Page 7 of Conundrums & Coincidences

“And so, the dear old lady bequeathed me a curricle and two flashy Cleveland bays. Although curricle accidents are common, I suppose she thought I might be less danger to myself and to others while sitting atop a buggy rather than a horse.”

Darcy’s features twisted into a reproachful expression. There is no excuse for such ineptitude…nor for blushing like a missish maiden every time Elizabeth smiles at you.

Evidently eager for any scrap of her attention, Mr Hadley turned to Elizabeth. “You may be pleased to know Bailey now roams greener pastures at Eastmeadow Park over in Eton Wick and is less skittish than he was in London. Originally, our family was from the North, but my older brother, Owen, inherited our uncle’s modest estate. I often stay there with him and Bailey.” Pausing, he took a sad look about the parlour. “I am grieved Miss Armstrong is gone. I visited her frequently and chatted with her in this very room, and— I say!” His eyes opened wide. “Do you suppose that is why she named me in her will?”

Darcy’s heart gave a little lurch when Elizabeth smiled sweetly at the other gentleman. Yes, madam, the youngster’s humility is to be commended. It is a virtue seated between the abominable vices of arrogance and moral weakness.

“Mr Hadley,” he said, “you remind me of a very good friend of mine, not only in appearance but in character, which is a compliment to you.” Although speaking to the young man, Darcy’s gaze rested upon Elizabeth. “Having given him some ghastly counsel, I have not been such a good friend as he has been to me.”

“Oh well, if he is anything at all like me,” said Mr Hadley, “he will forgive you. But only after you are honest with him and apologise for whatever ghastly guidance you gave.”

“Excellent advice,” said Elizabeth. “Do you not think so, Mr Darcy?” Her silent challenge spoke volumes.

“Indeed. And that is why, upon leaving Kent, I put pen to paper and did what is morally correct, as advocated by this clever young man here.”

Head bowed, Mr Hadley denied being clever. Sitting up straighter, he said, “Speaking of counsel and of advocation, though, I hope to plead cases in a court of justice one day.”

“Studying to be a barrister, are you?” enquired Miss Rigby.

“Yes, madam, and during my stay here I hope Mr Monroe will answer some questions about his occupation.”

“I rather expect,” said Darcy, “we shall be too busy trying to win the forthcoming tournament, whatever it might entail, to think about much else.”

“Oh, I have no expectation of winning a contest of mental acuity. The chaps at the Inns of Court say my wit is as thick as Tewkesbury mustard.”

“Spread no malicious slander upon your knowledge, Mr Hadley,” said Elizabeth, eyes twinkling. “I cannot abide false-spoken statements.”

Turning red, he thanked her. “Now I am all anticipation to hear about your more well-deserved bequest from Miss Armstrong. Will you speak of it, please, Miss Bennet?”

“Certainly.” Raising her feet and a bit of her hems clear of the floor, she exposed not only dainty brocade slippers with shiny buckles but, unintentionally, a pair of nicely turned ankles.

As it would have been ungentlemanly to ogle them, Darcy averted his eyes. Besides, I already glimpsed those ankles at Netherfield during Bingley’s ball when she danced a lively reel with some unworthy partner.

“I was given Miss Armstrong’s gold-headed cane and these pretty little golden buckles from her shoes. Are they not lovely?” Elizabeth waggled her feet back and forth, and Mr Hadley followed the movement with undue interest until Miss Rigby cleared her throat and gave the young man a stern look.

Crossing one leg over the other, Darcy silently scoffed. A rather meagre legacy, considering you saved the woman from harm.

When he was asked about his own experience with Miss Armstrong, Darcy recounted the woman’s brief stay at his estate, his gift of a Pomeranian pup, and his being given a strangely shaped parcel during his appointment with Mr Monroe. “I had an inkling what might be inside. Still, when I unwrapped the unwieldy bundle, it was disturbing to have the preserved Biscuit the dog land feet up upon my carriage floor.”

“By George!” cried Mr Hadley. “Good old Biscuit! I knew the dear dog well. Miss Bennet, if you like, in the galleried hall I can show you several portraits of Biscuit.”

When she indicated she would like that, Darcy told himself he cared not a groat about the two of them spending time together. That was before eleven foolish words spilled forth from his tongue. “I can do better than that. I, essentially, have Biscuit himself.” Of course, you would have to go to my town house to see him, and that will not be happening in either of our lifetimes.

Miss Rigby broke a prolonged and awkward interval of silence. “I have heard of upholsterers using rags to stuff the cured skins of trophy animals but not of family pets.”

Regaining a modicum of his considerable dignity, Darcy said, “Cotton-wrapped wire was used, I believe, to support Biscuit’s form.”

“My word! What a peculiar bequest! Some might consider it stuff and nonsense.” Mr Hadley grinned with pride when Elizabeth uttered a delightful little giggle.

Darcy cared nought for wordplay. Nor did he care for the pleasure the two younger people seemed to find in one another’s company. Witnessing it hurt his wounded pride.

A crunch of carriage wheels from the gravel sweep sent the attorney and housekeeper scampering from the room.

At that point, Mr Fordham—holding a wine glass with his left hand and a plate of fruit and nuts in his right—hooked a foot round the leg of a Hepplewhite chair. Dragging it, with a screech, inch by inch across the oak floor, he manoeuvred it into place beside Miss Rigby and apologised when a walnut fell upon her lap.

Shortly thereafter, a female voice cried out, “Here I am! At last!”

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