Nameless by Julie Cooper
Chapter Twelve
Aweek passed, and I heard nothing from my husband. I tried not to dwell upon it, which was difficult. The weather turned nasty again, an icy sort of rain that managed to chill one to the bone without leaving any snow behind to beautify what it destroyed. I did some minor redecoration, changing the draperies in my rooms from dark velvet to a set of brighter green ones that were tucked away in one of the attics; Mrs Reynolds was a veritable treasure trove of information on Pemberley’s vast stores of linens. I also found a number of beautifully stitched pillows in a trunk, apparently created by Mr Darcy’s mother. They were whimsical and pretty and suited me perfectly. Come spring, I planned to repaint and repaper, but for now I was satisfied with my little changes. To further counter boredom and distress, I retreated to the library whenever possible, for an endless supply of entertainment, education, and edification.
My aunt replied to my letter, and, although she mentioned nothing of hearing any rumours, she reiterated that my husband’s family was a fine one, and that I could trust my own judgment in these matters—that she trusted my judgment in these matters. About Mrs de Bourgh, she was inclined to advise patience, but in no case should I tolerate abuse, and should report anything of the sort to Mr Darcy—who she believed would support me in any demand for respect. If he were here, perhaps, I thought morosely.
Happily, the day came that Miss Bickford, Lucy in tow, made the trek up the mountain in an ancient black coach, not trusting, evidently, that she could indeed request one from Pemberley. Mrs Reynolds told me of their arrival, and I greeted them with enthusiasm and brought them to my rooms. Lucy peered around expectantly, probably imagining masked assailants rising up from the shadows. I think she was a bit disappointed by the elegance of Pemberley, with nary a gothic horror to be found.
Miss Bickford brought five dresses completed—or nearly so, for Lucy pinned and hemmed, while Clara was ready to apply any other finishing touches. We both looked with great interest at the new trims she had obtained for the remaining dresses as I made my final selections. There was another surprise, for Mrs Dale—of haberdashery fame—had made so bold as to send along some excellent examples from her stores for my viewing pleasure. I bought them all.
I cared not at all for her earlier snub, for it was as I had hoped—the villagers had been predisposed to view Anne Darcy with approval, at least in part because she contributed to their livelihoods. Pemberley was in many ways self-sufficient, never relying solely on nearby merchants. Hopewell had no doubt suffered by her death, and those who suffered would be Mr Darcy’s loudest detractors. By giving a large order to Miss Bickford, I had sent a signal that my approval was worth earning. I ought to have had Mr Davis pull down half his store to show me his wares; only my surprise and shock had prevented me.
As Miss Bickford took her leave, she unexpectedly clasped my hand. “It is good to see you looking so well, Mrs Darcy,” she said, peering at me significantly. “A dressmaker knows.”
I was unsure just what she thought she knew, but I thanked her nonetheless.
The next day, I discovered how appearing in one of my new dresses improved my mood. A deep green velvet with ethereal gauze trims, it was warm, pretty, and suited me well—and I was shallow enough to find solace in it.
For I found Pemberley, though beautiful, a lonely place to live.
Perhaps a bit of my confidence had disappeared with Mr Darcy. I tried not to show it. I met at least twice daily with Mrs Reynolds, and felt I was earning her respect. But now that I understood the opinion of the villagers, I began understanding how it might not trickle down to the rest of the household very quickly.
The first Mrs Darcy had been much esteemed. Amongst the upper servants—those who had served during his parents’ time—respect for my husband remained strong. The hostility of the villagers had not infected those whom he paid, and paid well. Nevertheless, even these servants were not all predisposed to look kindly upon the replacement mistress. They did not show it except in the stiff formality of their obedience, the slight questioning of some of my requests. I told myself it would simply take time to achieve full acceptance.
But amongst many of the lower servants, those who perhaps had not been here long, or who had close ties to villagers, there were more difficulties. Mrs Reynolds ran an impeccable establishment, but she could not control every sidelong glance, every smirk, every slight show of reluctance disguised as confusion or failure to hear.
