Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Eleven

The next morning, Mr Darcy was gone. I was not particularly concerned, for he always rose early, and I had wakened later than usual. It was not until Mrs de Bourgh gloated at breakfast that I realised what it meant.

“You have driven him away,” she announced. “It is as I expected. The only surprising part is how quickly you were able to accomplish it. He tired of you so swiftly, but then, men are like this—they act on impulse and then live with regret. My daughter and I often laughed about their natures. ‘Men will do anything to have what they want from a woman, and then spend the rest of their lives whining into their cups that they got it,’ she’d often say. I suppose he will live at his house in London, for the most part, from now on.”

I was alarmed. Had he truly left the estate for more than just the day? But I knew better than to let her see it. “If that is true,” I said easily, “at least I have Pemberley to comfort me.”

She turned white—whiter than I could have imagined possible since she was already so pale. Hers was a fury that burned cold. Immediately she stood. “You will never belong here,” she said. “Never.” She swept out of the room.

I tried not to be anxious, but I returned to my rooms to search for any sign of a note. There was nothing. I looked out of the window; the weather was not so awful as yesterday, but the roads would be slick, and in some places, mud and snow would be a danger. It was dreadfully cold. Had my little defiance been such a terrible thing that he felt he must flee? It seemed ridiculous.

Mr Williams arrived for his breakfast, and this time I waited until he had eaten and was departing before approaching him.

“May I speak with you, sir?”

He was instantly wary. “I…that is, I have an engagement very soon with—”

“I shall not keep you. Allow me to walk you out.”

He nodded, and I pulled my shawl more tightly around me as we stepped out into the chill. As soon as we were out of earshot, I asked him my questions.

“Has Mr Darcy left the estate? If so, where did he go?”

His discomfort was obvious. “Er…he had business in London. Unavoidable. Could not be delayed.” He flushed, a poor liar.

I stopped, peering at him. “Is he really for London?”

“Oh, yes. To be sure.” His expression conveyed an earnestness that would be difficult to pretend.

So at least that much was true. “Do you know when he intends to return?”

“As to that, ma’am, I am sorry. I do not.”

“Was this trip planned before yesterday?”

“It…er, that is, I am sure he…it was business that has been urgently awaiting his attention.”

Liar. Mr Darcy told me only the day before that we would go to London the next time the weather cleared, implying a wait of at least a month or two. He had no intention of leaving, yesterday. The only thing that had changed was that I had gone shopping and heard some foolish gossip. Incredible.

“Does everyone in town, with the possible exception of Miss Bickford, believe he murdered his first wife?”

Mr Williams actually halted in his tracks, his expression a picture of alarm and dismay as he stared back at me.

“Did you think I would not ask about it? I would have asked him, had he remained long enough. Now I am asking you. Do me the credit of answering truthfully, if you please.”

There was something angry in his expression now. At Mr Darcy, or at me, for pressing? “He is the best landlord and the best master,” he said grimly.

“That is not an answer to the question I asked,” I replied, exasperated. “I will make this simpler. Do you believe that he killed Anne Darcy?”

I do not know what I expected him to say—but at a minimum, a vehement denial, followed by, perhaps, an expostulation upon the stupidity of the population of Hopewell. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth several times, started to speak, his cheeks stained so red that I knew he was about to lie again. And then, he turned around and walked away without saying a word.

* * *

I stood, staring after him. I felt sick, actually, physically ill. Despite the cold, I set off in the other direction, covering a good distance in ground-eating strides. What could his lack of an answer mean? Why would he not defend Mr Darcy? The path I was on led steadily upwards, for Pemberley was set between two sets of higher, forested peaks. I barely noticed the climb; I was too upset, too appalled. I needed to talk with someone, but whom?

The bare branches of trees mocked me, snatching at my hair, pointing at my distress—reminding me of the claw-like hands of Mrs de Bourgh, always watching and waiting, hoping for my downfall.

My path crested at a lookout, of sorts, and there I stopped, the wind at this higher elevation whipping my skirts around my legs and my hair from its neat coiffure. Mr Darcy, a murderer. They might just as easily have accused him of being a leech hunter or a resurrectionist, for all the sense it made.

I wanted, almost desperately, to run to my aunt. It would not be impossible; Perkins could, and probably would take me. And I knew with certainty that Mr Darcy would not come fetch me; he would never defend himself, whether he had done it or not. But would he explain himself if I stayed? Could I stay, if he had done this awful thing?

I was conscious of a growing distaste for Anne Darcy. I allowed that it might be based upon resentment that she had held Mr Darcy’s heart for so many years, even though their marriage had nothing to do with me. I was revolted by her bedchamber, her extravagance. I was disgusted by her mother’s every description of her opinions, her arrogance.

