View from the Valet
Author's note: As I'm taking a temporary break from my more extensive works, I thought it might be entertaining to attempt something a bit shorter. I hope you like it.
To be employed at an estate such as Pemberley, a well trained servant was expected to become blind, deaf and dumb. And, case in point, no matter the unusual behaviour of his master, a valet must especially adhere to such inflexible standards.
Having retained the position to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy since that gentleman's eighteenth birthday, Samuel Preston accepted these responsibilities without question. After all, had not his own father served as valet to the elder Mr. Darcy for nearly forty years?
Through pleasant times and hardships Preston stood by without apparent judgement. Twice, Mr. Fitzwilliam had fallen violently in love. Twice, his valet remained stoically silent while every manner of oath and curse were uttered within the confines of the young gentleman's rooms at the conclusion of these same affairs.
Two years following the second of these, Mr. James Darcy passed on; his demise leading to a period of grief for the entire county. A lifetime of treating his family, staff and tenants with respect and consideration caused his death to remain quite painful for many months.
However, from such a loss was borne new hope for the future of Pemberley and, indeed, for the entire countryside surrounding it. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, at three and twenty, stepped into his father's formidable shoes with surprising ease. At least, this is what the majority of the household presumed.
Preston knew otherwise. The others on the staff did not see the weariness of his master's countenance as, through many countless hours, he pored over the numerous books and documents regarding the estate. They did not witness the dark circles beneath his eyes when he arose from a night of restless slumber. They did not suffer silently upon observing his own extreme sense of loss for his father.
Eventually, though, these burdens were overcome. Mr. Fitzwilliam applied himself to his new role, accepted his somewhat heavy responsibilities, and even designated duties to others so that he might obtain some much-needed rest.
For nearly three years thereafter, serenity reigned. Daily life became a routine quite easy to deal with. In the summer they travelled to London, in winter, they returned to Derbyshire. Mr. Darcy's sister, Miss Georgiana, sometimes accompanied them, and sometimes did not. As she enjoyed the services of no less than a tutor, a music master, a dressmaker, a dance instructor and a lady's companion, she usually remained at their townhouse in London.
During the summer of her fifteenth birthday, however, something happened concerning her which affected Mr. Darcy deeply. The details were rather sketchy (the other servants' gossip was largely ignored by Preston, and he would never even consider inquiring into the matter), but they seemed to involve a certain Mr. George Wickham, recognised by all as the son of the Darcys' former steward.
Somehow, Mr. Wickham followed the inarguably blameless Miss Darcy to their other summer home of Ramsgate, and very nearly had her convinced to elope with him. How they were discovered in time was anyone's guess. Preston was convinced of there being little Mr. Darcy did not know, or would eventually find out, and of course deal with in as gentlemanly a manner as possible.
After that, she was left alone far less often; until, that is, the journey to Hertfordshire.
Mr. Darcy's closest confidant, Mr. Charles Bingley, was anxious to set up a household of his own, as his father's estate had only recently been settled. Finding himself a wealthy man at the age of four and twenty, Mr. Bingley had heard of a suitable property to be let in that southern county. Having been apprised of its scenic beauty and friendly citizens, he was desirous to inspect the place and requested the company of his friend while doing so.
Mr. Darcy was not quite so enthusiastic, but if Bingley wished his opinion, then he would grant it. Hertfordshire, the way that Preston understood it at least, was so quaint as to be considered boorish. The society there would have little idea of true manners and fashion. In short, they were nothing but barbarians and should be regarded as such. All of these opinions were freely expressed by Mr. Darcy himself during those times when Preston was at his service. Even on the very day of their arriving at Netherfield, as the estate was known, Mr. Darcy did not alter his opinion.
They remained there for several weeks. During that time, a subtle change seemed to come over his master. He no longer complained of the inferior society, and although not really improving in mood, he seemed to be in a permanent state of anticipation. Having witnessed him twice while in love, Preston suspected that this was, again, the case.
The difference, it appeared, was that the lady in question was actually a member of this “boorish” society, and, most amazing of all, she did not appear to return his regard.
Preston happened to learn all of this and more through Mr. Darcy's nightly muttered grievances. He learned that the lady's name was Miss Elizabeth Bennet, that she was from a large and uncouth family, and that she treated Mr. Darcy, himself as though he were the barbarian. Even so, great pains were taken in his dress and grooming during that period, and it all seemed to come to a head on the evening of Mr. Bingley's ball.