As I turned a corner, I overheard one maid whisper to the other, “They say as ’ow she were from some fam’ly as ’adn’t a sixpence to scratch with, an’ she tricked the master inta weddin’ ’er.”
“Don’t see’s how she could’ve done so,” the other replied in equally low tones. “She hasn’t a button on the ol’ mistress fer looks. O’course, there weren’t many as fine looking as Mrs Darcy were. I always thought her an angel fallen from the sky. And now she’s in heaven, too fair for earth, Lord rest her soul.”
“My uncle says as ’ow ’e beat ’er for jealousy’s sake, but I never saw ’im in a temper,” the first whispered, a bit uncertainly.
“He never would!” the second hissed vehemently. “And don’t ye let Reynolds hear ye even think such a thing, or ye’ll be in the basket and out on yer ear. It were grief what fooled him, never doubt it. But he’s made his bed, and now must lie in it.”
“With ’er, poor man,” replied the first, and they both burst out in laughter.
My first thought was to interrupt them with a scold, but I changed my mind and turned back the way I had come. What point was there? If Mrs Reynolds heard of it, she might turn them both off. I was hardly ugly, and cared nothing for their opinions of my looks. Still, some of my pleasure in my new dress faded.
I knew that even in smaller households, a mistress must earn her place, however much one might pretend it was the other way around. But with every day that Mr Darcy was absent, I could feel the undercurrents of distrust building.
It was not only a matter of winning over the servants. After all, I had, actually, been a servant—or treated as one, at Rosings. I would never allow myself to forget the immense amount of labour these people expended to keep Pemberley in fine fettle. I would ensure their welfare and take care with their feelings and, eventually, they would be happy enough with my stewardship. No, a greater issue was that the opinion of many villagers was shared by at least some of the finer families in the neighbourhood, and gossip, as Mrs Reynolds had hinted in the beginning, was rife. Mr Darcy had neglected to litter the neighbours with calling cards announcing his new bride, as a gentleman ought. Now I understood why. By way of half-hearted explanation, he had mentioned that his greater acquaintance was in London for the Season. Only a few of those who remained had bothered leaving cards, which, of course, I had promptly returned—to little effect. Obviously, my new surname would help me as little with my neighbours as it had in Hopewell.
Still, I determined to maintain an optimistic attitude. Perhaps Easter would bring those more amicable home to Derbyshire. Perhaps we would visit London later, and expand our circle by that means. I would not borrow trouble, and assume a life devoid of friends—I was not formed for solitude.
A day later, when Mrs Reynolds informed me I had a caller, how pleased I was for the distraction. It was one of those whose cards I had returned, a tall, heavy-looking woman, perhaps ten years my senior; her card identified her as Mrs Isabella Longthorpe. I am afraid I nearly gaped at her appearance—she was dressed all in gold, golden feathers fluttering from her golden hat, golden rings twinkling on every finger. She reminded me of a great house we had once toured in Kent, every inch of its décor gilded, decorated, draped, and uselessly fine.
After the usual niceties, Mrs Longthorpe came right to her purposes in visiting.
“Tell me about your father’s estate, I beg you. I have heard it was a grand place, but entailed upon a distant relation and unhappily lost.”
Ah.She played the part of Collectoress of Information for the neighbourhood. As my mother had once fulfilled that particular calling, I understood its importance—to her, at least—and tried to exercise patience.
“Longbourn is still in the family, ma’am. Indeed, my younger sister yet resides there, and one of my dearest friends is its mistress.”
Perhaps Charlotte and I were no longer close, but that did not mean I had no affection for her. And truly, she capably managed Longbourn, as well as her awful husband. But this answer was somewhat displeasing to my visitor, since it betrayed no particular grievance or sorrow.
“Ah, yes, I heard you were one of several girls. Of course, it cannot much matter to Mr Darcy, as he can do with Pemberley as he will. An entail is such an old-fashioned notion, I have always believed. You are the eldest?”
