RED
James Watt, Adam Smith, David Hume, Francis Hutcheson, Dugald Stewart, Thomas Reid, Robert Burns, Adam Ferguson, John Playfair, Joseph Black, James Hutton.
Darcy stared at the list of names and subjects from a recently purchased book on the Scottish Enlightenment in awe, wondering at the sheer enormity of the power of so much brilliance concentrated across four or so universities, and half a century. Steam, economics, moral philosophy, empiricism, skepticism, naturalism, poetry, philosophy, chemistry, geometry, mathematics, geology, manufacturing, fiction – the list seemed endless, and he was the most excited he had been for a journey that he had ever been in his life. It was an age of wonders, and that was just in Scotland, not to mention the rest of the world! England, France, Italy and America had of course had their own share of the advancements of the Scientific Revolution followed by the Enlightenment, but Darcy was particularly interested in the Scottish part right at that moment.
His interest had been piqued when he learned that the aging James Watt lived a quiet but still productive retirement less than a day's ride from Pemberley. Darcy owned shares of a couple of mines in Cornwall that used Boulton and Watt Engines to remove water. More research convinced him that they were on the brink of some sort of revolution, though nobody could say with any assurance how it would proceed. Some thought that the mills appearing in Manchester and other industrial cities of the north would become the dominant force in English life. Some thought that with the recent defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo, and the expansion of the British Empire, that it would be trade. Some thought it might even be such mundane sounding activities as banking. Others favored mining, or industries not yet invented. Most of the gentry thought that agriculture and land had always been paramount and always would be, since people would still need to eat no matter what, so their estates would maintain their lifestyles forever. Those believed that they needed only to do what their fathers and grandfathers had done, or more likely, let their stewards do what their father's stewards had done and so forth. Even in that scenario, some thought that the new agricultural methods like crop rotation, better irrigation and advances in chemistry or botany might make those using the new methods dominant, and those that kept to the old increasingly obsolete.
Darcy did not know if any or all these points of view were true, but of one thing he was certain. Six hundred years of Pemberley history had been replete with changes. They had been on the right side of some wars, and the wrong side of others. They had endured fires, floods, infestations, mayhem, and revolutions, but they had always managed to pull through, with the Darcy family advancing in some generations, retreating in others, but gradually becoming more 'efficient' in their management over time.
Now, he was the Master of Pemberley, and it was his turn on the spot. To simply assume things would go on as they always had would be foolhardy, and a degradation to his ancestors who had placed him in that position. He would eventually find a wife to replace Elizabeth. He would eventually have children and grandchildren. They would have to make their place in a changing world. At the very least, he hoped he would have multiple children, and only the eldest son would inherit Pemberley, while the other sons would have to make their own way and his daughters would have to make good marriages. Whatever that change was, he wanted to be prepared, which either prompted his current journey or acted as good enough rationalization.
Edinburgh was lovely in the springtime, and Darcy took a deep breath as he rode Omega up the hill to Edinburgh Castle. The horse was not as young as he had once been, but neither was Fitzwilliam Darcy. Where he had once found the stallion plodding, he now found him steady. He could not guess whether preferring steadiness to spirit was because of his advancing age, or whether he just liked the horse because his deceased wife had. Steadiness had been something he greatly required in the five years since her death. He had burned a lot of boats in his mad dash to play the foolhardy hero trying to rescue his cousin in early 1812, and it took some time to rebuild them.
His rapprochement with his sister, Georgiana who had not appreciated being fobbed off on relatives for six months after her debacle in Ramsgate, and having a sister appear and disappear without ever meeting her, had not gone well. Gradually, however, he did his best to make amends to his sister, and she gradually found either forgiveness or practicality in her heart. Georgiana had successfully come out in society at eighteen and married at twenty, to a man who she seemed to love and esteem, which was all Darcy ever wanted for her. She lived a quiet life with her husband and very young children, just as she preferred. She was till the most technically proficient pianoforte player he knew, but she never did master the easy musicality he had heard in his wife before her passing, nor had she ever mastered the salon or drawing room as Mrs. Darcy had.
