38 • Soot
Content Warning:
This chapter features an event that may be triggering for some people. (It is not sexual in any way.)
“Really? That is why Kitty’s been so…”
“I was as stunned as you are,” William confirmed.
“I suppose…well, why not?”
“Georgie made a similar point,” he nodded while they strolled along the inner streets of Richmond. Though with less horses and buggies, the foot traffic did its best to match London’s as William’s stature carved an easy path to his next destination. James had since folded the blanket to drape around his shoulders like a kerchief.
“I do trust Georgiana far better than any man.”
William turned baffled eyes to him. “I should damn hope so.”
The corners of James’ mouth turned down, impressed, before he grinned. “Where are you taking me now? I will need a proper jacket at some point, if I am to attend a lord during his jaunts.”
“I find that my title does one of two things: raise prices, or lower them. I would like to remain unknown until we have better judgment of the vendor.”
James’ mirth began to fade. “Am I buying something? I haven’t brought money.”
“This may be a consultation only. My housekeeper recommended this shop.”
His arm extended to the dark shop front they approached. James glanced at the hinged sign standing for passersby:
New Wares! Glass, Filigree, and Pewter
Inquire Within
“Do you think they have copper?” he wondered aloud while opening the door.
“If nothing else, you may find glass containers you like,” William purred. Runner carpets crossed over the floor like the lattice of a pie while a woman dusted the shelves lined and piled with an array of glasses for dining and storage. James liked the rich, summer blue colour of the walls, however he had but a moment to witness them before the pair of them halted on the welcome mat.
“I hadn’t considered they would smelt anything on the premises,” James coughed with mirth. He removed the blanket from his shoulders and combed his fingers through his hair, readying himself as much as possible against the heat of the shop.
The woman—a strong ensemble of square features stacked as tall as Lydia—smiled, her eyes watching his movements with the blanket. “Are you ill, sir? Our shop will melt it out of you, to be sure, but we do no smelting here. Our metals come already extracted from their ores, but we do melt them. We specialize in small crafts, which we can do in our workshop.”
“No, I’m simply poorly clothed,” James laughed, “which I hope you will excuse. I have an interest in copper. Yours is the first shop in my search for elegant, but simple, glassware featuring copper.”
She directed him to the opposite wall, on which a variety of glass and ceramic had rims, wires, flakes, and paint of textured pewter or glistening silver. “We have worked with copper before and could certainly do so again. Here you can see the various techniques that might interest you. Are you sure you desire copper? It is in fashion to only use copper for insulation, but otherwise to cast brass over it.”
“At the risk of inflating the price,” James teased, “I must admit to its purpose in decorating my sister’s wedding. Her fiancé is a proper ginger, and my sense of humour believes something matching his hair would be just the thing to glisten on the tables. Simple cups for candles—”
“A wedding!” she exclaimed. “A proper wedding! Bethilda!”
A smaller woman, albeit with a matching square face came from the backroom to look at them from behind the counter. James looked at the elder sibling as she introduced, “My sister, Miss Bethilda Marlowe, but you may call her Miss Beth as everyone can’t be bothered with two Misses Marlowes. Bethilda, when did you last polish our special inventory?”
“You’ve interrupted my doing it,” she returned, but her eyes landed on James and their weight never left. She smiled, “What makes you interested in something special?”
James answered mechanically, “My sister’s wedding.”
“A wedding!”
“This is our first stop investigating copper wares.”
Her brows flattened over her intense gaze. “And your last. What is your budget?”
“I guarantee it’s significantly less than you’re hoping for.”
She pursed her lips as if this either did not bother her, or she was already convinced she could haggle otherwise. With a wink she uttered, “Numbers later. Creativity now. Come along to the workshop; it is convenient I have everything laid out for you.”
She lifted a section of the counter on a hinge and led the way into the back. James let the elder Miss Marlowe go ahead of him before peeking at William, “I doubt it is ever put away.”
William only smiled and took the blanket off his hands. James swallowed against the gentle hand that slid between his shoulder blades, feeling emboldened as they entered the businesswomen’s lair.
To his pleasant surprise, a man sat at a ceramic throwing table, his arms covered in wet clay up to his elbows while he pedaled the round table to spin. Upon their entry, he smiled and offered, “Good morning, Mr.s…?”
“Bennet,” James provided, but fell silent when he glanced at William.
“Darcy,” he provided himself, to James’ relief. Not so deep in concealment, then.