Was this mocking sort of Venus the wife Mr Darcy desired? My imagination grew lurid, picturing the passion that such a woman could inspire. Beautiful, wealthy, blue-blooded and confident, she had fascinated, perhaps captivated many. Had it tempted him to violence? Jealousy?

I looked out over the wild beauty before me. Pemberley sat atop it—unyielding, austere, majestic, and imposing. Much like Mr Darcy himself, for that matter. Those who served her were loyal to my husband. They needn’t have been, not really. I had known plenty of servants, and loyalty was not a byword. But it only meant he had treated them well; it did not prove guilt or innocence.

My heart rebelled. He was good to more than those who served him. I remembered his kindness to his sister, who plainly adored him. I thought of the times he had been so caring towards me, such as the journey to visit my aunt, undertaken simply to increase my happiness… Of his great tenderness in those dark and silent nights spent together, of his…love for me, even if he did not say the words or call it that himself. I remembered each of the few times I knew he had been angry; there had been little outward expressions of it—he kept most everything within, walled off, constrained. His control was a part of who he was, a defining characteristic. Perhaps this was why he had hied off to London, to avoid any confrontation? But now that my initial dismay at his sudden absence was past, I even doubted that. A man who was furious with his wife did not rub her back until she drifted off to sleep. He was upset that I had defied him, but I gave it even odds that it was mortification, rather than anger, motivating his feelings. Whatever he did in London now, it made perfect, logical sense in his man’s brain that he should do it, and do it immediately.

This was not a man who would explode in a rage, or who would give way to shame or temper. It was ludicrous to imagine him goaded or provoked into an unrestrained wrath. Which meant my choices were simple: either he had killed her in cold blood, or he had not killed her at all.

And I knew which of those choices I believed.

* * *

I took a different path down the mountainside than I had going up. I was not in a particular hurry to return indoors, and the exercise kept me warm enough. I was curious when this new path led me to a large cottage within a grove of trees. It had been a pretty thing once, with a spacious appearance—far too grand for a gamekeeper, but not quite large enough to be a dowager house. I could only surmise that it was some sort of hunting lodge, although it seemed oddly placed for such, and practically within sight of Pemberley, except for the trees surrounding it.

Another unusual thing about it was its forlorn appearance. All the outbuildings of Pemberley were in immaculate condition, but not this one. Weeds had taken over its lot, tiles were gone from the roof, a pane of glass was missing in one of the big front windows. Curious, I approached it, cautiously peering through the broken pane.

It was dirty within, with pine needles and other debris having blown inside, and possibly woodland creatures taking up residence as well. There was some furniture, knocked over and jumbled, its upholstery torn, as well as shattered knick-knacks and ruined paintings. I knew I was being fanciful, but it looked as if a madman had broken loose within, and I shivered, backing away from the sight.

And then I nearly jumped out of my skin when I backed into a solid figure behind me.

“Oh, excuse me!” I cried, startled, whirling to discover who else was trespassing upon this eerie scene.

It was Mr Williams, looking as I had never seen him appear before—his face hardened, or perhaps tortured. “You ought not to be here,” he said, and there was a coldness in his aspect I could hardly recognise.

“What is this place?”

“It is called Thorncroft,” he replied, still not looking at me, but at the wintry exterior of the ruined cottage.

“It is in terrible disrepair, but perhaps it could be refurbished,” I offered.

“No,” he said in an emotionless voice. “Better it decays in its own time, its own way. Let it die its own death.” He said it as though it were a curse he was repeating, a spell recited by firelight to frighten gullible youth.

This cottage—Thorncroft—had something to do with Anne Darcy; I cannot say how I knew this. Perhaps her ghost whispered it in my ear, because if ever a place was haunted, this was it. To test my theory, I said in a low voice, “Did you find her so very handsome, then?”

“Only the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he answered sharply. Suddenly he looked dangerous and cruel, the haunting seeping out of Thorncroft and into his eyes, and I thought, I am too far away from the house and no one would hear me if I screamed. And I could not run or move, like a rabbit trapped by a polecat, frozen in place by fear or fate.

But a bird screeched and he blinked, as if awakening. “You should leave this place now, Mrs Darcy,” he said, himself again, merely the shy and sad Mr Williams. “It is not kept up, and is unsafe for the curious.”

I turned and left, walking rapidly away, forcing myself not to break into a run. I glanced back only once, to see him still standing, staring at Thorncroft. And I wondered if I had the courage to face whatever secrets I had just stumbled onto, all unknowing.

* * *

I returned to the house and tried to write to my aunt. I had only written a few meaningless sentences though, when I found my attention wandering. I wanted to ask her whether she had heard of any scandal associated with my husband’s first marriage. If I were with her, in person, I certainly would have. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to put onto paper those rumours so upsetting to Mr Darcy; it would be as if I were participating in their spread.

