Darcy & Elizabeth (54 page)

“But Général, this necklace is worth but a pittance compared to the
gratuité
Countess du Mautort will pay for the return of her granddaughter. It would be
très
unfair.”

“I cannot think of that now,” cried Wickham. “I only asked to be repaid for my expenses in saving this baby—which, as you know, have been substantial. The heart, however, knows only of love. I would be forever in your debt if you would do me this favour!”

Sitting pensively, Marie-Therese mulled over his request. Then, with the greatest of reluctance, she unclasped the necklace. Suddenly apprehensive, she looked carefully about, to be certain no eyes of the wrong sort might espy them, Wickham noted her sudden caution, but allowed the treasure to be placed in his outstretched palm. He then scooted the handle of the carriage over to her. She shook her head, however, and picked the baby up in her arms. The baby had awakened and looked winsomely in Wickham's direction.

“I prefer this,” she said.

She held the baby close to her bosom. It was clear to Wickham by such a posture that she had little experience with babies. He was happy to have been assured of the awaiting baby-nurse. They both stood. Awkwardly, he offered her his hand. She loosed one hand and extended it. He kissed her fingers, slipping his treasure into his waistcoat for safe keeping. They walked a little ways together, and then Wickham asked if he might kiss the baby good-bye. He was feeling true remorse when he drew back her bonnet and bent to peck her upon her forehead. Thereupon, Marie-Therese said she must return to her hired carriage lest it not wait for her.

Wickham doffed his hat, “
Adieu
.”

“
Adieu
,” repeated Marie-Therese.

“Her name,” he had almost forgotten to tell her name, “is Eliza.”

She nodded, unimpressed. It was likely that bit of sentiment on his part would not survive the crossing. No doubt Marie-Therese, or du Mautort's mother, would christen her something French. As he watched her walk away, his eyes were mesmerised by the fetching swing to her undercarriage. He thought it peculiar that in all the decadence amidst which he found himself in Paris, he had never once tasted the delights Mademoiselle Lambert had to offer.

“A pity,” he said as he sauntered away.

While the Cat's Away

“I cannot believe that even
you
would do such a thing!” exclaimed Goodwin, an expression of mortified incredulity upon his face. Hannah, however, refused to be cowed.

“Miss Darcy—er, rather, Mrs. Fitzwilliam—said it was lovely,” Hannah sniffed, “She wanted it wrapped about her little babe immediately! You heard her yerself!”

“What more could the poor thing say, delirious with fatigue as she was?” Goodwin insisted.

This conversation occurred upon their return trip to Pemberley, the two servants bickering as if an old married couple. As usual, Goodwin was unhappy with Hannah's lack of circumspection in the presence of their betters. And just as routinely, Hannah was unapologetic. Goodwin had always been resentful of Hannah that she had not come up through the Pemberley ranks to obtain her position. He saw her as a plebeian upstart—devoid of those nuances necessary to be worthy of such an exalted position as hers. As for Hannah, every time Goodwin got in a snit over some distraction, his Adam's apple bobbed quite vigorously. Endeavour as she might against it, that sight titillated her beyond all reason.

“Law', Goodwin, you were just as anxious as me to see that baby,” Hannah said, expertly altering the subject from her forwardness to a turn they shared. “If it were left up to you she'd be repeatin' the responses afore we had chance to admire her. I ask you, what good would my shawl do her then?”

Goodwin had known Georgiana the entirety of her life and was even more anxious than Hannah to have a look at the latest Darcy progeny. Therefore, he gazed with great dedication out the coach window and harrumphed—this being his standard response when he had no rejoinder. His temper had always been a bit compromised when it came to Hannah—a predisposition that had not moderated even after her protection of him during his period of indisposition. It had not been exactly spelled out, but the meaningful looks she gifted him told him that she had shielded him in his hour of need. He despised her for it. He used every shot in his arsenal of acerbity and she still remained blissfully unaware how exquisitely grieved he was to find himself beholden to her.

Their relationship might have remained skewered upon the horns of obligation had not a mutual enemy made it necessary for them to join forces.