“Ah, well good morning to you both. What brings you in? I’m just making some tools that were broken. The advantages of being a craftsman: never fearing broken things.”
Miss Bethilda leaned toward James, a great deal closer than he had anticipated. “He’s the hands, we’re the brains. Mr. Bennet, you said? My favourites are the bowls.”
The long worktable had been covered like a sewing table with plush fiber and fabrics to give the goods a soft place to rest. James was already calculating how best to remove themselves from the shop, when his gaze landed on a glass cup shaped like a raindrop. “How much would it be to just dip the rim in copper and polish? Actually, just several plain glasses like these—but could you manage tea light dishes? What would an estimate for that be?”
The sisters had been caught off guard, if their exchanged glances were any indication. Their father’s throwing wheel had since gone silent, and he approached with a towel for his arms. “Tea lights, you say? Whatever for?”
“I make candles, sir.” This close, he could see the man’s loose jowls distorting his jawline as well as his steady eyes behind sagging eyelids. Though his face and hairline revealed his age, the man’s spine was straight and his arms strong.
“Do you, now? Flowery ones or musk? Who is your clientele?”
James decided the man might not be so lacking as his flirt of a daughter indicated. “I take individual commissions, however I do have regular stock. If I am able to acquire the ingredients, any scent family is possible. I’d say my most well known are the sitting room candles and pillars, for public spaces. Those are usually for the repulsion of insects.”
Miss Marlowe picked up, “The butcher’s around the corner always renders this area most foul during late summer. Something like that would be most helpful.”
“I cannot compete with rotting meat,” James admitted, “but I can make it so that whoever walks near your shop will have a reprieve.”
Mr. Marlowe inhaled in such a way that warranted a new thought, before he decided to wiggle his finger instead. James followed to the rear of the shop, where a worktable stood under a row of windows. “When you say tea lights, are we insinuating as brief a teatime as we can manage? In-laws, shall we say, or do we want the time of a dear friend?”
James smiled at the ceramic molds handed to him: one small and the other nearly as large as his palm. “Something in the middle? In-laws we like.”
Mr. Marlowe tapped his nose. “Come back in two days; I’ll have some prototypes for you to try on. Girls, do arrange a discount for Mr. Bennet—that is, if you can come to some arrangement regarding those candles, yes?”
“I’d be happy to,” James agreed.
“And Mr. Darcy, was it? What may we provide for you?”
“I have someone who will be coming for me this afternoon. She has all the notes you will require.”
“A housekeeper?” he guessed as they meandered back toward the front of the shop.
“Indeed.”
“I thank you most kindly for gracing us yourself, sir. ‘S not often gentlemen take such an interest in the finer components of a wedding. I’m sure the nuptials will be blessed.”
* * * * * * *
“Do you think they knew who you were?” James asked once they were free of the shop. He gave the invoice provided to him by Miss Marlow to William for tucking within his jacket pocket.
“I suspect the owner did. His lackadaisical manner seemed interrupted once he knew my name.”
James navigated over an uneven patch of pavement. “Nice of him to remain discrete.”
“Let us hope he remains so. We will know for sure once you solidify goods and payment.”
James followed his gaze along the street before they crossed and turned a corner. “What do you expect to happen?”
“No payment at all.”
James frowned, unsure what to think. He chose to scoff, “Is that how you stay rich? By receiving things free of charge?”
William’s carriage stood ahead, his driver seeing them and quickly finishing his lunch. Instead of answering, William murmured, “I would pay whatever the amount, you realize? I don’t mind.”
James’ jaw dropped in mock affront. “Have faith in me and the bees! I will be utilizing your kitchen to make my own samples, by the way, if you persist on withholding me. Could we stop by a fresh market?”
William chuckled as they slowed in their approach of the carriage. The driver already held the door open. “You’re good at this.”
“It’s easy to negotiate with reasonable people. Thank you,” he added to the driver as he stepped into the coach.
William pivoted to sit opposite him. “I do think the youngest was enamored with you.”
James’ eyes widened at the memory of the robust and headstrong Marlowe sisters. “They terrify me equally.”
The carriage rocking into motion covered the sound of William’s laughter.
* * * * * * *
James turned away from the stove to kiss the owner of the hand on his waist. William lingered for a second, and third, before finally pulling back to tear a grape from the stems on the counter. “I have a brief meeting on the hour. Just answering a calling card, I shouldn’t be gone long. Do you want me to take anything to your aunt’s? Or do you intend on returning before I do?”
