer say that she was cleared of all doubt.

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  The next morning he went first to see Squire Madderly. His man of business was there with a contract of sale already drawn up, and when Darcy had given him a cheque for the cost of the house, the deed to the property was handed over and the business was concluded. Darcy went from there to the hotel in Southend, and found a letter from his cousin waiting for him there.

  My Dear Mr. Williams,

  Thank you for your letter, and for your information about the sudden departure of the intended recipient. I regret to say that there is nothing more for you to do in Southend, therefore I beg you will return to London.”

  Yours, etc.

  James

  Darcy wrote back immediately.

  Dear Sir,

  You will remember telling me about something that you were searching for. There is a very slight possibility that I have found it in a nearby village; a place very near an old ruined abbey. We joked about the possibility of me accidentally finding such a thing, remember, and I would be greatly astonished if I have indeed done so. However, stranger things have happened, and I wish I could know from yourself in person if my imagination has taken flight; at least I wish my curiosity to be satisfied. I have been staying in the village, and will stay here until you come, or until I know for certain that I have been tilting at windmills.

  I remain, etc,

  Rev. Anhalt Williams

  Darcy hesitated before sealing up the letter. Ought he to have given the name of the village to James? No, he thought not. If Elizabeth was a spy, her whereabouts would probably be known to her compatriots, and it would set them on guard. Besides, the colonel should have little difficulty finding the place; how many ruined abbeys could there be near Southend?

  On the way back to Rowsley, he stopped and looked around his new house. It appeared to be a solid structure, although it was damp, and windows and carpets would need replacing. The plaster had crumbled in many places, several chimneys were blocked up, and likewise several windows (avoiding the window tax, no doubt). The attic needed work, and damp patches on the floors and ceilings in several places showed how badly the roof needed repairing.

  On the other hand, the rooms were good proportions, the windows faced south, and the remains of what had once been a kitchen garden showed promise in that direction. He had asked Mr. Madderly’s land steward about hiring men to do the labour, and he had said that he knew several good workmen who would be glad of the work.

  He had a sudden vision of the rooms filled with small children, safe in warm beds, with kind caretakers and a chance for an education, and he was rather glad that he had been pushed into this adventure.

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  The next day he went to one of the men whom Squire Madderly’s man of business had recommended, and asked if he would be willing to take charge of the work, hire the labourers, and so forth. They talked for several hours about what needed to be done, and Darcy was impressed with the fellow. He seemed to know his business and be a conscientious overseer.

  The evening found him back at the inn with nothing to do. At home he would have been looking over his accounts or reading a book, but neither were available here. A knock on his door proved to be the landlord of the inn, inviting him to join a party of men in the parlour for a game of whist. Darcy’s first impulse was to decline, as he had in Southend.

  But before he could reply, the landlord added, “Beggin’ your pardon, if it’s taking a liberty, but Joe—he’s the stable lad what’s seeing to your horse—he told Mr. Hendry about you. ‘He’s a kindly gentleman,’ says Joe, ‘and not too high and mighty to spend an evening with the likes of us country folk.’ And Mr. Hendry, he thought you might be willing to make a fourth at whist.”

  Darcy gathered that to refuse would give offence, and for the sake of the profession that he was supposed to be following, he acquiesced. If he was presenting himself as a clergyman, he thought as he followed Mr. Welbeck downstairs, he ought to at least appear as a good one. There were enough impious and downright irreligious men in the pay of the Church of England in these days—wolves in sheep’s clothing. It was one reason why he had given Geor
ge Wickham a settlement of money instead of a living; he knew Wickham ought not to be a clergyman.

  It was a completely unprecedented experience, playing cards with those who did not know of his rank or wealth. He was not entirely at ease, but he tried to remember that he was an actor, and as the evening went on, he felt more comfortable in the role of Mr. Williams, clergyman.

  The men he was playing cards with showed great interest in his plan of starting an orphanage with the house he had inherited, and were free with advice about who should be put in charge of running it.

  “I don’t think you ought to ask Mr. Bell,” said one man, whose long nose fascinated Darcy. “He’s the vicar, you know, and some people might assume he would be interested in that sort of thing. He isn’t though.”

  “Not a bad man, certainly,” said another man, “but not so friendly as you are, Mr. Williams. He isn’t one to sympathise much with folks in need.”

  “No, nor spend time in the society of village people. I would be very surprised if he came to the assembly on St. Valentine’s Day.”

  “Have you met Mr. Bell yet, Mr. Williams?”

  “No,” said Darcy. “Not yet.”

  “You’ll see him at church tomorrow,” said the man with the long nose. “It must be a treat for you to hear someone else preaching, instead of yourself.”

  “Indeed,” said Darcy. “I may say that I would prefer anyone else’s preaching to my own.”

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  Sitting in church the next day, Darcy could see Miss Bennet and Miss Milsom in their pew. The sight distracted him, but only slightly, as he took more interest in the service than he ever had before. Now that he was playing the part of a clergyman, he felt a slight kinship with the man preaching. So he was hard to talk to, was he? Darcy looked around the congregation: country people, some poor, some better off, but none of them wealthy. If he were the clergyman here, he would need to call on them, visit them when they were sick, give counsel when asked, preside over their marriages and deaths, baptise their children, and (if he were to be worthy of the cloth), he would need to do it with compassion and a measure of friendliness. Darcy doubted he could do it. He had more sympathy for Mr. Bell than he had the previous night. He himself took little care for people’s feelings, although he took pride in being fair and just to them. It seemed now that sympathy was more appreciated than mere integrity.