Page 26 of Dear Friend

"I shall go on writing," she said at last. "There are a hundred conversations I would have had with her had she still been here. I see no reason she should be spared them merely because Somerset stands in the way."

Jane smiled. "I think she would be glad of every one."

"Then she shall have them, until I am given some genuine reason to stop." Elizabeth's fingers rested upon the letter. "And I hope the reason will be that she has returned and can hear them from me instead."

She could not make herself consider the other reason.

Elizabeth rose and placed the letter with those intended for the post. Until she knew otherwise, Julia was somewhere beyond her reach, and Elizabeth would continue writing to her, and go on hoping there might be an answer one day.

Chapter Eight

16th August 1811

Willowbrook Somerset

Darcy

Darcy arrived at the cottage on a bright afternoon, having left London two days earlier. He remembered the place only imperfectly, having visited it but once as a boy before his father’s death and not at all since. It was one of those properties which had come to him almost incidentally, attached to a considerable tract of timberland his father had purchased more for the value of the wood than from any particular attachment to the house which stood upon it.

The timber itself was leased separately, the trees felled under agreement and their value accounted for through his estate. The cottage had been let to tenants instead and had required so little of Darcy’s attention over the years that, before arriving, he could not have said with any confidence what colour its door was painted.

He knew almost as little of the former tenants. His attorney had informed him in March that the family had vacated Willowbrook and would not renew their lease. Darcy had merely instructed that Mr. Turner, a local man employed to look after the property while it stood empty, be kept on until servants could be sent to take charge of the house. There had been nothing unusual in the ending of the tenancy and no reason for Darcy to give the matter another thought.

The cottage was smaller than he remembered, though perhaps Pemberley had simply accustomed him to a different measure of what constituted a house. Its grey stone was softened by ivy, recently cut back from the windows and roof, while the slate above showed darker patches where moss had plainly been cleared away. The windows, newly cleaned and thrown open to air the rooms, caught the afternoon light so warmly that the glass appeared almost golden.

A low wall enclosed the garden, where the recent industry of the servants was readily apparent. The grass had been cut, the paths cleared, and the borders freed of the worst of their weeds, though several months without a tenant had left traces which a few days of attention could not entirely disguise. Wildflowers still appeared amongst the more deliberate plantings, and here and there an empty patch showed where something once carefully tended had failed during the house’s vacancy.

A smaller building stood some distance from the cottage and provided accommodation for the few servants required for Darcy’s stay. Beyond it were the stable and adjoining shed, modest but sufficient for his horses, carriage, and the ordinary necessities of a small country establishment.

Behind everything rose the timber woods, dense and dark even beneath the summer sun. They stood near enough that Darcy imagined the rooms at the back of the cottage must carry the particular hush of trees throughout the day, together with a good deal of shade.

It was not Pemberley and had never pretended to be. It was, however, as peaceful as he had hoped.

Once his belongings were settled, Darcy spent the remainder of the day doing very little, an occupation which had become almost unfamiliar to him. For the first time since Ramsgate there were no arrangements demanding his immediate attention, no distressed sister watching his countenance for signs of reproach, and no acquaintance likely to call merely because he was known to be within reach.

At least he had not been obliged to leave Georgiana without a companion. Upon Mrs. Reynolds’s personal recommendation, a Mrs. Annesley had been found to replace Mrs. Younge. She was a widow of limited means but respectable family and had served as companion in several households known to Darcy. Two of her former situations had ended only because the young ladies entrusted to her care had married, and the enquiries Darcy had made into her character had produced nothing but praise.

He had made considerably more enquiries this time and was surprised to have the matter settled within a few weeks, when his far less rigorous search for Mrs. Younge had occupied several months.

Whether Georgiana would take to Mrs. Annesley as readily as she had once taken to Mrs. Younge remained to be seen. Darcy could not expect immediate affection between them, nor, after what had happened, did he particularly desire it. Kindness, steadiness, and trust would be sufficient for the present. The rest might come in time.

He passed his first night at Willowbrook in greater peace than he had expected. The breeze moving through the trees behind the house brought with it a quiet rustling which reached his bedchamber through the open window, and for once his thoughts of Ramsgate did not keep him awake until dawn.

Georgiana remained his chief concern. He could only hope that his absence, together with Mrs. Reynolds’s continued presence until Mrs. Annesley was properly settled, would give his sister time to recover some portion of her former spirits. She had watched him too closely since Ramsgate, searching every expression for anger he did not feel towards her and finding disappointment in silences which had nothing to do with her. Perhaps a little distance would accomplish what his repeated assurances had not.

The following morning, Darcy inspected the property more thoroughly and spent the remainder of it with a volume of philosophy, grateful to discover that Willowbrook offered precisely the solitude he had sought. There were no near neighbours to call upon him, and even the men employed upon the timberland were working elsewhere that day. By afternoon, the silence of the place had begun to feel almost luxurious.

It was late in the day when Darcy, looking idly from the window, saw the post arrive at the gate. One of the servants sent ahead from Pemberley went out and returned with a single letter. After examining the direction, however, the man turned towards the outbuilding rather than bringing it to the house.

Darcy frowned. He had made his retreat known to very few. Georgiana knew, of course, as did his cousin, and before quitting London he had written to his closest friend with his direction. It was therefore quite possible that one of them had already written to him, though he had expected no correspondence so soon.

But if the letter were his, why was it being carried away from the house?

Darcy’s attention sharpened. He was through the door before the servant had gone far.

“What is that?”

The man stopped. “A letter, sir. It has just been delivered.”