After assisting him into his most impressive evening coat, brushing the lint from its surface, and giving a final adjustment to his neckcloth, Preston was startled to hear Mr. Darcy's low, “And so, into the fray, eh, Preston?”
“Yes, sir,” the valet replied, not knowing what else to say.
“This, then,” he continued ruefully, “is the price we pay for love. I only hope it does not destroy me in the process.”
“No sir.”
With that, Mr. Darcy descended to the already arriving guests, leaving a circumspect Preston to gaze after him and await his return.
This happened around two o'clock in the morning. The valet, dozing in a chair, yet still fully clothed as his duties were far from over, was awakened by his master's door closing rather deliberately in the next room.
Instantly he was with him, but that gentleman did not wait for his assistance. Almost savagely the neckcloth was torn off, the coat, waistcoat and shirt swiftly following. In this state of semi-undress, Mr. Darcy strode to the window and glared out into the darkness.
Under his breath he was muttering, “Mr. Wickham! Go on and accept Mr. Wickham's attentions, Miss Bennet, and see where it leads you. You shall make a worthy pair indeed. After witnessing the appalling behaviour of your family tonight, it is no more than he deserves.” Then his anger seemed to leave him, and laying his forehead against the window sash, he emitted a sort of moan. “God help me, I must leave this place. I can bear it no longer…”
Hardly daring to breathe, Preston stood silently, waiting for some order to follow. Finally, lifting his head only enough to be heard clearly, Mr. Darcy spoke again,
“Preston, we are leaving tomorrow. We shall be escorting Mr. Bingley back to London.”
“Yes, sir.”
They did leave on the following morning, and remained at the London house throughout the winter months. This was unusual, but Preston assumed it had something to do with Mr. Bingley or Miss Georgiana or possibly, both. During that time, Mr. Darcy attended concerts and plays, yet entertained very little. His mood, while never exactly cheerful, had taken on a sort of stoic defensiveness. At this time, the only words said to his valet were perfunctory orders issued in a voice of obvious disinterest.
In March, Mr. Darcy along with his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, travelled to Kent, where Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr. Darcy's aunt, resided with her only daughter. No sooner had the trunks been brought up to Mr. Darcy's apartment then he appeared himself, a new resolve apparent on his countenance.
“Preston, I require my blue coat,” he declared. With his voice lowered, he went on pensively, “She is here. What chance is this, I wonder? Has she altered? What will she say?”
Leaving thereafter with undisguised haste, such was the way it continued to be for several weeks. Mr. Darcy would appear, dress or change his clothes accordingly, and disappear; always with that same odd expression on his face. There were times, even, when he almost seemed sanguine. At least, he did not scowl or frown as he had while in town. If he were a man to hum, Preston believed he might have done so.
One day, however, this pleasant interval abruptly ended. Mr. Darcy had left unexpectedly during the late afternoon, and arrived back less than an hour later in a mood as black as his coat. Preston, having seen these tempers often enough to wish to avoid them, did not disturb his master, but remained near enough so that if he were needed, there should be no delay. From time to time, he peered around the door frame to make certain that all was well, and, despite his training, would find himself quite taken aback by the devastation witnessed therein.
Mr. Darcy, seated at his desk, was either writing furiously, staring vacantly out of the window, or cradling his head in his hands. None of these things alone would have been cause for alarm, but when interspersed with several muffled groans and a desperate posture, did seem to communicate a certain type of personal torment for which there could be no consolation.
They returned to London the following day. Other then the order to pack his trunks, Mr. Darcy spoke not at all, and especially did not refer to his behaviour over the previous evening. But then neither did his valet expect him to.
The remainder of that spring was spent in town with only an occasional excursion to Pemberley. These were always on matters of business, and if they promised to be of a brief duration, he would go alone and without his personal attendant.
Come summer, this changed once more. Mr. Darcy began to speak of returning to Pemberley with the intent of remaining there for some time. Tiring of London society, in fact tiring of many things, he displayed a restlessness which only a change of scene could appease. Therefore in July, they proceeded to Derbyshire.
From there, he travelled back and forth between Pemberley and London; making the arrangements for Miss Georgiana and several guests to arrive at a later time. This constant movement seemed to suit him, and though still not a man at ease with himself, he did relax somewhat.
