Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Ten

After returning from my visit to my aunt, I was in the most optimistic of frames. Mrs de Bourgh, of course, was a gloomy storm cloud, raining criticisms from dawn to dusk, but I attempted patience. Pemberley was a large place, I reasoned, and eventually she would find acceptance of her loss, as my aunt had done. I could not help hoping she might wish to live elsewhere in the near future; I even wondered if Mr Darcy ought perhaps to allow her to set up housekeeping with her own servants in the upper floor of the cliffside wing, once he, too, had achieved his peace with the past.

The morning came, however, that one of her gibes truly hit her mark. I dressed for the day with Clara to help with my hair—she had quite a knack for it—and went into breakfast. Mrs de Bourgh was already there. Her plate was emptied, and with a sigh, I knew she was waiting apurpose to needle me.

Her maid, Parker, a colourless, older woman, entered and brought her a heavy book that she had evidently requested. Mrs de Bourgh accepted it and set it upon the table. Opening it, she began reading aloud. It was an account book, of sorts, having solely to do with entertaining. In her raspy, cultured accents, she read details from the last ball her daughter ever hosted—the sums for flowers and fruit purchased, amounts paid to a certain confectioner for everything from plates and chairs to hundreds of paste stones. Swan ices coloured in gold, musicians from town, new livery to match the theme—all told, she had spent nearly a thousand pounds on it. “She had the place done in gold and hand-cut glass,” Mrs de Bourgh continued. “Everything sparkled; everything shone. Anne is the granddaughter of a duke, and I am the daughter of a baron. She brought a fortune of twenty thousand to the marriage, and a fine property in Ramsgate. Pemberley was her stage; that night, in her simple golden gown, with diamonds in her hair, her perfections, her breeding, and her beauty glittered brighter than anyone and anything else on it. Mr Darcy bought those diamonds for her, and she looked so beautiful, she took the breath away from all who gazed upon her. It was the anniversary of their wedding day. Hundreds came.”

Her lips stretched into a sneer. “And look at you. You are a nobody! Parker dresses better than you do.”

It was, unfortunately, accurate that day. Parker happened to be wearing a dress, probably a castoff from her mistress or even Anne Darcy, with the new lower waist and fashionable sleeves, while I wore another of my remade dresses from the dowager countess, in an unfortunate shade of chartreuse. It did not help that Mr Darcy had never given me anything in the way of jewellery, much less diamonds. She had succeeded, for once, in hurting my feelings.

“I suppose the estate will be the better for not spending thousands on entertainments this year,” I forced myself to answer mildly.

She looked at me with pure hatred. “Nothing will be better at this estate, this year or any other. But I do agree with Mr Darcy’s decision not to entertain.” Leaving the account book on the table, she stood and walked towards the door, turning back to me just before exiting. “You are simply not worth the expense.”

I had been raised with sisters, so I was no stranger to hurtful insults. Lydia had been the grand master of them, able to strike at the heart of one’s most tender feelings with unerring accuracy. She would have met her match in Mrs de Bourgh. If my husband chose not to shower his second wife with gifts, there was not much I could do about it; however, my wardrobe was sadly inadequate. I had been married over a month, and in the course of learning the pleasures and responsibilities of being Mrs Darcy, I had neglected my appearance. While I had no desire to let her know her cruel words struck home, I determined it as my duty to resupply at least some fashion deficiencies from Hopewell. When I approached Mr Darcy with my request, however, he was surprisingly opposed to the scheme.

“We must go to London. There is little of quality to be found in Hopewell.”

“Yes, well, London would be ideal,” I said patiently, “but the weather is turned bad again, and who knows when it would be safe to travel? It could be months! And in the meantime, I look like a frump!”

Annoyingly, he only smiled. “You look beautiful, always, no matter what you wear. And there shall not be many visitors until we can go to town. I promise I shall take you the next time the weather clears. I must leave now, as I am meeting with tenants.” He kissed me on the cheek somewhat dismissively, it seemed to me, and hurried away.

I was upset, even though it was the first time he had ever called me ‘beautiful’; I felt he did not mean it, that he was offering me a conciliatory pat on the head as though I were a trained dog. I understood how to shop, and what one could or could not procure from a town the size of Hopewell; it seemed about the equal of Meryton. Had he even put me off with, “I will take you some other day, as soon as I have the time,” I might have been satisfied. But I was certain that I was hearing his dead wife’s opinion of the place. I already knew her taste to be exceedingly different from my own. I would not require satins and furs! And, there was that hurt, simmering below the surface. It was maddening.

But I had my pin money, and I only required a carriage, not his chaperonage. The weather was awful and I did not relish a ride down the winding drive but, I am sorry to admit, my back was up, my temper high.

