An Assembly Such as This (24 page)

“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:

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.

“A most productive day.” He sighed, closing the account books and sitting back in his desk chair. Hinchcliffe leaned across the desk, pulling the accounts into a neat pile and then taking them in a stack to the safebox hidden behind a set of weighty tomes on a bookshelf.

“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary as he took a small key attached with a chain to his waistcoat, locked the safebox, and replaced the books. “Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes, that is all! Go and get some dinner; I have worked you unmercifully.” As Hinchcliffe bowed slightly and turned to go, Darcy had a sudden thought. “Hinchcliffe, how is your nephew coming along? The one you are training. Is he looking for a position?”

“Your interest is most kind, Mr. Darcy. The young man is coming along nicely, sir, but I would not say he is ready as yet to look for a situation. Another half year will tell.”

“I dine tonight with Mr. Bingley, who is quite interested in acquiring your nephew’s services. A better master would be hard to find.”

“Mr. Bingley, sir?” Hinchcliffe paused and then continued. “Ah, yes, I recall him now, sir. Fortune through trade, Yorkshire family, I believe.” He sniffed delicately.

“Correct on every count, and my
particular
friend,” Darcy emphasized. “I would consider it a great favor, when your nephew is ready, if he would give serious thought to entering into Mr. Bingley’s employ.”

“He would deem it an honor to oblige you, Mr. Darcy. Good evening, sir.”

As the door closed on his still formidable secretary, Darcy struggled out of his coat and, laying it across his desk, walked over to the hearth, stretching his back muscles as he went. Bingley was likely right about Hinchcliffe snubbing him, he thought, as he reached for the decanter and poured out a glass. He shook his head and then took a sip from the heavy cut-glass tumbler, letting the liquid roll down his throat.
At least you have done him a good turn in this that he will appreciate immediately. Not like the other.
That
will take some time.

The clock struck the half hour. Darcy threw back the last of the contents of his glass and set it down on the tray. Bingley would be there in an hour or so, and he had been confined to the house the entire day. He needed some exercise; a brisk walk about the square would be just the thing. Slipping his coat on, he rang for his greatcoat and hat. Witcher appeared with them, and with a caution that he would be back in twenty minutes and desired Fletcher to be ready for him, Darcy ran down the stairs and set off at an invigorating pace.

“Now then, Darcy, are you finished with work so Jack may play, or is he to continue to be a dull boy?” Bingley accepted the glass of deep red wine his friend offered and sat in his customary chair at the dining table in one of the smaller parlors of Erewile House. As the servants moved quietly about, uncovering dishes and serving them, Darcy lifted his glass in a toast.

“To a swift and successful conclusion of Jack’s obligations, so his friends will not languish in boredom.”

“Hear, hear.” Bingley laughed and downed a portion of the fine burgundy. “Truly, are you free from your account books and solicitors? It has been well over a week!”

“Not yet, and before you ask, I have had little opportunity to look at any cards, so I have not decided on anything. Except…” He paused, slowly twirling the stem of the wineglass.

“Yes…except?”

“You mentioned the diva L’Catalani, and I find myself sorely tempted to attend Lady Melbourne’s soiree.”

“Tempted, you say! Do you mean to go? I should like to go, but only if you are. That set is a bit above my touch.” Bingley began to tuck into the delicious meal before him.

Darcy snorted. “That set! Do not let their titles and airs fool you, Bingley. They hide a dangerous, deceptive lot that you would do well to stay clear of. Intrigue and ambition are their creed, and woe to the man or woman who becomes entangled in their plots.”

“Rather a dark view, Darcy! But I daresay I am too much of a nobody to attract their attention and could chance a venture into the lion’s den without much harm being done. And to hear L’Catalani!” he entreated. “Darcy, we
must
attend!”

A shadow of hesitation passed over Darcy’s features as he regarded his friend, but in the face of such earnestness, he could not but agree. “So be it, Bingley; we shall go. But be forewarned and keep your head. I shall call for you at nine tomorrow evening.”

“Marvelous, Darcy.” Both then fell to their dinners, Bingley interspersing sporting news and men’s club gossip between mouthfuls of stuffed capon, chartreuse, and veal d’olive. When the two had done justice to Monsignor Jules’s artistry, they repaired to the library for a glass of port, which Bingley accepted from Darcy with a deep sigh.

“Charles?”

“It has been two weeks, you know.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yes, two weeks since the ball. Two weeks since I last saw Miss Bennet. It seems an age! Wasn’t she lovely? I could scarce keep from her side.” Bingley’s attention seemed to waver from his surroundings.

“Yes, well, that was obvious to anyone with eyes, old man.” Darcy paused and, gathering his powers, asked disinterestedly, “Would you say that she feels the same?”

Bingley shook himself slightly and turned in puzzlement to his friend. “Yes, of course. Why would you ask?”

“On what, exactly, do you base your opinion? Did she confess herself to you?”

“No, no, of course not!” Bingley put his glass down, stepped away, and then returned to pick it up again. “What a thing to suggest, Darcy! Miss Bennet is a lady, gently bred. She would never —”

“She looked at you, then, in such a way that left no need for words of love, of attachment?” he pressed.

Bingley’s mouth opened in protest. “I remind you again, Miss Bennet is a gentlewoman. It would be entirely inappropriate.”

“Then tell me, Charles.” He closed in, allowing his friend no opportunity to stray from the point. “On what grounds do you believe she holds you in greater regard than other men of her close acquaintance? You admit she has not spoken of love, nor given you glances full of tender meaning. What then?”

“A man just knows,” Bingley sputtered.

Darcy shrugged skeptically.

“You believe me to be exaggerating the thing, but I swear to you, I am not! Not this time.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Not this time,’” Darcy returned softly. Bingley stared into his glass while Darcy, forcefully maintaining an air of nonchalance, sat down and sipped at his port. As the silence between them stretched on, he glanced at Charles now and again, attempting to gauge his thoughts. The repeated flex of his jaw bespoke deep agitation.

“You believe me to be imagining it, the warmth of her regard?” Bingley’s question seemed more a statement than an inquiry.

“Charles,” he returned in a conciliatory tone, “you must be the judge of that. I only wish to caution you, warn you away from an alliance that would bring you more pain than satisfaction. The difficulties of Miss Bennet’s family and connections are many, yet these may be borne if you are absolutely convinced of her devotion. But if marriage were contracted with only want of advancement in Society on the lady’s part…” He left the rest unspoken.

Bingley gulped down the remaining contents of his glass. “Yes, well, no more need be said. Nine tomorrow evening, then?” He rose from his chair and, to Darcy’s surprise, sketched him a bow. “I think I will make an early night of it, Darcy. I have some appointments of my own in the morning. I imagine I should dress to the nines for Lady Melbourne’s?”