The Mater of Pemberley had spent a year in mourning, as was proper. He was amazed to find that Elizabeth's subterfuge in London preceding her death had been entirely successful, so he found his and her reputations pristine. He found Miss Caroline Bingley singularly unhelpful, as she said she had introduced his wife to a few people. Miss Bingley explained that Mrs. Darcy had been far kinder than she had deserved, and she had nothing further to say on the subject. She was, in fact, extremely tight lipped, and the only thing Darcy knew for absolute certain was that the lady no longer had any interest in him.
Six months later, Darcy learned that Miss Bingley had asked her brother to turn over her dowry and set up her own establishment, and she then completely surprised both men by leaving London entirely. Darcy had no idea why he was surprised, since he had yet to accurately predict the actions of any woman in his life.
Mrs. Darcy's faux mourning in Pemberley had also done its work. The very few who knew it was not real seemed to gradually forget that fact, as if they were never certain in the first place. Elizabeth's leasing of his rare tomes had even done its job. Partly as a result of that intervention, his relationship with his neighbors had improved considerably. It turned out that everyone in the world but him, had the good sense to esteem his late wife at the first opportunity.
In some ways, the success of his wife's schemes was advantageous he supposed, but in other ways, he did not feel like he had received his just punishment. He had no idea what would be considered just, but whatever it was, he had not received it. He had turned towards doing good works, at first as a sort of penance, but it soon became his greatest source of pleasure. He had started schools, educated tenants, contributed to orphanages, invested in small businesses with young men and even a few women who had ambition but no money. He supported anti-slavery movements, and even some of the groups agitating to allow women to vote. Mostly, he just tried his best to increase the good in the world.
Naturally, he had also, eventually and reluctantly entered the search for a wife, but did not have much to show for it. That was a subject he shut down quickly whenever a relative or friend brought it up, and most had learned to leave him to his own devices, aside from a few pointed glances at a calendar to remind him that he was not getting any younger. He had done all the usual things courting men were supposed to do, both in London and Derbyshire, but he had nothing to show for it.
All of that led to his current holiday. Darcy had spent some time with the local notables in New Town and some estates outside of Edinburgh, but he preferred to keep to some lodgings in Old Town. He would wander in and out between Old Town and New Town, looking into coffee houses, museums, bookshops and random workshops, where he usually found a warm welcome, so long as he stayed out of people's way. He had even found a few small shops he was considering investing in. Edinburgh was called the 'Athens of the North', and he found the architecture and other parallels with the original Athens fascinating.
The coffee houses of the city were a hotbed of intellectualism where he was also welcome, so long as he could hold up his end of a discussion. He did not have to win a debate, which was just as well since he was 50:50 at best, and he felt he learned as much from losing as he did from winning. He had just left one such discussion, where he had his head handed to him by a university student whose rhetorical abilities tied him in knots. He was walking down a street he could not rightly name, adjacent to Lawn Market and chosen at random, when he spied a very promising looking bookshop.
With some real enthusiasm, he entered Price Books and looked around. The shop was neat and clean, which he could take or leave. Some bookshops looked like a troll lived there hiding his treasures, and some looked like a Royal Library where nobody was ever allowed to read or even touch anything. This one was closer to the Royal Library than the Troll Cave. He suspected that there were no real hidden treasures, because the proprietor could no doubt find any book in the place by simply looking on the shelf where said book obviously belonged. While he did sometimes enjoy the disorder of a troll cave bookshop, he mostly preferred neatness, so he very much approved of this shop. It was big enough that if the collection was well chosen, it might take him days or weeks to explore it properly.