Mr Williams came in late morning, as he usually did, for Cook always put up enough breakfast to serve a crowd, and his kitchen was not nearly so gifted. I made a point to greet him, and then presented my request.

I could, of course, have simply ordered the carriage brought around. However, the outcome of the morning’s two unsuccessful conversations seemed a foreshadowing that somehow, some means would be found to prevent me, whether by de Bourgh’s machinations or my husband’s—as well as a persistent feeling of being imprisoned at Pemberley, of being thought a despised, unimportant eyesore.

“I wish to go to Hopewell later this morning, but I am sure Mr Darcy took the carriage,” I said casually to him. “We have more than one, I assume?”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Mr Williams had always been polite, but he was very shy. He never spoke to me directly if he could avoid it; I was unsurprised he remained a bachelor. “Mr Frost brought him to the Chadwick farm, I believe.”

“We have but one coachman?”

“No, no. Perkins is able enough.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you would prefer to wait for less er, inclement weather?”

Mr Darcy had overruled me, but his steward could not. “No, thank you. Unless the shops are closed due to rain?”

“Um. No, ma’am. I-I will accompany you, then,” he said quietly.

“Why should you? I will take Clara, and John can ride along. I will send Perkins and John both to the pub to wait for me, so they do not take a chill in this wind.”

“Yes, ma’am. I feel Mr Darcy would wish me to, ma’am.” He left to make arrangements without eating his breakfast.

He had not sounded enthusiastic. I felt a bit sorry for him, and a bit guilty for my insistence, but neither did I understand the fuss. How many times had I made similar trips, with only one of my sisters accompanying me, to Meryton? It gave me another pang of the sharpest, bitterest sort of homesickness, a yearning for a home long gone. I grew more determined than ever to reclaim some of myself, that girl who had died with my parents. A shopping expedition was a first step.

The journey down the mountain was, as usual, hair-raising, even more so this first time with Clara beside me instead of Mr Darcy. At times it appeared as though the branches of trees would hit us as they whipped wildly in the wind; at other times the drive looked too narrow, the mountainside too close to its edge, or that we would fly off the very side of it. Mr Williams remained unconcerned, if he did not appear very happy.

When the carriage pulled up to a neat, tidy square, I was happy to see the number of shops—it appeared there would be more choices than Meryton had once provided. After arranging to meet up with the carriage in the same place two hours hence, I entered the first shop, a linen draper, with Mr Williams trailing me like a spaniel, while Clara remained hunched near the door.

The merchants had to realise who I was; the Darcy carriage would hardly go unrecognised, and I had an entourage announcing myself. And yet, the shopkeeper made no move to assist me, and though I smiled at him, he would not meet my eyes. I was puzzled, and then Mr Williams said, “Come now, Davis.”

Mr Davis hesitated, and then asked him how he could be of assistance. I pointed out three bolts I wished to examine, which instruction Mr Williams dutifully repeated before the draper brought them down. I scrutinised them and found two to my taste, ordering several lengths from each. Mr Williams repeated my order until Davis nodded, after which the steward said to me, “Is there anything else you wish to see here?”

I did wish to see more, much more, but the sullen attitude of Mr Davis was off-putting, as was filtering all of my requests through Mr Williams. I shook my head, and he ordered Davis to have the fabrics delivered to Pemberley. We were out the door only ten minutes after we entered.

At the haberdashery, I had no luck whatsoever. The shopkeeper turned her back to me, disappeared into a back room and never emerged, though Mr Williams called to her more than once.

As we left, I looked at the steward, but he showed no signs of wishing to explain, and as the wind was blowing fit to turn my umbrella inside out, we marched along to the next shop capturing my attention, Miss Bickford’s Fine Dresses.

Probably due to the weather, again, I was the only customer in the shop. But a girl jumped off her stool and looked at us wide-eyed, while a rather magnificent personage turned to greet me. To my mind, she was dressed for a day in Paris rather than Hopewell, wearing blossom-coloured fine muslin and a hat trimmed in a concoction of feathers and frills that would not have been amiss in a London ballroom. The smile she bequeathed me was of a queen welcoming a subject. It was an enormous improvement over the previous shops, and I smiled back.

This was Miss Bickford herself, and she did not suffer from unfriendliness or excessive silence. Rather, she greeted me effusively, calling me ‘Dear Mrs Darcy’, and immediately set out a number of plates for my viewing pleasure. Clara, admiring a selection of Mechlin laces and ribbons with the shop girl, appeared well-occupied. I looked at Mr Williams. “Would you care to wait at the pub with Perkins and John?” I asked. “I shall be some time.”

