Page 102 of The Difference of a Darcy
“Yes,” Georgiana said softly. “Do you know if there is anything stored in the attic? Any clothing? From when my mother was alive?”
Mrs. Reynolds blinked. “The attic?”
She stepped farther into the room and looked from Georgiana to Elizabeth, her expression unreadable. Then her eyes widened.
“I quite forgot,” she murmured. “It has been more than fifteen years. After your mother passed, the master had so many things removed—furniture, baby clothes, even her favorite books. He said he could not bear to see them. I suppose he locked them away, and I never thought of it again.”
Georgiana’s hands curled into the folds of her gown.
“Could we… see them?” she asked tentatively.
“Not today,” Mrs. Reynolds said gently. “The light is going already. But if you wish, I shall have the attic opened tomorrow.”
Georgiana nodded, and Elizabeth saw something flicker in her eyes that had not been there before.
Hope.
“I think I shall go lie down,” she said softly, rising to her feet.
“Would you like help?” Elizabeth offered, rising as well.
Georgiana shook her head. “No… thank you. I am all right.”
She left the room, her step slow but unshaken.
Elizabeth lingered only a moment longer before slipping out a side door in search of Mrs. Reynolds. She found the olderwoman in the main hall, consulting a list of repairs with one of the housemaids.
“Mrs. Reynolds?” she asked softly.
The housekeeper turned at once. “Yes, Beth?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then lowered her voice. “Forgive me, but… I wondered. Is there a midwife nearby? Someone trustworthy?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s expression sobered. “You think she is near her time? She is still so small.
“I do not know. I do not believe even she knows how far along she is,” Elizabeth admitted. “But from what she has described—and what I have observed—I should guess she is five months gone. I expect she will feel the quickening soon. I think it would be wise to have someone examine her, to make sure everything is progressing as it should.”
The housekeeper sighed. “Aye, that sounds about right. I can send word to town—though Lambton is not what it once was.”
“If not a midwife, then perhaps a parson’s wife nearby?” Elizabeth asked hopefully. “Someone with knowledge, even if informal?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s mouth pinched into a tight line. “Not likely. The living at Kympton was given by the Earl to the son of a crony. The young man never comes near the place, and there is no money to hire a curate. The parsonage stands empty.”
Elizabeth stared. “But… what do people do? For worship? For guidance?”
“They do without.” Mrs. Reynolds looked tired. “There are no Sunday services. No regular marriages. No baptisms.”
Elizabeth’s voice sharpened with concern. “Then what about Georgiana? What about her churching?”
“I had not thought that far ahead,” the older woman admitted. “Perhaps we can pay a rector from a neighboring parish, but it will cost more than we have to spare.”
Elizabeth frowned. “It is disheartening to think that men of the cloth have grown so—so transactional.”
Mrs. Reynolds gave a bitter chuckle. “The world has changed, Beth. Or perhaps it has only settled into what it always was, beneath the surface.”
She grew quiet then, gazing up the staircase toward the west wing.
“It used to be different here. When the old mistress was alive. There was music. Light. Care.” Her voice turned wistful. “But after she passed, and there was no son to inherit… the master gave up. Slowly. Quietly. Until there was nothing left.”
