Sara Waters - Dancing with Mr Darcy - Stories Inspired by Jane Austen

‘Perhaps. Yes, perhaps that is it. If you are quite sure you have not worked on it yourself, or seen another do so.’

‘No, not at all.’ Miss Black curtseyed again. ‘If you will excuse me, Mrs Ferrars.’

Mrs Ferrars now felt she had the full measure of Miss Black. She was hiding something. But that was only part of the investigation. It was one thing to discover that a person was lying, quite another to discover why or what about. And delicacy was everything. It was time to take a different approach.

She stepped towards the dovecote. ‘Mrs Worthing, may I please see your embroidery?’

Mrs Worthing’s embroidery was, thought Mrs Ferrars, dully unexceptional, especially considering it was at the heart of such an intrigue. She had always found white stitches upon white muslin to be particularly tedious, and there was far too much feather stitch to render it truly interesting. Mrs Worthing, however, took great pride in showing it to her.

‘This part was worked by my hand. And this part,’ her fingers trembled as she touched it, ‘was worked by the ghost.’

Mrs Ferrars held it up to the light. She feared that she would soon begin to need spectacles. Certainly, there was a difference between the two styles. Mrs Worthing’s was neat and reminded one of embroidery lessons in the schoolroom. The second hand showed more imagination, if less precision.

‘And is Miss Amelia Black’s embroidery close by?’

Mrs Worthing blushed at the ungenteel concept of opening another lady’s work basket.

‘Pray, do not stand upon ceremony, Mrs Worthing,’ said Mrs Ferrars. ‘You may always complain to my husband if you disapprove of my morals.’

Mrs Worthing reluctantly pointed out the basket and Mrs Ferrars examined the work within. Again, the style was different, but it did not match that of the ‘ghost’. Clearly, if Miss Black did know something, she was covering for another person. With a sigh, Mrs Ferrars went about examining the work baskets of the other ladies, Marianne included. Mrs Worthing was beside herself with horror.

‘If the ghost should be a lady whose work basket was once disturbed…oh, Mrs Ferrars, please desist!’

Mrs Ferrars scowled. None of the styles of embroidery resembled the second hand on Mrs Worthing’s muslin. She could have Marianne question the servants again, but then there was the behaviour of Amelia Black to consider. Miss Black was unlikely to lie for a servant in someone else’s household. There had to be another possibility she had not considered.

In circumstances such as these – when an investigation seemed to be going nowhere – Mrs Ferrars invariably consulted the wisdom of Dr Johnson. There were few subjects on which the learned Doctor had not held forth, and Mrs Ferrars found his influence both calming and instructive. In this instance, she recalled his words on the subject of knowledge.

‘Knowledge,’ Dr Johnson had said, ‘is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.’

Mrs Ferrars considered how to apply these words to the case in hand. The only information upon the subject of Mrs Worthing’s embroidery lay with Amelia Black, but Miss Black was unwilling to give it up. She must therefore seek another source of information or endeavour to know the subject herself. She closed her eyes, temporarily ignoring Mrs Worthing’s gasps for the smelling salts. This was no time to dilly-dally. Common sense was at stake. She must know the ghost.

‘This is so exciting, Elinor,’ Mrs Brandon exclaimed, as she closed the drawing room curtain around her sister. ‘I’m sure the Colonel employed spies in the East Indies, but I never thought to be doing so myself.’

‘You are doing no such thing, Marianne. Spying is a most unladylike and un-English occupation.’ Mrs Ferrars drew the thick, woollen shawl around her shoulders, wishing that night air were not so very injurious to one’s health. ‘I am simply resting in the window seat for the time being, as I have trouble sleeping. Naturally, you will all be in bed while I do so. It was very kind of Edward to let me stay the night.’

Kind it may be, thought Mrs Ferrars, as Marianne retired, but she was not at all sure that she wouldn’t rather be in her own bed at the Parsonage with Edward than waiting on a window seat for a mysterious embroiderer. Supposing the lady in question should be of a desperate nature? No, she felt sure that anyone who worked satin stitch with such delicacy could only be respectable. She would simply have to wait and see.

A light tread in the passageway caused her to stiffen. The drawing room door was opening. A more muffled tread indicated that someone was crossing the turkey carpet. Mrs Ferrars heard the slight creak of a sofa and the rustle of a work basket being opened. Then there came a sigh, a sigh in a rather lower register than Mrs Ferrars would have expected.

She peered around the curtain. Seated on the sofa was Major Black. His lips were pursed in concentration and he was squinting by the light of a candle he had carried in himself. He was embroidering on Mrs Worthing’s muslin and – as far as Mrs Ferrars could make out – doing so with considerable skill. In fact, if her examination that afternoon was anything to go by, his work was slowly transforming a dull, schoolgirl piece into something remarkably artistic.

Mrs Ferrars dropped the curtain and hugged her knees in silence. Her investigation was at an end (if an unexpected one) but she was left with a dilemma. Obviously, Miss Black did not wish it to be known that her brother secretly indulged in embroidery any more than he would wish it to be known himself. Mrs Ferrars saw no need to create social embarrassment within the Delaford household. On the other hand, she needed to lay the ‘ghost’ to rest before Mrs Worthing, Marianne and the Misses Hart became any more excitable. She fingered her shawl while Major Black tutted over his French knots. Perhaps there was an answer.

‘And I hope you will allow me to make you this gift, Miss Black,’ said Mrs Ferrars. ‘You will know where to make the best use of it, I am sure. I have informed my sister and Mrs Worthing that the ghost will cease to trouble them in future. It is a pity I never clearly saw the person who worked those remarkable stitches. As I said to Marianne, I fear I shall soon need spectacles. But I would say they had a true talent for needlework. It would be a pity to let it go to waste for lack of a suitable outlet.’

‘I’m sure I am most grateful to you.’ Miss Black’s curtsey covered her confusion, but there was something in her step as she left that suggested greater peace.

The parcel from Mrs Perkins’ haberdashery had cost rather more than Mrs Ferrars’ small allowance really stretched to, but it was worth it. If Major Black wished to pursue his embroidery, then having materials of his own would make it much more convenient. She was sure his sister would know how to make the gift in a suitably discreet manner.

Of course, Mrs Worthing and Marianne were still not entirely satisfied with Elinor’s report that she had seen nothing whatsoever but was convinced that the ghost would leave within two days of all the ladies taking up an instructive course of sermons and essays.

‘There’s still an air of mystery about this,’ Marianne had insisted in whispered tones over breakfast.

Still, that was nothing that a private word with Colonel Brandon could not ease. It was not inconceivable that he had some idea of his former subordinate’s skill with a needle. And when she impressed upon him the fact that mystery was, of all things, the most damaging to his wife’s health in her condition, she felt sure he would lay down the stamp of reason as firmly as could be wished for.

It was a debatable conclusion, thought Mrs Ferrars, as she arrived back at the Parsonage, to be greeted by a kiss from Edward and a tirade of questions from the maid about the best way to restore fine lace. There had been some deceit involved, which she was not sure was fitting for a parson’s wife. But then again, order and reason had been restored and reputations saved, which had to be a good thing.