Page 66 of Till Death Us Do Part: Book 2
“I will trust your judgement, Mrs—?” he guessed, since he had never known a single woman owning a bookshop, though he supposed inheriting one from a father would not be unheard of.
“Mrs Amanda Thorne,” 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, 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 avoid being too frightening.
He stood, bowed respectfully, and sat back down. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Pemberley in Derbyshire, at your service, madam.”
Mrs Thorne laughed a little, but just nodded and 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, signalled a waiter to ask for coffee, and offered another to Mrs Thorne, which she accepted.
When the waiter left, she said, “As you were saying, Mr Darcy, you were not—what exactly?”
“I was not there, or anywhere close, and her body was never recovered,” he replied morosely.
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, sir?”
He sheepishly looked down in chagrin. “No, madam. 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 index, 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.
“Here we are. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Master of Pemberley, Derbyshire. Near Lambton and Kympton. Married to Elizabeth Darcy née Bennet, of Longbourn in Hertfordshire (deceased June 1812),” then she looked at him. “That seems fairly definitive.”
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, “Let us see. Principal crops and animals seem typical for Derbyshire. I see you have your own mill—an interesting choice. More sheep than typical for that area. An orangery, that is a nice touch. Income ten thousand five hundred pounds. That seems a bit low. I assume it is higher, but you prefer not to boast?”
Darcy was fascinated. “Why do you say that?”
“A hobby. I look at estates and try to guess their income. Harmless fun, really.”
She read a few more lines. “Ah, related to the Earl of Matlock. 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 compelled to still look 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. 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 longseparation, and why the hurry? Why not either extend your engagement, or delay your departure?”
Darcy felt extremely uncomfortable but continued gamely. “The date of the wedding was—” then he paused, but decided he had to at least be mostly truthful, “set by external events.”
“Ah, I see. Did she die in childbirth, then?”
Darcy groaned. “Not that sort of event.”
She looked confused but decided to let it go. “Understood.”