A dig upon my ancient birth. “No, ma’am. My sister Jane, wife to the rector of Matlock, holds that honour.”
The lady nodded, and I managed to get in a question or two of my own regarding the area and its inhabitants, but she was a dog with a bone between her teeth, and unlikely to be diverted elsewhere.
“Matlock, yes—the earl is a relation of Mr Darcy’s, I know. Is that how you met? Through your sister’s auspices?”
“No, indeed. We have been acquainted for many years.” Not a lie, though I felt I knew him less today than on our wedding day.
“He certainly wasted no time, I own. We all thought he might look a bit closer to home. My dear daughter, only eighteen years and such a darling, biddable girl, might have filled his nursery. But men are impatient, and do not think out these matters. Dear Mrs Darcy is hardly cold in her grave, but I suppose he could not afford to wait too long, since choosing a bride of an, er, particular age. No offence meant, of course.”
“Of course.” I was mindful that my every word would be repeated—and embellished—throughout the neighbourhood, so I could not toss her out upon her ear. I did not order refreshments, however, and she could not introduce a topic that would encourage me to lengthen the visit. It drew to a thankful close shortly thereafter.
I laughed to myself as her gilded backside swished out the door, but I was not completely unaffected. When, within a few minutes, Mrs de Bourgh informed me that I had yet another caller in yet another parlour, I neglected to wonder why she had fetched me rather than a servant. In mentally arming myself for another, possibly difficult interview, I stupidly assumed Mrs de Bourgh and I would greet our visitor together, that she would perform introductions to another matron of the community, picking up where Mrs Longthorpe left off.
But incredibly, it was a man who stood in that elegant, refined parlour. And when he turned to face me, I nearly swooned in shock and dismay.
I had not seen Lieutenant George Wickham in many years, but I would never forget him. He had aged well. I could see the lines of dissipation within his handsome features, but only because I looked for them—one did not live a life such as his without leaving some sign of it. Still, his natural beauty was great. Perhaps in ten more years, I thought, his aspect will better match his character. He ought to be a loathsome figure of disgusting appearance, a monster, the stuff of night terrors.
“You,” I said, my voice low and accusing.
“Mrs Darcy!” he cried, as if we were meeting at a ball or the theatre. “How lovely it is to see you again!”
I whirled upon Mrs de Bourgh, meaning to demand an explanation, but she only smiled malevolently and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
“She is a cousin of my mother’s,” Wickham explained, as I gaped in shock at this extraordinary behaviour. “Darcy did not know it, of course, when he married our beautiful Anne. He neglected to inspect the blood of the blacker sheep in her family tree, because the flock in front of him was so very blue. Anne and I remained close all her too-short life. Very, very dear friends, we were. I grieve her, exceedingly.”
“You should leave,” I ordered, disgust filling me at his implication. Although I was angry at my husband, a wave of sorrow nearly overwhelmed me. I knew that many marriages were unhappy, and—especially it seemed, amongst the higher circles—disloyalty was almost expected. But my father, despite his great differences with my mother in so many areas, had never been unfaithful. He had made her a promise, and kept it. Wickham ignored my demand.
“Now, now, mon cœur,” he said. “You needn’t look so appalled. Darcy, of course, was horrified to learn he had obtained a connexion with me, but he has always been stuffy. Can you truly cast the first stone? Had you the inclination to reveal to him the fate of your youngest sister? The last I heard, she was selling her wares in a brothel in the East End. Not one I would patronise, of course. Too seedy, too many diseases.” He grinned. “You did explain it all, did you not?”
I realised that if I suddenly found a pistol in my hand, I would be tempted to shoot him dead and never look back. Had Mr Darcy’s first wife been as evil? Lydia’s sins had been ones of stupidity and misplaced affections. This man, whom she had trusted, had abandoned her and left her to die most miserably. If Anne Darcy was cut from the same cloth, Mr Darcy had suffered much provocation—perhaps beyond what any mortal could bear. Especially a man of his pride and standing.