He turned to the desk where he had glanced a woman bent over a ledger on the way in, and with a ready smile, thought to complement the shop and ask for some recommendations, when he stopped dead in his tracks and gasped, swaying on his feet.
With a shaky voice, he gasped. "Elizabeth?" then louder, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth Darcy!"
The woman sat up abruptly and stared at him in nervous confusion. "Excuse me?"
Darcy strode over towards the desk. "Elizabeth. It is you. I could not believe it. Elizabeth!"
The woman looked at him with her eyes getting bigger and bigger, stood up from the stool she had been sitting on, laid one hand flat on the counter, reached one hand below it, and snapped, "Please stop!"
Darcy faltered a bit, and took another step forward, but she shouted, "STOP!" while lifting the hand from the desk to hold it flat towards Darcy, palm forward.
He came to an abrupt stop. "Elizabeth. Please. I beg of you."
The woman was shaking. "I am not Elizabeth, and I will ask you to leave. Now!"
With a shaking voice, he whispered, "Please."
Her left hand changed from palm-out to a finger pointing at the door, and she snapped, "GO!"
Stunned, he tried one more time. "Please – Elizabeth!"
She snapped angrily. "I am not Elizabeth! My name is Amanda Price, and I do not allow madmen in my shop. LEAVE! NOW!"
With shaking hands, Darcy bowed. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. My deepest apologies," then he turned and walked out of the shop on shaking legs.
From the street, he walked past the front window, then turned back to look back inside. He saw the back of the woman who was the absolute spitting image of his wife, return a rather nasty looking club to the shelf under her front counter with shaking hands, and plop back onto the stool with apparently a heavy sigh.
Two days later, Darcy decided he had to get to the bottom of the mystery. While he was still half‑convinced it was his wife, somehow hiding out in Edinburgh; he could not be certain, since his memories of Elizabeth had not quite survived Typhus and the passage of five years intact. The one thing he was certain of was that an apology was in order. In point of fact, an apology was well overdue, whether she was Elizabeth, or the admittedly more likely option, someone else.
He walked carefully into the shop, hat in hand, trying to look as innocent and harmless as possible.
The same woman was putting books on a shelf from a small cart when he entered. She was about five yards from her desk, which he saw her glance at briefly, probably regretting her lack of a club. She angrily pointed at the door. "Don't even think about it! Go away!"
He made one more attempt. "I came to apologize."
She snapped, "Apologize by shopping somewhere else."
With a respectful bow, he turned and departed. Once again, he walked past the window, and turned to look back in. He found her staring at him. She frowned ferociously, then shook her head, turned her back on him and walked away.
Feeling lower than a worm, he slunk away, trying to work out how to make amends. One thing his short marriage had taught him was that his manners before marriage had been somewhere between bad and atrocious, and his wife had never seen anything much better than atrocious, if at all.
He had done his best to remake the character, that his Elizabeth had tried to sketch before their marriage. He was mostly successful, being polite and kind to everyone he met, first through conscious choice, and eventually through long ingrained habit. However, he was blisteringly aware that he had just either frightened or greatly angered a woman who had done him no harm, and he felt it absolutely essential to make amends. He had learned that sometimes it was impossible to repair bad choices, and sometimes it was too late, but when it could be done, it should be done.
Exactly how to make amends, he had no idea!
The next two days were busy with engagements, and he even thought to ask one of his friends for confidential advice but demurred in the end. He regretted that Bates was no longer with him. The old valet had taken a pension to spend more time with his daughter and grandchildren a year after Elizabeth's death. Darcy never worked out whether that was because the man was disappointed in the master, or if he was just tired. He had given the pension gladly, as it had been readily available to Bates for some years for the asking; and hired a new man. However, his new valet had not been with him anywhere near long enough to ask for advice.
