creased in a rare furrow that bespoke a mind suddenly cast into uncertainty. As the carriage rolled toward May- fair, though, he appeared to shake free from his disquiet.
“I hope that you will not have to spend all your time in business affairs before you leave for Derbyshire.”
“Not all my time, no. There is the pleasant duty of searching out Christmas gifts for Georgiana. I should look in at my club as well.”
“Certainly, but what of enjoyable things like…a play or a look in at St. Martin’s. Belcher is to display against Cribb, I have heard, and after deal with a newcomer, a fellow from Belgium. Bleret, I think.” He did not give over at Darcy’s shrug. “L’Catalani is to perform at Lady Melbourne’s; surely you will be finished with your accounts by then?”
“You are singularly well informed, Charles,” Darcy replied dryly, his voice edged with a sudden, inexplicable irritation. “Pray, leave your recommendations with Hinchcliffe, and I shall endeavor to oblige you as often as I can.”
“Your secretary! Oh, I would not dare. I don’t believe he entirely approves of me, Darcy.”
“Has Hinchcliffe been impertinent to you? I am sorry for it.”
“Do not apologize.” Bingley smiled at his friend’s perturbation. “I know how invaluable he is to you. Both he and your Fletcher are quite well regarded, you know. I have, in fact, overheard any number of gentlemen of our acquaintance lament their inability to entice one or the other of them away from your employ. Such complete loyalty!”
Darcy winced guiltily at the appellation and looked away to the window. The carriage turned into Grosvenor Square and came to a gentle stop in front of Erewile House. “Besides, it is likely a great honor to be snubbed by him. Further, if he should ever discover it is I who peached on him, Hinchcliffe will deny me the services of the nephew he has been training. So say nothing, I beg you.”
Grunting in agreement to Bingley’s request, Darcy began arranging his traveling bag to be brought into the house. The carriage door was pulled open by a footman. Behind him, holding high a lamp, was Erewile House’s venerable butler, a look of relief warring with deference.
“Mr. Darcy, sir. So good to have you safely home.”
“Thank you, Witcher,” he returned as he descended from the carriage, “but you should not be out here in the cold, my good man.”
“Thank you, sir, but Mrs. Witcher was just that certain the weather would turn before you arrived that only my personal assurance of your safety will do.”
“I desire, then, that you go and inform her so, directly. The footman can handle what is needed.” Darcy turned back to the carriage door. “Bingley, I will not keep you from your dinner. Eight tomorrow evening?”
“Eight it shall be.”
Darcy nodded curtly at his reply, and the footman shut the carriage door. He mounted the steps as Bingley’s carriage pulled away, in seconds gaining the warm, welcoming hall of his London home.
“Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Fletcher wishes to know if you require a bath to be drawn before dining.” Witcher stepped up behind him to help with the divesting of coat, hat, and gloves. “Monsieur Jules begs leave to inform you that dinner can be served within the hour if you so desire, and a nice hot toddy is on its way to the library at this very moment.”
“Very good, sir. And the toddy, sir?”
“I am on my way to the library. Thank you, Witcher.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Witcher bowed as his master started up the stairs to his sanctuary. Upon entering, Darcy found a fire blazing cheerily in the hearth and the promised hot drink on a tray at the side of his favorite chair. A quick look at his desk’s burnished top revealed his appointment book and correspondence neatly arranged and precisely annotated in Hinchcliffe’s clear hand. His books were already unpacked and lying in wait of his attention on the shelf reserved for his current reading.
Everything was as it should be. Sighing to himself, he strode over to the jug of hot liquor. He poured a comforting amount into the mug on the tray and blew out the candle before settling down into the hearthside chair and propping up his heels on the footstool before it. He took a long draw on his drink and, closing his eyes, leaned back. He tried mightily to think of nothing but the hot, sweet liquid sliding down his throat and the pleasurable sensations of once again being home, among his own people and possessions. But the vision of Bingley’s troubled face in response to his purposeful remarks would not be dismissed.
The next morning found Darcy awaking from the first night of true repose he had experienced in some time. Almost before the bell pull had stopped swaying, Fletcher appeared and, with quiet expertise, prepared him for a day devoted to his business affairs. Breakfast and the perusal of the morning’s newspaper, Darcy noted, had been blessedly devoid of Miss Bingley’s chattering interruptions, and when both were finished, he looked up to be informed that his secretary awaited his pleasure in the library.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.” Hinchcliffe rose from his chair set directly across the wide desk from Darcy’s own.
“Hinchcliffe” — Darcy acknowledged his slight bow — “it appears we have quite a day ahead of us. Did you receive the instructions concerning the disposition of the charitable funds for this year?” He sat down opposite his secretary, who then resumed his own seat.
“Yes, sir.” He drew Darcy’s letter out of the leather case in his lap and lay it on the desk for his master’s approval. Each recipient of Darcy’s yearly largesse was noted and checked off in Hinchcliffe’s neat script. “Expressions of gratitude for your interest arrive daily, sir.” He withdrew more letters from the case and laid them beside Darcy’s. Darcy swept up the letters and glanced through them before pushing them back across the desk.
“Very good, Hinchcliffe.” An almost imperceptible nod of the head was the sum of his secretary’s response to his words. Its curt nature and Darcy’s unconcern over such procacious behavior in a servant would have surprised many of his acquaintances. Of course, they could not know that Hinchcliffe had been his father’s secretary, engaged into his service since Darcy had been a lad of twelve.
Their first meeting had not been an auspicious one. Elated to be home on a short holiday from Eton, Darcy had run into Erewile House straight out of the carriage, through the entry hall, and right into a tall, black-clad form just coming into the hall. When the last bit of paper had finally drifted to the floor, he’d found himself lying across the legs of a stern-eyed man of about thirty years. The fall had knocked the man’s wig askew at a comical angle in such a marked contrast to the granite set of his jaw that Darcy had been unable to prevent a sign of the humor of their situation from escaping him. That had lasted only until the strange servant untangled his limbs and rose to his full height. To Darcy’s twelve-year-old amazement, the man had seemed a giant and one with a darkling eye focused wholly upon himself.
“Master Darcy, I believe,” the giant had rumbled.
“Yes, sir,” he had responded in a much subdued voice, sure that he had been unlucky enough to have tumbled over an unknown schoolmaster engaged to keep him at his studies during the holiday.
“I am your father’s new secretary, Mr. Hinchcliffe,” the giant had continued, his diction precise and his voice stentorian. “You, sir, are awaited in the library. You will pardon me if I do not announce you, as I have an unexpected task to complete. I suggest you bestir yourself before your father comes in search of you.” Fixing him with a final, stern look, Hinchcliffe had turned and begun retrieving the papers that littered the hall while Darcy walked quickly up the steps and slipped inside the library door to safety.
For years Hinchcliffe had been a rigid fixture among the servants whom Darcy had learnt to appreciate only