“Dear Lydia used her last bit of coin to return home, did you know that?” he continued casually, as if remarking upon the weather. “Unfortunately for her, the new master of Longbourn was there to greet her. Of course, he thought death too good for her. Such a shame! Put her on the next post returning to London and thought himself charitable for paying her fare. Of course, if your parents hadn’t been so foolish as to get themselves killed attempting her rescue, I might have found her more useful. But who knows, really, if they could have raised the blunt it would have required to keep me? I am expensive, and weddings are not cheap.”
“You are revolting,” I snarled, hatred choking me.
He only smiled more broadly. “She did try to keep our love alive, you know. I remember her begging me quite prettily to take her back. I did…for a night or two.” He sighed affectedly. “Alas, she could not amuse me longer than that.”
I could not restrain myself; I grabbed a nearby candlestick and tried to brain him with it. Unfortunately, I had little strength compared to his. He only laughed, catching the candlestick and wrenching it from my hand, then tossing it aside as he grabbed me, holding me closely before him with his arms wrapped around me.
“Oh, now, this is more amusing,” he murmured in my ear. “I remember Lydia as a spirited little thing. Perhaps it is in your blood.”
“Unhand me,” I cried, struggling futilely. “Go away and leave me alone!” I managed a kick, but my slippers were ill-suited to combat, and I only hurt my toes.
He laughed and arranged his grip more tightly to free one of his hands. It was infuriating how helpless, how frustrating it felt to be entrapped so easily, with his one arm exceeding the strength of my whole body. I was not afraid, not then, for I was too angry. I kicked him again, despite the pain.
“But we have not yet discussed my terms,” he replied directly into my ear, his breath hot and wet and disgusting. “I require a price for my silence regarding your tainted family tree,” he continued, stroking my cheek as he spoke.
“I would rather die than pay you so much as a farthing,” I hissed.
“A mistake,” he said, coldly now, his grip still like iron. “However, perhaps you do not realise it. When Anne was alive, she hinted to so many of what she suffered at the hands of her husband. She never shared any details, naturally. Too much the lady. I thought it a game, I admit. We laughed together about her rumours. But still waters run deep. Now, I find myself wondering. Upstanding Darcy, virtuous Darcy, respectable Darcy—who really knows what evils he might hide beneath his proper, prim, conceit?”
“If he did not murder you long ago, he is a saint,” I cried, and tried to shove my elbow into his gut. Again, I was not strong enough to cause any damage.
“Oh, you are a fiery one,” he chuckled, nipping my ear. “Lucky, lucky Darcy. Not that he could possibly appreciate it.”
“I will scream, and have you arrested!”
He only laughed harder. “Mrs de Bourgh will have taken care there are no witnesses. Scream to your heart’s content. I enjoy the sound.”
“My husband will see you gaoled for this assault,” I accused, but I was beginning to feel the helplessness—and hopelessness—of my situation.
“I wonder if you truly understand,” he murmured into my ear. “I have numerous friends in this area, as you do not. Many of them share my curiosity as to how, exactly, Anne met her death. She wrote to me, you see, asking me to come to her immediately. Sadly, I was unable to arrive here quickly enough. By the time I could, she was dead, and your husband and the magistrate between them hushed it up. But it will not stay hushed. It will never go away. I promise you, Mrs Darcy, that unless you make it very worth my while, I will feed and fuel and fan the flames of those rumours. Your illustrious husband will never have a moment’s peace. I swear it.”
His grip was bruising, but it was not so violent as those words. His hatred for my husband permeated every single one. It might, even, surpass mine for him—he had clearly been nurturing it for much longer. Despair filled me, for I could see no alternative to meeting his demands. I knew the power of gossip. He would make us both bleed unless we paid. He might, regardless.
And then, as if this were some sort of poorly written act from a bad play, the door opened, and there stood Mr Darcy. His gaze met mine, and as if I was watching a scene from my past, I saw the exact same look upon his face as the first time I had seen him meet George Wickham on the streets of Meryton, so long ago.
The same anger, the same helpless sort of fury. And Wickham…was stroking my cheek, still.