On Friday, he decided that one more abject apology was in order, but he decided to stop at a coffee house a few streets away to work up his courage. Seeing the ghost of his wife had shaken him considerably. He was still unsure if it actually was her or not, but of one thing he was certain. Whether she had ever been Elizabeth Darcy or not, she certainly was not then, or at least, she was unwilling to admit to it, and there was no way short of hauling one of her sisters or Mrs. Reynolds to Edinburgh to prove it. Even that would be unlikely to pass scrutiny if she dug her heels in.
Walking into the coffee shop, he trailed behind a large group from a local estate, and he found himself engaged with a gentleman whom he had resided or a few days on arrival. He thought about asking about the bookshop, but he realized that he was already interfering with the unknown shopkeeper's privacy and thought better of it.
Once the group sat down, Darcy looked around for a table in the crowded courtyard, and then found himself staring directly at the woman in question. She had implied that it was her shop, which was not unheard of. Widows frequently continued their husband's businesses, and nobody thought anything of it. He had even read somewhere that one in five households in Scotland were run by woman, a higher rate than in England. With shaking hands, he walked towards her, and stopped a good three yards away.
She seemed to sense his presence, not that it required very much prescience to detect a man well over six feet standing a few yards away. She looked at him, looked around as if ensuring they were very much in public, and then stared at him for a disconcerting half a minute.
With a sigh, she finally put her book down on the table next to what looked like an empty coffee cup and plate, pointed at the chair. "You may as well sit down and let us have this out, once and for all. I will have your word that if I ask you to never enter my shop again, you will not only agree, but you will also generally avoid this area entirely."
Darcy bowed. "So stipulated."
She, surprisingly chuckled. "You read too many law books."
Darcy thought the woman still looked very nervous, which could easily have several reasons. If she really was Elizabeth Darcy, hiding out in Edinburgh, she would be very distressed to bump into the husband that she had gone to such pains to remove from her life. If she was not Elizabeth Darcy, which now seemed increasingly likely, she would not be happy about having a madman wandering around stalking her while pretending she was someone she was not.
He sat down gingerly. "I probably do – read too many law books that is – but something tells me that there is not any legal term I could use, or frankly, any sort of vocabulary term that would distress you."
She looked at him carefully, and he felt more and more like she could be Elizabeth, but then she spoke, and her voice sounded very different from what he remembered. After his wife's passing, he had learned that she never liked him, or even respected him, so he was quite unlikely to have ever heard anything except her teasing voice she used on men she did not care for. This woman's voice was more mature, but also sounded either nervous or annoyed – a not unexpected development when dealing with a pest.
She asked, "On what evidence?"
"The quality of the bookshop. You implied that it was yours, and the bookshop looks very much like it is well organized and efficient. I assumed –"
She had been leaning back in her chair a little bit, but she suddenly leaned forward, and snapped, "That is where you went wrong, sir. You assumed."
Darcy leaned forward as well, feeling tenser and tenser, saying, "I am trying to make amends, madam. I am doing my best, as poor as that may be."
She leaned back in her chair. "Do you blame me, sir? You are a foot taller than I am, and at least five stone heavier."
"Not at all, madam. I learned –"
He paused, wondering exactly what kind of hole he had dug himself, and if he might be able to dig his way out. He found the woman interesting, but he could not say whether that was because of her similarities to Elizabeth, or the fact that she was not intimidated by him.
She still seemed angry, but slightly less so, as she said, "Go on."
He sighed. "My wife died, apparently, five years ago."
She said, "What do you mean apparently. She either died or she did not."
"I was not –" and he paused, wondering how much to say.
She prompted him with, "You may as well say it, sir. You are itching to, and nobody is listening to us."
"How can you be sure?"
"I know these people, sir, and I know how far voices carry in this shop."
That was an interesting revelation, but she said, "Once again, be careful with assumptions. I know this, not because I am an eavesdropper, sir. The coffee houses of Edinburgh attract intellectuals. Intellectuals like people to listen to their discussions. It makes them feel important, and the listeners can learn from the experience, so long as they can separate the wheat from the chafe. Intellectuals buy books. I sell books – hence my interest. I have spent many-many hours in the coffee houses of Edinburgh, and this is the closest one to my shop. I know it intimately."