Still appearing forlorn, he shook his head and took a seat upon a wooden bench near the door. I dismissed him from my mind as I indulged in my first real shopping trip in many years. My aunt and uncle had provided for me and provided for me well; however, I had always been conscious that the money they expended upon me was their own, for they would not take any of my small inheritance. They were not wealthy, although very comfortable, but my uncle’s fortunes sometimes vacillated, when investments failed to produce immediate results. I was accustomed to economising, to looking for bargains, and to choosing the practical over the pretty.

Not today. Miss Bickford was only too eager to assist, and while I did not much care for her personal taste in hats, most of her suggestions were elegant and her pattern books, excellent. Her establishment, though small, held a number of fabrics and trims I found irresistible after my lengthy fashion drought. Periodically, I glanced back at Mr Williams, but after a time, he had grown comfortable enough to doze, his chin to his chest. He was not unhandsome, I considered, but was entirely too thin; I ought not to have said anything to him about shopping until after his breakfast.

Miss Bickford was not at all shy about voicing her thoughts. “I am so delighted you came to us today,” she said. “Though usually we are so busy, I knew the weather would keep custom from my door. I even thought of closing the shop, but I knew better! I sent Matilda and Selma home, but I told Lucy that someone was bound to see a need and we would be here to fill it!” She prattled incessantly of nothing in particular between tasteful recommendations. After a time, I became so accustomed to this that I almost believed I misheard when she began speaking of Anne Darcy.

“I often dressed the first Mrs Darcy—oh, she had her London modiste,” she said, pronouncing the word as though it were guttersnipe, “but she knew what she had in me. She would have been foolish to ignore my talents and she was by no means foolish. I never hesitated to be honest, you see. Tell the truth and shame the devil, I always say.” Here she paused, giving me a significant look that I could not really comprehend. “Although, of course, one’s dressmaker must be able to keep a confidence. Neither I, nor my girls, will ever say a word that ought not to be said, and that you can count on.”

She paused again. I am sure I looked a bit confused, for I could not imagine what secrets of mine that a dressmaker ought to keep. My taste in fashion? My measurements? Surely they were rather obvious, regardless?

Miss Bickford saw my puzzlement and gave a little laugh. “I told Mrs Darcy that she ought never to wear puce—a fashionable colour, to be sure, but it made her look sallow. I tell the truth to all my customers—I must! If they wear one of my creations and look awful, who will be blamed but me? Her fancy London seamstress would have had her wearing it the day after the queen. No originality, that woman. But if I tell the truth to someone who pays me good money for my opinion, it doesn’t mean I’ll tell another the same.”

This time, I finally understood. She’d couched her words as regarded fabrics and fashions, but Anne Darcy seemingly had shared a secret or two. She was telling me that her loyalty was to me, not the Darcys of Pemberley. I glanced back at Mr Williams, but he appeared to be dozing. Evidently, she did not trust it. It was odd, really, that he had accompanied me, but this entire excursion had been odd.

Miss Bickford, meanwhile, prattled on. “Her in puce satin? Ridiculous! Although she is dead, I stick by my word. Like that colour you’re wearing now, Mrs Darcy. I hope you don’t expect me to sell it to you! Whoever did it, ought to be shot.”

I reassured her that I had no love for the shade, and she was comforted; we managed a very good accord, although I had to disabuse her of the notion that frills and furbelows ought to be added to every selection. Clara finally joined Mr Williams on the bench, I took so long at it, but at last we came to good agreement upon a number of frocks.

“Go to the back with Lucy now,” Miss Bickford ordered, and I obediently followed Lucy to a dressing room at the rear of the establishment. She helped me disrobe and had me stand upon a low pedestal whilst she took my measurements, laboriously recording them in a small notebook.

After a few moments of silence, Lucy spoke for the first time. “Ain’t you scairt?” she mouthed.

I frowned. “Scared of being measured?”

“Cor, no. Of livin’ with him who kilt his wife,” she said, still whispering. “Everyone says as how he did it, and Lord Cavendish and Mr Simpson bein’ in his pocket and all, there weren’t never gonna be an inquest. But I’d be awful scairt he’d do it agin.”

As she spoke these extraordinary, preposterous words, a memory emerged: me, asking Mrs de Bourgh how her daughter died, and her, answering, ‘As to that, madam, you will have to ask Mr Darcy. He is the only one who knows the answer’.

It took me a moment to find my tongue, but I did. “Miss Bickford would not be pleased to hear you repeat such foolishness,” I reprimanded severely. “My husband is an honourable man, a gentleman, in the truest sense of the word. He would never harm me or anyone else, and if you will say such things about him, I will take my custom elsewhere.”

Her eyes grew large and round. “Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

Lucy was young, and not over-bright. But I had been slow to understand the situation, as well. I ought to have guessed that there was more to Mr Darcy’s reluctance—even if I could never have guessed its cause—than simply a desire for a larger fabric selection. He had not wished to expose me, and thus himself, to the rumourmongers of Hopewell.