“Mm,” James nodded around his mouthful as he tore half a page and began writing. From the length of his note, William knew him to be retelling the morning’s business for his family’s lack of worry. “I ought to return for dinner, but bathing in a house full of children is not the most efficient. May I use your toilet?”
“Of course,” he pocketed the note. “I would offer the bath, but—”
“I know, your housekeeper has gone to Richmond. I won’t implore Caroline’s... What are you commissioning at the shop, any way?”
William sliced more grapes to adorn pieces of cheese while he explained, “I had something when I was a child. Georgiana broke it, though it could hardly be any real fault of hers. She was an infant, but its removal marked a sort of end to my childhood. I had a mobile of porcelain stars. I thought something like it would be an appropriate gift for newlyweds wanting children.”
James had stopped chewing with a mound in his cheek. He shook his head. “You’ll put us all to shame with that.”
William perked up, “You think it ill advised?”
“No, I think it’s perfect. Jane will adore it. Who is the calling card from?”
William provided the elegant piece of cardstock as he explained, “Not so much a person as a business, however keeping face with the place allows one to navigate its echelon.”
“Is this not a restaurant? I’ve heard of this.”
“It’s far from private,” William confirmed, “but it is the favourite dining place of many in the House, and it is understood that anyone who dines there is a potential business associate. It is where I met Charles; perhaps I remain soft for the place.”
A chuckle sounded from James’ throat while he stirred his pot of newly acquired bees’ wax. Pieces yet to melt thunked against the pot. “One day I’d like to hear that story.”
“Perhaps when I return.” William wiped his fingers on a serviette. “Travel and a drink…I shouldn’t be gone two hours.”
“Is that all it takes?” James exclaimed with mirth.
William paused by the door. “I find having something easily consumed, like a beverage, warrants less company than having a meal. Too many lunches have turned into dinners.”
“I do believe that is how friends are made,” James teased on his way out.
The building stood quietly around him with William gone. James rubbed his sternum while he waited for the wax to melt, wondering how the man stomached such a place alone. Then again, James reckoned he hardly felt lonely with so many people demanding his presence. The seclusion of the flat or large grounds of Pemberley might have been a reprieve for William. James’ ear strained to hear inhabitants who were not there.
With the wax taking its time melting, he took himself to the closet for the toiletries. Not wanting to risk splashing water all over the fine, hardwood floors, James piled what he needed into a basin and chose the kitchen as his place to wash. His scalp and nape thanked him for the refreshment, as did his nether region and feet.
The pot of wax bubbled like a cauldron when he finished. Lowering the heat, he wiped the floor down before leaving to borrow one of William’s shirts…
Upon cresting the stairs, the corridor smelled wrong. The air moved in his lungs differently. A fog hung low from the ceiling like cobwebs. James’ mind went blank apart from his return to the kitchen for the basin, which sloshed in his haste to find it. There were so few options—only he and William had been here. It could only be—
A vertical flurry of flames reached out of the bedroom fireplace. Licking up the wall and bending against the ceiling, the room smelled of blackened paint and noxious, charred destruction. James threw the basin at the grate, the flames screaming as the water trimmed the fire down to the mantle. Wrenching the bedclothes from the mattress, he shoved the whole of it into the fireplace and chimney, smothering its core.
James sprinted down the stairs with such speed that he thrashed to necessary halts against the walls. Hauling the entire pot off the stove, he heaved it upstairs and ignored the scalding bottom to splash wax up the smoldering wall. Wax ran over the mantle like a wave across the sand. The pot rang not unlike a bell when he set it down to throw open windows.
Once he began coughing, his parched throat could not stop. James tripped over the carpet, gagging as if his throat had closed.
* * * * * * *
Despite his best efforts, the two gentlemen had taken perch at his table.
“My lord, you must try the scotch.”
“Indeed, they just brought it in. It is just the thing to have on ice during these summer months.”
William tolerated the white haired individuals out of respect for his father; although he suspected the same reason to be why these two had sought him out. “Thank you Lord Cornell, Mr. Lockely, but I do not partake.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you partake much of anything,” said the lord with an overgrown mustache. “What do you drink, then? What do you smoke?”
“I do not smoke if I can help it, and I drink wine.”
“Wine?” the Mr. Lockely chuffed. “Wine is a woman’s drink.”