One warm afternoon, he appeared in his room, his face ashen, his demeanour almost of shock. “My God, Preston. She is here at Pemberley. What am I to do? What am I to say?”
At that particular moment, however, the expression on the valet's countenance easily rivalled that of his master. For the gentleman had entered with not only his shirt tail draped outside his breeches, his coat hanging in odd fashion over his arm, and his hair damp and dishevelled, but his entire demeanour was of a man in complete and utter confusion.
Before Preston could finish his exclamation of, “Sir, have you suffered an accident?” he was interrupted with, “Never mind that now. Help me here, will you?”
No sooner was he set to rights then, standing before the looking glass, he straightened his shoulders and with his eyes emanating an unfamiliar exhilaration, stated aloud, “This is my chance. If only I might…” but with that, he turned and left as abruptly as he had entered.
In the days following he was as good-humoured as he had ever been.
Once, without intending to do so, Preston actually glimpsed the object of Mr. Darcy's desire. As he went down to dinner in the servant's galley, he happened to pass Miss Georgiana and another young lady as they stood together discussing a portrait hanging in a downstairs hallway.
Miss Georgiana, in fact, called out to him, asking, “Preston, do you know when this likeness of my parents was painted? Miss Bennet was inquiring but I must confess I cannot recollect.”
After bowing, he replied as best he could, estimating the time to be some twenty-five years earlier. With a smile, she thanked him, and as he bowed again, he glanced at the aforementioned Miss Bennet. As discreetly as he was able, he appraised her.
His first impression was that she was quite pretty. Yet, she did not resemble the ladies of town who prided themselves on their thin and almost boyish figures, their feather laden hairstyles, and the latest in fashionable dress. Although her countenance promised an unusual liveliness, she stood sedately while Miss Georgiana went on to explain the other portraits along that same wall.
He was murmuring “excuse me” when the two ladies were joined by Mr. Darcy. Even as Preston left them, he sensed the increase of a certain repressed exhilaration within the small group. Mr. Darcy's expression might have been described as deeply enthralled or quietly rapturous.
Either way, there was no doubt that this young lady was the cause for his unrest over the past several months.
At dinner Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, prattled on about the lady in question; how she had appeared a few days ago to tour the house with her friends, how it came as a great surprise when she claimed (albeit reluctantly) that she was previously acquainted with Mr. Darcy, and how she had stood near his portrait for quite a long time, studying it as though she were sorting through a puzzle.
“But,” she had added as she finally ran out of words, “I must say she seems a genteel, ladylike sort of person. You saw her abovestairs, Preston. What thought you of her?”
Although reluctant to give his opinion, he concurred with Mrs. Reynolds. Yes, she appeared to be both genteel and ladylike, but he would not say if he believed her to return Mr. Darcy's regard.
By now, of course, most of the servants knew of their master's current infatuation. Despite their well-practised facade of impassivity while serving the family, they took a keen interest in all of their affairs, but especially those of the heart. After all, if either of the Darcys were likely to become betrothed, the future of the entire household might be affected. It stood to reason then, that any hint of such an outcome brought forth much speculation and comparison of theory.
Despite all of their gossip, however, not one of them had a clue as to who this Miss Bennet actually was. Where was she born? Had she family? Was she wealthy in her own right, or destitute, and therefore hoping to secure an advantageous match? She was attractive enough, but was she respectable, accomplished and all that she ought to be?
When Preston attended to his master that evening, he thought that he had never witnessed such a smile of gratification upon that gentleman's countenance. As he helped him prepare for bed, Mr. Darcy murmured several times, “Who could have foreseen such a turn of events?” and, “Do I dare entertain hope?”
The following morning, he left with the very same expectant expression, his impatience to be gone causing him to quit his room before his boots were even properly shined.
After all of this, Preston was somewhat astonished when he returned but an hour later, his manner no longer displaying the optimism it had earlier. Yet this was not simply the onset of one of his darker moods. No, there was more to it than that.
Sharply he ordered his trunk packed and the coach readied to return to town at once. Then, he began to pace. His face, while he did so, was a study of varying emotions; frustration, distaste, irritation, and above all, a deep and overwhelming concern. He said little, but upon their arrival at the London house, he invariably vanished to places unknown, not returning until far into the night.