***

Yewdell had told her that Mrs. Darcy had bid them return to Pemberley shortly after she had taken leave for London. Hannah was not altogether certain why she had requested them to do so, but it was not her place to question any instruction by her lady. There was certainly no reason for them to stay on at Rosings Park. Indeed, Hannah was happy to depart from the fine house regardless.

“I never saw a handsomer house with an uglier air about it,” mused Hannah as she watched Goodwin impatiently adjusting his black arm-band. “It gives me the shivers—and not just because of the wearin' of the black. I don't know how that Yewdell can bear it.”

For once Goodwin did not argue her observation. He had had a similar foreboding. Still, he was most unhappy to be sent back to Pemberley. Whatever business Mr. Darcy had in London, Goodwin was exceedingly unhappy not to accompany him. He felt that most firmly. To watch as Mr. Darcy hied for London without him gifted him an alarm remarkably similar to that which had troubled him the summer past. He did not think that he would again take to the flask, but with each mile put between him and Mr. Darcy, it was an increasingly vexatious temptation.

When they finally arrived at the gravel drive leading up to Pemberley House itself, Goodwin all but flung himself from the coach in a fit of agitation. He did not even direct the unloading of the trunks before he made his way through the portico and headed up the staircase. Hannah knew the makings of a bender when she saw one and was fast upon his heels, fully intending to move heaven and earth to keep him sober. A slip such as that and that loathsome Smeads would use it against poor Goodwin. She was not so certain of Mr. Darcy's mind on the matter that she believed Goodwin's position safe from dismissal. She could not have that.

When they reached the second set of stairs, Hannah was losing her breath, but wiry Goodwin had barely broken a sweat. He headed directly towards Mr. Darcy's study—a location known to contain not only a cellaret holding several fine bottles of brandy, but also Mr. Darcy's infamous silver flask—the very one that Goodwin had employed for his past imbibing. As both Hannah and Goodwin were intent upon their own objectives, they came to a near collision with a small group of tourists just then departing the nursery.

From behind their group came the voice of Smeads, saying, “Hurry along if you will. Time is of the essence.”

In the summer months, when touring the countryside is a happy pastime, it was not unusual to have compleat strangers ask permission not only to walk in their gardens, but to view the rooms within as well. They were always graciously admitted and had been chaperoned either by Mrs. Reynolds herself or one of her trusted minions. After his mother's death, Smeads accommodated these requests meanly, making certain any visitors understood such hospitality was a transgression against his time. Never, however, in all Hannah's days at Pemberley had she seen other than invited guests upon the floor of the family apartments.

Because of the oddity of it, Hannah dared to take a peek beyond the milling bodies and into the room they had just taken leave of. She was much in want of learning the excuse for such audacity—certain above all else that the children would not be within. She was truly appalled to see Margaret Heff standing mid-most of the nursery. In her arms sat Janie, sucking furiously upon her middle two fingers whilst little Geoffrey clung with great determination to her skirt. Although Janie was clearly uneasy, the children looked more curious than afraid. But Margaret's eyes were wide—large enough to reveal an exceptional array of emotions. Foremost amongst them was fear, seconded by confusion, and topped off with a significant degree of distaste. She looked as if she would like to question what had come about, but Hannah knew her cousin to be far too new in her position to question Smeads's authority.

Whilst Hannah uncovered the extent of the breach to the family's privacy, the little band of excursionists remained clustered at the doorway, nattering with great satisfaction amongst themselves over the sight they had just beheld.

“Lovely children,” said one stranger to another, who nodded in agreement. “They look to be a healthy pair. Not often the case with twins, I understand. Oftentimes they are simpletons.”

It was readily apparent to Hannah and Goodwin what sort of malfeasance was afoot. But Smeads's attention was so taken with leading his bustling little group about that he did not espy Hannah and Goodwin until they elbowed their way through the throng. No fool he, Smeads quickly squelched the expression of horror that had invaded his countenance and composed his aspect into one of righteous indignation. (The best defence always a good offence, he intended to head off any accusations thusly.) Hannah had no ready censure as her mouth was quite agape. Had she looked at Goodwin, she would have recognized that their minds were quite alike.

There was no other trespass Smeads could have committed that would have infuriated Hannah quite as much as one against the children. Her hands curled into fists and she hit the sides of her thighs with them in a fury she had never before quite entertained.