He wondered if she worried about her reputation like single women, or single gentlewomen at least, did. Such concerns had pushed him into an unwanted (at the time) marriage. Did tradeswomen have the same concerns? Would her own personal reputation affect the custom of the shop? Was it different in Scotland than in England? There were so many questions, but he would never be able to answer them unless he showed himself not to be a brute.
He said, "I will trust your judgment, Mrs.?" he guessed, since he had never known a single woman owning a bookshop, although he supposed inheriting one from a father would not be unheard of.
"Mrs. Amanda Price," she said, and bowed her head in a way characteristic of a gentlewoman. It was not enough to truly verify her background, but between her speech and her mannerisms, he would be willing to bet she was gently born, and she was obviously English, probably from the South according to her accent.
Darcy had only just sat down, with his chair slightly away from the table, primarily to stay far enough away to try to avoid being too frightening. He stood back up, bowed respectfully, sat back down. "Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service, ma'am."
Mrs. Price laughed a little, but just nodded, thought a moment. "A touch on the pompous side, Mr. Darcy."
Darcy thought that was the closest he was likely to get to permission, so he carefully pulled his chair closer to the table, signaled a waiter to ask for coffee, and offered another to Mrs. Price, which she accepted.
When the waiter left, she said, "As you were saying, Mr. Darcy – you were not – what?"
He sighed. "I was not there, or anywhere close, and her body was never recovered."
She looked at him carefully. "So, you are not certain, is that it? Were you certain before you saw me?"
"Yes, I had come to accept the facts."
She thought for a moment. "Do you often accost arbitrary women and accuse them of being your dead wife, Mr. Darcy?"
He sheepishly looked down in chagrin. "No, ma'am. This is my first and last time."
"That might be for the best."
He saw her reach down to rummage through a small valise at her feet to pull out a book. She put it on the table, opened it, scanned the table of contents, flipped to a page in the middle of the book, and ran her finger down to the middle of the page, much to his confusion.
She said, "Here we are – Fitzwilliam Darcy – Master of Pemberley, Derbyshire – Near Lambton and Kympton – Married to one Elizabeth Darcy née Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire (deceased June 1812)," then she looked at him, saying, "that seems fairly definitive Mr. Darcy."
Not knowing what to say, he just nodded, and she looked back at the book, which he assumed was about the English Gentry.
She scanned down, and continued, "I see here – principal crops and animals seem somewhat typical for Derbyshire – I see you have your own mill – an interesting choice – more sheep than typical – an orangery, that is nice – income £10,500 – seems a bit low – I assume you prefer not to boast about it, no?"
Darcy was fascinated. "Why do you say that?"
"A hobby, Mr. Darcy. I look at estates and try to guess their income. Harmless fun."
She read a few more lines. "Ah, related to the Earl of Matlock. Apparently, your uncle was the previous Earl, and your cousin the present?"
She looked at him curiously, and he just nodded.
She set the book on the table and asked, "How long were you married, sir?"
"Why do you ask?"
"To work out why you feel the need to still be looking for her," then she looked at the book again, and added, "five years later."
Darcy sighed. "I suppose I owe you an explanation. As to how long I was married, it depends on how you measure it. In total it was seven months, but we spent less than two hours together after our nuptials."
"I see. You do not look like a soldier, sailor or diplomat to me – more like a rather ordinary rich gentleman. Why the long separation, and why the hurry? Why not either extend your betrothal, or delay your departure?"
Darcy felt extremely uncomfortable, but said, "The date of the wedding was," then he paused, but decided he had to at least be mostly truthful, so he continued, "set by external events."
Amanda said, "Ah, I see. Did she die in childbirth then?"
Darcy groaned. "Not that sort of event."