The dignified Mrs Reynolds would never say anything ill of her former mistress; she managed a tightly disciplined household, and had admired the first Mrs Darcy. I could, probably, obtain information from Clara, who was young and artless. I recoiled from the thought of using her in such a way. My mother had exchanged gossip with her servants regularly; my aunt never did. I knew who had the better run establishment.

In the end, I simply wrote to my husband.

Dear Mr Darcy,

I cannot imagine why you departed Pemberley without so much as a farewell. I trust you believe such unkindness justified, for reasons I cannot comprehend.

I would apologise for my unauthorised shopping expedition, had you explained why you hate Hopewell, or why some therein hate you. In my ignorance, it seemed only an arbitrary refusal, having more to do with your own schedule and the demands upon your time, than any edict regarding the utter avoidance of the town. I did disobey, but I hope you do not believe it was a purposeful defiance. Or if it was, perhaps only a minor one. I would be lying if I said I was sorry; at the moment, I am more filled with vexation than gentler feelings.

I miss you. It is difficult for me to write that sentiment upon paper. However, I am determined to be honest.

I do regret our current separation. If you would talk to me, you would find me ever willing to overcome our differences and reach a mutual understanding and sympathy. I wish you would come home.

Yours&c.

I knew not where to send it, or even if I should. But in this instance, it seemed unwise to withhold my strongest feelings as was my habit. I sealed it, deciding I would give it to Mr Williams to post. With some bitterness, I expected he would know how to reach him.

Lambton was not so very far from Pemberley. It would not be strange if my aunt did, indeed, know more of the situation than I. Neither by word nor deed had she implied anything towards Mr Darcy except a deep respect, even happiness in my situation. There was, however, that moment at our leave-taking, when she had counselled patience, and I had thought there was more she might have said.

I took a long time deciding what to say in my letter to her.

My Dearest Aunt,

I know I have written this before, but let me tell you, again and again, how good it was to see you and know you are thriving. I do not mistake your courage in moving forward for an absence of longing for the past. I honour you for your efforts, and they serve as an example to me. I need your strength now! When the Good Book counsels that the ‘two must become one’ it does not acknowledge, perhaps, that men can be so difficult to understand. Mr Darcy, plainly, does not think as I do. I do not, plainly, think as he does. Added to these mutual misperceptions are certain vicious rumours prevalent amongst the countryside. It all makes for a perplexity of mind and heart—what is real, and what is not?

To be certain, my husband is a good man, and if you have heard otherwise, believe nothing of it. He is also a confusing one, who shares little of his inner self. Although, come to think of it, I am not sure I have shared much of mine. I am so used to keeping my thoughts safely sheltered within my own head, and it is a difficult habit to break. As I write this, I imagine you nodding sagely. Yes, I suppose Mr Darcy and I have more in common than one might think; you have always teased me for my independence of spirit.

Auntie, he is a man accustomed to great solitude. I have only realised it as I pen this to you, for of course he was married for many years, has a large extended family and a goodly number of servants. I have made assumptions because of those things that may not have been correct. What do we really know of other persons? What struggles, all unseen, hide behind polite smiles? And now I have descended into philosophy, so I will cease my ramblings.

I will beg advice upon one subject. As I believe I mentioned during our visit, Anne Darcy’s mother still makes her home with us. It pains me to admit it, but Mrs de Bourgh despises me with all the vigour of her soul, and I am at my wit’s end. I try to be understanding; she is grieving. It is natural that she should fail to appreciate, even resent, any sign that Mr Darcy’s affections lie elsewhere, although his care for me has naught to do with her daughter. I am anxious for a happy home, but I fear she can never be happy if I am. I simply do not understand how to help her, for she lives in a constant state of misery, and eagerly seeks out company to join her in it.

I will stop complaining now, and, as Jane would no doubt advise, instead count my blessings—of which you are one of the dearest. Send me all your news, and please remind Ellen that she owes me a sketch.

Love&c.

Your Favourite Niece

After I finished her letter, I knew I ought to write to Jane. My sister was too perceptive to be put off by commonplaces, but I did not particularly relish explaining any of the difficulties of my marriage. How could she understand? She and Mr Tilney were so devoted to each other and…I do not like to complain, because it makes me sound worldly, but Jane prefers proverbs when administering advice. If I had a guinea for every occasion she has comforted me with ‘To every thing there is a season…’—well, I was not in the mood to hear it. So, I sent her the commonplaces after all, and tried to embellish them with lavish descriptions of Pemberley and its surrounds. In so doing, I comforted myself. Pemberley earned every bit of its extravagant praise. Presiding as its mistress surpassed my wildest dreams. I would heed my aunt’s advice, and learn to practise patience.