Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (38 page)

By late afternoon, when Darcy and Elizabeth eventually overtook the hunt, most of the hunters were in an odd mood, simply meandering toward Pemberley in polite wait for their host and hostess. When the Darcys caught up, the only notice that was made of their absence from the field was that there was no notice made of it at all. Elizabeth espied Mr. Collins lying upon his stomach across the saddle of a pretty little pony, grunting each time that the animal took a step. She turned to her father, a question upon her lips.

However, Mr. Bennet put up the flat of his hand and said, “Ask not.”

Lady Millhouse, who took notice of everything, rode up next to Darcy, reached out,
and grandly slapped him upon the back.

“I say, Darcy, as often as you plough that field, it will surely yield you a good crop soon.”

Lord Millhouse was as silent as his wife was candid, yet laughed heartily at his wife’s remark. Darcy had long accepted her earthy euphemisms, but until that day, only others had suffered them. If Elizabeth heard, she made a great pretence of being unwitting of it.

Hitherto, Darcy knew he should have taken offence at such a comment. His dignity was abused somewhat that day too, yet the sun-dappled grounds they trod bade him not to deny what he knew to be true. Protestation always invited further study.

Therefore, he simply spurred his horse up to Fitzwilliam’s, and, in penitence, asked him of the hunt.

W
ithin a month of first setting foot upon Pemberley soil, John Christie had allowed himself a very singular pleasure. He endured the unaccustomed sense of belonging. Yet the manor hold still rendered him in awe.

So imposing had the manor house and holdings been when first he had dared approach them, John had taken his first measure of them from a peek around the trunk of a sizeable oak. The beauteous sight had done much to excite his esteem.

Pemberley was a considerable eminence, one that included an enormous park with an untold variety of ground, all fetchingly framed by a wood. Pemberley House situated itself prettily on a rise beyond a lazy, but consequential, stream, one that swelled into a small lake at the bottom of a narrow valley.

A soft wash of dusk bathed the stables as John’s eyes lit upon them, eliciting from him a swift intake of air at their beauty. His gaze ascertained that they were surrounded by hedges neatly trimmed and connected by a covered galley. The ground betwixt the outbuildings was not dirt, or even gravel. It was cobblestone. So well-tended was the place that nary a tussock sprang from between them, although a neat ring of turf surrounded the paddock. Beyond the carriage house was a trellised path that led to the great house itself.

Squatting within the concealment of some heretofore unfamiliar berried bushes, he gaped in wondrous awe. This shelter allowed him to take a more detailed inspection of what interested him most.

There were two horse barns, each large enough to lodge at least a dozen and a half horses. Several fine-looking mares were loose in the enclosure and nibbled at the winter
grass whilst a foal capered about in a frisk. Whilst eyeing their doings, the boy idly plucked a berry from the bush, and then hastily spat it out. It was unexpectedly bitter.

So very little notice did he take of this, the offending fruit lay at his feet uninspected. He was much taken with the aroma of clover hay, which filled his nostrils with unerring seduction. Enthralled, he fancied taking a running leap onto the stack that tumbled out of the big doors at one end of one barn. Had he, he thought it quite probable that he could lie within it for a lifetime. It was a temptation to take a run even then, but there were too many people about to make it a serious consideration. In time, he edged out into the sunlight and a groom espied him.

“What d’ ye want ’ere, boy?” said the man.

John thought to wrest his hat from his head and clutched it tightly before him.

“Work, sir,” he answered.

The man made no effort to speak in response and dismissively waved him begone. John turned away quite reluctantly, disappointed he had not the opportunity to make his case for employment.

As he turned, the man called out, “Ain’t ye that boy from the inn? The one what’s ma died?”

Villages. Was nothing safe from gossip? Everyone knew everyone and everyone’s business.

Pity he sought not. He sought honest work. Yet his situation was dire. Hence, he nodded in affirmation that indeed, he was. The man then asked his age. Understanding that he was too old for someone to take him in and too young to be expected to do a man’s work, he weighed what answer best would increase his chances before responding. Thinking it more likely that he could be taken for older than younger, he stood tall and told a bald-faced lie.

“I’m sixteen, sir.”

In fortune, the man did not blink at the prevarication.

“It’s not likely ye are needed ’ere, but stay and talk to the man. He might ’ave somethin’ for ye,” was the reply.

Certainly, that was no absolute, but he had managed an audience. This was a considerable feat in that customarily, a stranger would be run off, as thievery was known to be the prevalent occupation of strangers in the countryside.

Finding a barrel, John settled upon it to wait for “The Man.” He watched as the half dozen stable-hands fed the horses and raked what had been eliminated and shovelled it out the door. The odour of manure was not unwelcome, for it smelled of profit. Many an hour he had spent upon the business end of a pitchfork and was paid, if not wages, at least a meal. There were far less worthy occupations than mucking out. Certainly, that was better than cleaning the floor of an alehouse (that was truly execrable). Indeed, he would much rather smell the stench of a horse.