“Out!” she screamed at the nondescript troop of sightseers. “Out! Out!
Out
!”

As they made haste out the grand front door, Smeads made as if to slide in behind them, saying, “Very good. Very good,” as if their expulsion were entirely his doing.

Goodwin would not have it, however, and went so far as to put his hand upon Smeads shoulder to keep him from trailing out with the others.

Smeads whirled about at that affront, hissing, “Unhand my person, you churlish oaf! How dare you? I shall have your position, I will!”

He then turned about with a bumptious flounce, but had the misfortune to collide into Hannah Moorhouse's considerable bosom. She folded her arms across herself with such vehemence that she nearly took off a bit of his nose. Goodwin betook himself to Hannah's side and together they presented a united defence against any further intrusion into the Darcys' nursery. As they had not seen money actually exchange hands, they had no proof that Smeads was selling admission to ogle the twins, but they were altogether certain of it. Hannah intended to confer with Goodwin as to how to address the subject with the Darcys. If they were to engage in a pitched battle with the house steward, they knew their line of attack must be perfected. For her part, Hannah was quite certain that just knowing Smeads had allowed persons unknown to the family to reach the nursery level of the house would mean retribution of some sort against him.

Her musings of just how and where Smeads would be meted out his comeuppance was curtailed.

Hannah and Goodwin were buttressed together so solidly that Smeads had nowhere to go but whence he came. Regrettably, hearing the commotion, the corridor's self-proclaimed sentinel, Cressida had come to investigate the rumpus. As the air of disdain which affixed itself to Smeads's countenance included in the bargain an upraised chin and heavy-lidded glower, he did not see the dog as she slunk behind him. Not surprisingly, Smeads tripped over Cressida. Goodwin instinctively reached out for him, but Smeads's momentum threw him beyond reach. The initial impact did Smeads no great harm. However, the reverberation of his cranium as it bobbed down each step was such that few who heard it were soon to forget.

Although Smeads survived the fall, his position as servitor was in far greater question. As his body took several revolutions as he made his way down, the only permanent loss he suffered worse than his dignity was of several of his teeth. However, the percussion of his body as it jounced down the stairs shook a number of silver coins loose from the purse he had pinned to his small clothes. The coins arrested everyone's attention as they scattered loudly across the tiles. The last coin rolled upon its edge for an interminable space of time ere it came to rest. By the time it did, all who observed its trip had concluded that it was all that was needed to prove his guilt. As he was knocked out of his senses for the better part of an hour, there was ample opportunity for every coin to be gathered in evidence against him.

Cressida appeared altogether unwitting of her heroics. Still, as Smeads remained a bit unwell for some time, the dog was happy to find his portion of shepherd's pie in her dinner dish that night—almost as much as cook and her kitchen maids were to serve it to her.

How Far the Fall

As outraged as they were at Smeads's audacity, Hannah and Goodwin were disconcerted as they anticipated Mr. Darcy's return. The thought of being chief witnesses against their nemesis was a privilege, but still a bit daunting.

Although those who had paid their admittance fee to see the twins had been hustled away, the footmen doing the hustling had seen the coins as they were bestrewn. They had also seen Smeads take his horrifying tumble. Indeed, by the time his body had come to rest at the bottom of the staircase, he looked to all like a bloodied rag doll. Although Hannah stood petrified, Goodwin had taken the stairs with such haste that he reached Smeads before his body came to a rest. He did not, however, reach for him. One brave footman cautiously stepped forward and delicately prodded him with the toe of his shoe. Smeads stirred, causing the footman to leap away as if having roused a snake. Goodwin only shook his head.

With surprising aplomb, Goodwin took charge, snapping his fingers for two footmen—one each to grasp his arms and legs—to drag Smeads below stairs. (Having the house steward in such an indecorous attitude and in full view of anyone who might come upon the scene would have been unseemly.) As they lifted him, Smeads began to groan—loudly.