A testament to how much you paid attention. “On the contrary, my mother favoured gin and whiskey. My father desired to turn a portion of our estate into a vineyard, but we haven’t the right soil for it.”
James likes wine, he realized, and opened his notebook to weave his thoughts before the gentlemen distracted him.
Conservatory – breakfast parlour – consult building plans.
Mrs. Reynolds for plant list. Grape vine? Inquire over soil chemistry.
“My lord?”
He looked up at the waiter with a concerned droop to his eyes. The man hesitated, and then bowed low to murmur, “A fire has been discovered in your neighborhood of residence, my lord. I do not have confirmation that it is your address, but I thought you ought to know.”
William rose to his feet, issuing a swift retreat until the waiter bowed over the folded money William pressed into his hand. “Thank you, my lord! Your carriage is just to the right, sir!”
“Lord Darcy?” Cornell queried behind him, but William forewent pleasantries. He knew within moments, such news would be known all over the restaurant.
“You got the news, sir?” his driver exclaimed upon seeing him. This did not issue confidence.
“Home. Now.”
Part of him remained in disbelief. Of all the people to be left with a stove, he trusted James as much as his housekeeper, but it would have been the only source of fire within his home. Any catastrophe must have been instigated inside someone else’s flat. However, as a resident, it remained that he should give the block as much consideration as if it were his own.
A number of Scotland Yard’s blockaded the area from the overly curious, but the carriage passed through. The sight of the water trolley brought only as much relief as the fact that it did not seem to be in use. William threw open the carriage before it had properly stopped. Men were coming and going from his door. The force of his stride moved individuals out of his way through the vestibule and up the stairs to his bedroom.
William’s hand flew to his mouth as one of the firemen ushered him out as quickly as he had arrived. “Best remain downstairs, sir. We’re still airing out the place.”
That hand left his face to grip the fireman’s arm like a vice. “Where is the man I left here?”
“Mr. Bennet? He is in the kitchen. He’s fine. His voice will need some healing, but he’s lucky—”
William left him to find Caroline and her housekeeper in the kitchen. Caroline’s crossed arms did not conceal her wide, shaken eyes. Her housekeeper, a stern looking woman with a tight bun and thin lips, knelt beside James’ chair and the open window. Despite her sharp features, she gently nursed a cup of cold milk to his lips while holding a bowl of water steady on his knee. James’ hand rested palm up beneath the surface, but William absorbed the black smears on his forearms and face.
“What happened?” He hardly knew what else to say.
James’ voice rasped like parchment, shocking him, but William could hear James through the cracks. “I put the fire out.”
Caroline’s usual bite whimpered with her vexation. “I’m not wholly convinced you did not start it. No one else was here!”
William’s baritone clipped, “The fire was in my room. James was in the kitchen the entire time. It is my fault.”
“I don’t think it was anyone’s fault,” James whispered, but William’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Distantly, in the back of his mind, he recognized his own shirt on James’ shoulders.
“Don’t talk yet.”
Caroline shifted from foot to foot, restlessly trying to divert her fears. “Why ever were you in the kitchen?”
James remarked, “I think the larger concern is how I am continuously public in just a shirt and trousers.”
“What happened to your hand?” William asked. He knelt so James could speak quietly.
“A pot of wax works as well as a bucket. Sort of.”
“You took it right off the stove?”
“I wasn’t in the capacity to think much. Your bedclothes are ruined.”
“I don’t care about the bedclothes,” William sighed, but he had to stand. Both for the housekeeper to have the room to bandage James’ hand as well as to remove himself from the object of such fierce emotional turmoil twisting inside him. James’ lashes hung heavily over his eyes as he watched William leave the room.
A salve eased the nasty redness across the fingers and half the palm. A sheer fabric stuck to the ointment, which the housekeeper cut between his fingers so his hand would be covered, but not tightly bound. “If the fabric begins to lift, brush more cream over it. It will absorb through. I’ll leave spare sheets for changing in the evenings.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Your voice should be back to normal by the week’s end. Let us return to our own residence, Miss Bingley.”
Only once they had gone did he think better of standing, for when James tried, his knees would not hold him. After a moment of concentration, he made a slow path up the stairs. The place seemed to be mostly rid of men at this point, but he arrived to the bedroom to see William standing and a man crouched next to the fireplace.