It was several hours before a short, jowly man with chin whiskers arrived. He was pointed out to John Christie as the overseer of the estate. However, Mr. Rhymes had no more than begun their interview when a fine gentleman and his lady arrived. Rhymes immediately quit him and diverted all his attention to this obviously illustrious couple. The gentleman was impressively tall, even when he alit his horse. And the lady was beautiful, as befit a man of such prominence.

In all good time, the gentleman spoke to Rhymes, the lady spoke to the gentleman. Mr. Rhymes returned to John and shook his head with finality. John gathered his few belongings with resignation, not truly disappointed, just downcast. He had known he was unlikely to have found work at Pemberley. An estate such as it was could have service of the most practised of servitors. It had been folly to believe in his mother’s omens and superstitions.

The groom to whom he had first spoken looked upon his crestfallen face and took pity upon him. He offered John to attend his own table, then allowed that the hayloft suited sleep most admirably.

“First light is soon enough t’go,” he had said kindly.

Yet no sooner had John settled into his bed of hay when the harsh light of a lantern aroused him. Beyond the beacon was the face of Mr. Rhymes. His first thought was that he would be routed. He stood eyeing the man toe to toe, considering whether to offer that he was there by invitation or leave without a word.

Rhymes anticipated no explanation, he said, “We’ve been lookin’ fer ye. Aye donno’ know why ye be so fortunate, son. But Mr. Darcy ’imself has said for ye t’stay.”

Mr. Darcy, it would seem, was the tall, imposing gentleman he had seen. It was his lady’s horse to which he owed his employment (thus enhancing his previous thin regard of superstition). The Good Samaritan who offered supper introduced himself as Edward Hardin and his wife as “the missus.” With a jerk of his head, he told John to follow him to see where he was to stay.

Never had John seen such luxurious lodgings. The grooms’ quarters had windows. They had windows with glazing and beds with legs. (A pallet upon the floor was the best his mother could give him.) Moreover, even the stable-hands at Pemberley enjoyed muslin sheets. John had never seen a bed that actually had sheets. He had heard of such a thing, of course. He had seen bedclothes hanging out to dry, the Kympton Inn being of greater largesse of soap than many. Perhaps his intuition to come to Pemberley had not been a folly. The place was fine. The servants were evidently happy. If he was not so innocent as to believe a compleat farewell to disappointment and spleen was at hand, he held hope that it might well be nigh. Yet superstition and premonition held him prisoner, and the very delectation of the situation led him to expect something equally contrary to befall him.

It did. John Christie had but a day of respite before he espied, with utmost incredulity, none other than Tom Reed lounging against a door, cleaning his teeth with an obscenely large knife. A few other employees stood about, some in willful occupation of not hearing his disreputable remarks, others thanking them with harsh laughter. Dejectedly, John could not help but recall seeing him in Kympton on the eve of his mother’s death.

Reed embodied every evil that a boy could conjure: sloth, greed, envy, gluttony, lust, and anger. (If he could have remembered the seventh, he may well have found Reed guilty of that, too.) Immediately upon Reed recognising Abigail’s boy, he abandoned furthering the complaint that he was not allowed inside the great house to serve as footman (there was vanity). Edward Hardin had newly informed him that he was forthwith stricken from thence and relegated to riding upon the coach and to the stables. Reed had been convinced he should serve the table and was furious to be denied
access to even the lowest floor of the manor-house. Of this, he complained with all the vehemence of an exceedingly vile vocabulary.

Great was John’s horror upon seeing such a despicable apparition, and he jumped behind a wall and gave making himself thin full occupation. But all was for naught. Reed had espied him.

“Boy!” he had exclaimed. “Boy! Come ’ere!”

John stepped forward in quivering reluctance. Reed grabbed him by the nape of the neck with a hand so huge, the thumb and forefinger almost met beneath John’s chin.

He said to the other men, “See this boy? There be no better wagtail than his ma. Am I right, boy?”

The other men who stood with him instituted a murmured disapproval, but none were of a notion to actually intercede. Displaying more gumption than prudence, John defiantly announced that his mother was not loose, and more specifically, was now dead.

“Pity,” Reed said, his countenance contradicting the sentiment.

Thereupon, he turned to the other men there, saying, “She were a bit of a muck- suckle, but she could blow my bag-pipe good as any…”

Time upon the brutal streets of London was not without its education. Hence, John Christie imposed a quick feint, releasing Reed’s stranglehold upon his neck. His instinctive reaction was to kick Reed in the danglers for good measure, but an innate wisdom told him this time he should invest all his energy in escape. As he broke free and ran, Reed angrily reached out after him. Seeing he had lost his quarry, he laughed the only way he knew how—meanly.

John eluded Reed that day and for many after. Other interests deflected Reed, for he was never in want of a scheme of some sort. John avoided him conscientiously. He knew no good would come of such an acquaintance. For the first time, John had pride of employment and did not want to jeopardise it. Reed was an impediment. A sorry impediment.