Hannah worried that Smeads might have broken a limb, but Goodwin seemed unconcerned. He led the way as the footmen hauled Smeads, bemoaning and bewailing, off to repair in his bed in the servants' quarters. Hannah, however, remained behind. There she waited in barely contained tremulousness for Goodwin to return with an assessment of the seriousness of Smeads's injuries. It had been a nasty fall, and all the blood spewing from his mouth made it difficult to determine what part of him bore the worst of it. Directly, Goodwin returned, caustically offering an apology that Smeads's injuries did not appear fatal. His bid at humour, however, was not met kindly. Hannah needed more specifics. Most important, she worried whether Smeads was awake and looking for retribution. Goodwin merely smirked, allowing that the steward, indeed, had ceased gibbering. After that initially unforthcoming assessment, Hannah managed to elicit from Goodwin that Smeads's injuries included a severe headache, the loss of several front teeth, and a swollen upper lip, but no broken bones. Contusions to his nether-end were a probability, but no one was inclined to take a look to determine absolutely.

Hannah wrung her hands at the extent of Smeads's injuries, uncertain whether to be happy or not that his injuries were not grave. She was glad for him to be incapacitated whilst they waited for the Darcys return, but the worry that she and Goodwin would somehow be held accountable for it continued to nag her. After ascertaining that the steward was much to his bed, Hannah managed to gather up the courage to look in on him herself. Even in his incapacitation, he still emanated intimidation. Hence she dared go no nearer to him than the doorway. From that distance, she could see quite well that he was returning to his former self.

A young scullery maid had the misfortune of being the handiest servant when Smeads was brought to his bed, and it was she who inherited the office of his caretaker. By that time, his lips had begun to swell and his demands were garbled. She stood over him and dithered, having not a clue as to how to aid him. After several repetitions of his barely intelligible instructions, she assisted him to a sitting position. Smeads repaid her, however, with a sputtering scold upon her ineffectual performance of that simple duty. His swollen lips made him sound a bit like a duck, therefore she had to cover her mouth lest she laugh out loud. Hannah gasped on her behalf and thereby held her breath, knowing what might befall the poor girl if Smeads caught sight of her finding any amusement at his expense.

But before he was finished with his jabbering tongue-lashing, he began to gag. The maid then had the pleasure of thwacking him between his shoulder blades to dislodge an incisor that had wedged in his throat. Whilst engaged in this activity, the maid espied Hannah at the door and rolled her eyes heavenward. She then held out a hand as he spit the persistent tooth into her palm. Hannah had nodded to her in sympathy, but was too jumpy to stay longer lest Smeads espy her.

Having seen for herself that indeed Smeads would likely survive, Hannah returned to discuss the matter more thoroughly with Goodwin. Two aspects of the troubling events Hannah saw as propitious. Not only had they had the opportunity of ridding Pemberley of its cursed steward, but she and Goodwin had been thrown together as partners in that enterprise. It would be necessary for her to consult with Goodwin upon many occasions before the Darcys returned lest Smeads not be given his rightful comeuppance. There were also several things that remained unclear to her.

Goodwin and Hannah both understood that whilst Smeads's abuse of his position was extreme, it was not uncommon for servants to be guilty of employing lucrative schemes which treaded the fringes of embezzlement. Smeads's infraction, however, was so flagrant an abuse that it would eventually have had to come to light—far too many people were witting of it. If one were to engage in such antics, most knew enough to keep witnesses to a minimum. Smeads's audacity, however, knew no bounds. Indeed, the extent of his gall was as astonishing as it was foolish.

Hannah and Goodwin concluded that it was fortunate that Smeads was exposed so compleatly. For if he had not been, the house would have had to suffer whispered accusations amongst the under-servants, everyone awaiting until someone garnered enough pluck to reveal all to the Darcys. Hannah and Goodwin's education may have been shy on the side of philosophers, but they saw firsthand the corrupting nature of power in Smeads. It took true strength of character not to exploit power—as Mr. Darcy so aptly demonstrated.

The other issue which plagued Hannah and Goodwin was why Yewdell had insisted upon their hasty return to Pemberley. Both had independently concluded that he meant to expose Smeads's malfeasance. What injury Smeads had committed against Yewdell to inspire such retribution, they had not a clue. So far as they were aware, those two men had no connection.

They knew not why Yewdell did it, they were simply glad that he felled the tyrant.