“You’re lucky, milord. Fire started low. Had it been higher, it would’ve come through the ceiling. I see the brick, here, has crumbled. Maybe age, maybe a shoddy builder mixed good bricks and bad to save money, hard to say. I reckon an ember or two lodged next to the wood underneath. No one’s fault for not seeing it sooner. The smoke would’ve gone where it’s supposed to until the fire grew, then it follows wherever the soot goes.”
Rising, he tipped his walking cap to James while he finished, “All things considered, if you’ve been wanting a renovation, now’s as good a time as any. Good day to you both.”
William’s spine stiffened at the acknowledgement before he pivoted to see James. He cradled his hand to keep it out of the way while they otherwise listened to the man’s heavy steps descend the stairwell and move out the door. With him gone, they stood looking at the black engravings on the wall, the soot marking various places outreaching.
“How much will it be for the repairs?” James asked quietly.
William stood like a rod, his arms crossed tightly. “I’m not concerned with the repairs.”
James peeked at him but could only mutter, “Might as well begin.”
William glanced at him, but his eyes stuck with puzzled scrutiny. “What are you doing?”
James wiped clean a spot on the floor for books to be moved off a blackened table. “Separating the charred from what can be cleaned…”
The moment William’s arms enclosed around him, James collapsed against him. “You do not owe this place anything.”
He felt the strength seep out of his limps, leaving his hands trembling as he frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’m furious I was not here with you. You were alone when this happened.”
James needed to gather his breath. He still felt like he was running. “That’s not your fault.”
“Lizzy,” he breathed, “there are black stains all over you.”
“Bathing was a waste.”
He heard another frustrated sigh diffuse against his hair. “How can you make light of this?”
“You’re holding me up.”
William looked down at their bodies. So he was.
He settled on the floor, one of his legs sliding underneath James’ knee to better support him. Carefully turning his forearm, William examined his hand. “Will this blister?”
“Probably,” he hummed, eyes closed until a shrill, melodic whistle came through the window. “Papa’s outside. Could you lift me up?”
“I’ll go.”
“I can either stay on my feet or bottom, and I’m no use down here.”
William then helped him to his feet and down the stairs. Once going, James was able to jog to the policemen keeping passersby away from the area; Jane’s waving arm beside their father a flag for guidance. “Let them through. They’re my family.”
“Directly inside,” Mr. Bennet prompted while Jane otherwise gaped at her brother’s state.
Once inside the vestibule, the door shut and Jane’s arms encompassed him. “Oh my god! We came because—we didn’t think—are you hurt?” She moved him to arms’ length.
“Just my hand,” he croaked, waving it gingerly, “but not from the fire.”
Jane’s voice heaved with her sigh. “I’m so glad this happened during the day!”
“It’s perfectly likely I’d have been awake at night,” James teased, but he had been exchanged to his father while Jane moved to William.
“Are you all right?” she gripped his arms.
William’s eyes blinked, static until his brows knit together. Between her sincere, almost furious gaze and James’ head leaning on his father’s shoulder, William swallowed thickly. “Yes, I’m—I’m all right.”
Whether she believed him or not, Jane put her arms around his middle. It was not unlike hugging Georgiana, his chin resting on her hair familiarly. A moment later, Mr. Bennet and James leaned against them.
When their column of support began to divide, Mr. Bennet proclaimed, “If a word of this reaches your mother, make it tasteful. Otherwise she will never let either of you return to the city. Have you assessed the damage?”
William nodded while rubbing his eyes. “One room is inhospitable. The others are fine. They will need ventilation and cleaning, but nothing more.”
“Do you have a place to stay for the duration of your time in town?”
“The rooms are not so bad as that,” William insisted. “The apartments just next door are available to me.”
“Do you want to stay here?” Mr. Bennet pushed. “A fire is no easy thing from which to recover.”
William’s tired, ruddy eyes looked to the floor, knowing what he was being offered. “Thank you, but I will remain. My housekeeper will have quite the shock upon her return, and we will both be put at ease having renovation plans in motion as soon as possible.”
Jane looked between her brother and William. “When is she coming back?”
The latter allowed himself the carelessness to brush a hand through his hair, mussing it. “With afternoon traffic…any moment within the next hour, really.”
Mr. Bennet touched Jane’s back. “Organize whatever has not been burnt beyond recognition. I’ll open the windows. William, find Jamie someplace soft to land and help him wash.”
“I want to help,” said Bennet intervened, but his father cradled his cheek.
“You may help when you smell less atrocious.”