She looked confused, but apparently decided to let it go. "Understood."
Darcy continued, "The date of departure was also set by external events. My cousin, the present Earl, was a Colonel at the time, and a prisoner in France. I went to ransom him but got Typhus before I arrived. My memories are – less than perfect," he admitted sheepishly, adding, "Typhus does that."
"Yes, I believe so, but of course, you will know better than I. Well then, I suppose that explains it, but I assure you, this is a practice you do not want to carry on with. Accosting every English woman that you meet that looks vaguely like your wife seems counterproductive."
Darcy nodded. "It was a shock, but I am unlikely to repeat the error."
"See that you do not," she said, just before the waiter arrived with their coffee, and some pastries.
Mrs. Price said, "They have a French pastry chef, and he is wonderful," which Darcy took to be a sign of at least a temporary truce, so they spent a few minutes enjoying the pastries while talking inconsequentially about the Old Town.
Darcy finally said, "I must offer my strongest possible apologies, Mrs. Price. Whatever I may have been thinking, there is no excuse for accosting you like that."
She stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup until he started to squirm, then said, "Need I explain it, Mr. Darcy."
He shook his head. "No, ma'am. I know my faults. I have been working on them for years, but my progress appears to be – uneven."
"What do you mean?"
Darcy sighed. "Let us face facts. Some, in fact many men, are brutes, and I acted like one. Your character is shown in what you do when you face something unexpected, and I fear mine failed me once again. I have been working on it for some years, but sometimes I fail."
Mrs. Price leaned forward and placed her hands face down on the table, looked carefully, and replied, "I suppose you found the similarities in appearance shocking, sir."
"Yes, you seem to be her mirror image. You look more like her sister than her four sisters do, but that is no excuse."
"No, it is not, but," then she paused a moment, and continued, "I am made of sterner stuff than some women, and weaker than others," and she thought for some time, and finally added, "that said, I was frightened, but I am willing to forgive you for that transgression if you forgive yourself."
Confused, Darcy asked, "Explain?"
Amanda sighed. "Forgive me if I read too much into what you said, Mr. Darcy, but it sounds like you will feel guilty about the encounter for months, whether I forgive you or not."
Darcy grunted. "Probably, but why do you think that."
"Your apology. It sounds like a man that has accustomed himself to apology, perhaps for offenses long past and perhaps better forgotten. I could easily be wrong as well, since I am making my own assumptions."
"Perhaps, but my previous offenses were grievous."
She fidgeted a bit. "Most of us have something like that in our past, Mr. Darcy. Some are greater, some are lesser. Sometimes in life we make the best of a situation, sometimes we can only choose the least bad option, and sometimes we make mistakes. In all cases, we either get past it or drag it around like an anchor around our necks until we do."
She took the last sip of her coffee, and asked, "Do you think you had mostly left your wife in the past, where I dare say, she belongs."
"Yes, I mostly had," he admitted ruefully.
"So are you ready to call the encounter of a few days ago an unfortunate lapse, best forgiven and forgotten."
He nodded, saying, "I believe so."
"I insist, sir! If you continue to flog this horse, I will feel your pain, so therefore I make my pardon conditional. You may take it or leave it, but you have to forgive yourself the transgression before I will."
Darcy sighed. "I will accede to your terms, madam," with a respectful nod of his head.
She laughed. "See that you do."
Amanda reached for her reticule, but Darcy said, "Please, allow me."
She nodded and put the book about the English gentry back into her bag while he put coins on the table.
She stood up with the bag in hand.
Darcy stood along with her but had no idea whether to offer his arm as a gentleman usually should. She saw his dilemma, looked at him for a moment, said, "You are forgiven, and also welcome in my shop, Mr. Darcy," and handed him the valise.
Happy to have the problem so well solved, Darcy took the valise in one hand, and walked beside her out of the coffee house, then walked a respectful distance beside her, while they returned to Price Books.