When I emerged from the back rooms, I was somehow unsurprised to see that Mr Williams was gone. Clara, wide-eyed, stood ramrod straight beside the door. Miss Bickford was quiet, solemn even, her chattering ceased. Mr Darcy, looking like an executioner all in black, stood waiting, his countenance stern, his bearing rigid.

I turned to Miss Bickford. “I thank you for all your time today. You will send a note over to Pemberley when you wish me to come for fittings?”

Mr Darcy spoke after me. “Perhaps you would come to Pemberley for the fittings, ma’am. We will send the carriage.”

“Oh—er, oh, yes,” she replied. “I would be happy to, of course.”

I sighed. “And Miss Bickford…double it, if you please.”

She blinked. “Double? Er, that is…would you like to select—”

But I interrupted. “I trust your taste, now that you know mine. Whatever I ordered…make more. And the ribbons Clara was admiring, as well.”

Her surprise—and pleasure, I hoped—were certain, but such feelings were impossible to express while the glowering master of Pemberley hovered like a thundercloud.

I sighed again, and took my leave.

* * *

Our return to the estate was accomplished in silence. Of course, we could not speak with Clara listening to every word. For once, I did not even notice the perilous Pemberley drive; I looked at my husband, willing him to look back at me, but he did not. He was present in the carriage, but his mind and heart, I felt, were somewhere else entirely.

When we arrived home, young Clara scurried into the house; clearly, she felt the tension swirling between us and wanted no part of it. He took my arm as we exited the carriage, his touch light. Now, I thought, we will talk of this, we will speak, and we will put it behind us.

I did not care if the entire world believed my husband capable of violence; they were wrong. Mr Darcy, at his angriest, would never so much as lay a hand upon someone he loved. Perhaps I was even jumping to conclusions at the reasons for my poor reception in Hopewell; the idea that he might slay his wife, as Lucy believed, was ludicrous. Could it be that they were angry at his hasty remarriage? Granted, it was swift, but death was, sadly, too common for it to be utterly shocking, and what business was it of theirs?

But at the door, he bowed, turned away and stalked back to the carriage. After climbing into it, the footman put up the steps and gently shut the door. The carriage, with my husband inside, drove away, leaving me to enter the house alone.

He did not come home for dinner, rather, sending a note saying he was unavoidably detained by business. I supposed it could be true; after all, his day had been interrupted. I waited up as late as I could, but when the clock struck eleven, I knew I would soon be in danger of falling asleep. I wandered into his chamber; he was the usual visitor to mine. Would he use the excuse of my slumber to avoid me? He could not quite do so if I was in his bed already; it seemed, however, very bold. His man would witness my advances as well.

And yet, what was the difference, truly, whether he came to mine or I came to his? I certainly agreed with the concept of separate dressing rooms, but why did we need separate bedchambers? Did I really wish for the solitude it might afford? Or was a sometimes more painful, less comfortable lack of privacy a better choice? However, should I force him to make it, as well? It could be detrimental to my kindest feelings if he ejected me summarily.

It came down to trust, I decided. I either trusted that he would respect me within my private spaces—and within his—or I did not. I either trusted him to be kind if I overstepped his boundaries, or I did not. The answers were simple, at least to me. And though he might not agree with my decision, I blew out my candle, climbed into his bed, pulled the blankets up over my shoulders, and, eventually, fell asleep.

I awakened to the murmurs of male voices speaking quietly from within Mr Darcy’s dressing room. A few minutes later, I saw him entering, clad in a nightshirt, illuminated only by the fire. He normally wore nothing to bed, but his nightshirt meant…something. Doubtless he knew I was here, in his bed, as his man would have mentioned it. He might be sending me a signal not to touch him, not to expect anything from him. Or he might simply consider it gentlemanly, as he was not stupid; he must know he ought not to avoid confronting our troubles. He climbed in the opposite side and lay down, sighing, his back to me.

Well, perhaps he was stupid—in this, anyway. Heavens, he had been married for several years; at least under these circumstances, he ought to have recognised my presence for the conciliatory gesture it was, then countered with a gesture of his own.

I was tired, and still hurt. I did not feel like acting the part of a beggar for his affections. At that moment, it would have been easiest to simply go back to sleep.

Instead, I reached across what felt like a vast space between us, took his wrist and, tugging it over to my side of the bed, rolled over so that my back was to him, placing his hand so it rested upon my hip.

For some moments he lay utterly still. And then, I felt the mattress shift as he rolled to face my back; there were still several inches of space between us. With gentle touches, he stroked my shoulder, back, and hip in comforting circles, up and down and over. There was nothing lustful in his touch, but it was deeply intimate, even so. I fell asleep to the rhythm of his easy, soothing caress.