On one of these occasions, when Preston duly inquired if Mr. Darcy should necessitate anything further, that gentleman had shocked him when he replied shortly, “Yes, sit down, Preston.”
Uneasily, the valet sat in a chair as near the door as he could manage. But, Mr. Darcy was not having it. “No,” he commanded, “Over here by the fire. That's it.”
With great reluctance Preston did so, seating himself rigidly in a chair opposite his master. Then, falling silent, he waited for whatever was to come.
“Preston,” began Mr. Darcy after a long moment of staring into the fire, “have you ever been in love?”
Surprised by both the question and that Mr. Darcy should ask something so very personal, he stammered, “I could not say, sir.”
Smiling wryly at his servant, he answered for him, “In other words you have, but it is not for me to trouble myself with.”
“Something like that, sir.” Although his face had taken on a reddish hue, Preston kept his eyes focused upon the wall opposite.
“Well, Preston. I know that you have been singularly loyal to me over the past ten years. I know, as well, that whatever we speak of here and now shall not leave this room.”
“Yes, sir.” Shifting awkwardly, the valet glanced toward the door as though seeking escape.
“I am, as you have probably guessed, most hopelessly, and God help me, irreversibly in love.”
“I have suspected as much, sir.”
“Have you?” Appearing to be more amused than offended he paused; then, “And, do you know with whom?”
“It is not my place to say, sir.” Again, he shifted.
“Just the same, you do know.” Mr. Darcy leaned forward, urging, “Say it, Preston.”
“Miss Bennet, sir?” Preston ventured unwillingly.
“Miss Bennet,” he repeated, an expression of longing overtaking his features. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose heart I would do anything to secure.” Rising suddenly, he began to pace, muttering, “Is there nothing so tortuous as unsettled love, I wonder? And now when I have it within my power to grant her every happiness, it must be at the hands of that wastrel, Wickham. Sometimes I believe that I shall never be rid of him.” Without warning, he turned to Preston and questioned, “Do you recollect a companion retained last year for my sister? a Mrs. Younge?”
“I…Yes, I think so, sir.”
“I would give every crown I own to find her. You do not, by any chance, have knowledge of her whereabouts?”
Preston swallowed uncomfortably. “I suspect I might, sir.”
A new hope surfaced on his master's face. Reseating himself, he leaned forward expectantly; “Tell me where, man, and you shall have anything you desire.”
“It is,” and here Preston cleared his throat, loath to proceed, “It is in a most disreputable part of town, sir. I would not recommend your going there. At least not alone.”
“If you can but direct me, I promise you I shall not go alone.”
“It is on a street very near the docks,” reluctantly, as he could see that Mr. Darcy was not yet likely to release him, he continued, “called Leadhall. Her house is there.”
“You are certain of this?”
“Yes,” came the cheerless affirmation, “…quite certain, sir.”
“Excellent.” For the first time in over a week, the careworn expression which had so severely marred his features abated somewhat. Standing, he offered his hand to his valet. “I was not speaking idly, Preston. Tell me what it is you desire and, if at all possible, I shall grant it.”
Preston, rising as well, accepted the proffered hand with a discomfiture borne of years of remaining well within the bounds of his station. After all, Mr. Darcy, although a gentleman of faultless refinement and manner, was at risk of crossing a line considered to be a constant. He, Samuel Preston, was a servant, not an equal, and never should that fact be disregarded.
When he did not answer immediately, Mr. Darcy repeated his supplication.
Finally, Preston, clearing his throat once again, found his voice. “If you please, sir. I should wish this whole matter simply be forgotten."
After studying him for a moment, Mr. Darcy shook his head. “And, that is all? I promise you, Preston, this chance may not arise again soon.”
“Sir, I want for nothing. I have no need for more than I currently possess. I wish only to put this to rest. If you,” and here, he coloured, lest he say too much, “find the contentment you seek with Miss Bennet, then that is all I could ever desire.”
A significant span of silence filled the room. Finally Mr. Darcy, with one eyebrow raised as though scrutinising some unfamiliar species, said, “For this, I fear I am to remain most ignominiously in your debt. However,” he added, a trace of a smile undermining his façade of austerity, “as at least partial repayment, perhaps I may refrain from asking how you happen to know of Mrs. Younge's location.”
Meeting his eyes at last, Preston replied evenly, “Yes, sir. I thank you as well, sir.”