Page 16 of The Winter of Our Discontent
“Forgive me for intruding ma’am. Mr Darcy has asked for you to join him in his study. I explained you were unwell, and—well, he pressed me as to the cause of your ailment but I?—”
“Oh dear. I hope you did not tell him of my mortification.”
“No, ma’am. I did not feel equal to doing so. If you would like, I can tell him that you really cannot go to him.”
I sighed and considered.
Mrs Reynolds sheepishly added, “Mr Darcy did say that he would not importune you if the matter were not important.”
Good God! What had I done now? “Tell him I will be down directly, although I might need both you and Wilson to help me manage the stairs.”
Mrs Reynolds clucked in dismay as she stepped out, and Wilson helped me stand to be dressed. Tears sprouted, and I bit my lip to keep from gasping aloud, but eventually, Mrs Darcy stood ready to be taken to the bear’s den to be mauled for sport. Wilson was too well trained to scowl outright, but her expression was one of restrained thunder. She dressed my hair in a low, loose chignon and chose the darkest dress I owned. This must have been a strategy because upon seeingmy reflection in the mirror, I looked terribly young, deathly pale, and fragile enough to break. The housekeeper returned, and we left the room.
“Pray do not let me be seen by the footmen in this hobbled condition if we can help it, Mrs Reynolds,” I whispered.
“No, ma’am. Take my arm, just there.”
My pride sustained me. Before the end of the stairs, I released my attendants and went directly to my husband’s study under my own power.
I knocked, was bade to enter, and upon doing so, Mr Darcy and Mr Johnson stood and saluted me formally. I only nodded my head; a curtsey would have caused me to cry aloud.
“Mrs Darcy,” my husband said, gravely scouring my person with his steel-coloured eyes. “Pray be seated.”
“I would prefer to stand, sir.”
“Are we to have a standing conference?” he asked brusquely.
“I believe so.” I looked pointedly—directly and with unvarnished dislike—at Mr Johnson, who had the good grace to look abashed.
“Very well. I will not demur if that is your wish. Johnson tells me that in the course of your tenant visits you dismissed him to speak privately with Mrs Travers.”
“I did.”
“And what precisely was said in this private conference?”
I staggered and stared at him, wide-eyed with disbelief. “Forgive me,” I said, stepping forward to grip the back of an upholstered chair for support. Once feeling more stable, I looked at my husband and said, “She spoke to me of a personal matter. I cannot disclose it.”
“I applaud your scruples, but in this case, I am afraid I cannot indulge you. What was said, madam?”
“I cannot and will not disclose anything that Mrs Travers divulged to me in confidence,” I replied coldly.
“And why not?”
I let out an involuntary gasp of exasperation. “Because she spoke to me of awomanly complaint!”
This seemed to cause all the power in the room to shift from him to me. He paced towards the window and looked abstractedly out at the garden while Mr Johnson stared at his well-worn boots. I faced them both with my head thrown back and what was surely a look of fiery defiance burning in my eyes. How dare they!
“Are you certain?” Mr Darcy finally asked, turning to look at me.
“Certain? Of course I amcertain! If I did not believe I would die of mortification to do so, I would stand here now and recite the particulars since you seem to question my understanding. Perhaps then you would be ashamed to have pressed me to know what you would rather not know anything about.”
“But why would she consultyou?” he asked.
“I suppose because I am Mrs Darcy! I do not rightly know. I believe she thought I might have some resources with which to help her.”
“Resources! But why did she not consult the doctor, Mr Waverley?”
“She did.”
