Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Fourteen

She is not dead. I looked up so sharply, I banged my head on his chin. He rubbed it absently.

“I found her. It took longer than it might have, had I been able to come to London sooner, because Wickham had already abandoned her by the time I discovered her…situation. She–she was not in good circumstances. I asked her what I could do to help, and she told me that she and another woman in the—” he broke off abruptly.

“The brothel,” I finished for him. “Wickham told me she was in a brothel. I know what that is. He probably sold her to them,” I said, my voice harsh, but with a trembling that began deep within. “What did she say?”

“She said that she and this other woman who was her friend dreamt of going to America and beginning their lives over again. I questioned her enough to believe her determined, and I arranged passage for them. She lives in Boston now and, with her husband, runs a mercantile.”

I could only blink up at him, staring, my mouth open in shock. “Can it be so?” I asked shakily. “She is truly well?”

“I have a business acquaintance there who provides news of her and her family every so often. She married a Mr Brackett, a prosperous merchant, in 1815. They have two children, a boy and a girl. By all accounts, she is flourishing.”

I dropped my head to his chest, unable to control my trembling. Of all the awful consequences of that terrible time, Lydia’s death had seemed the most tragic. I knew her choices had been poor ones; yet, she had not deserved to die for them, even though my parents had—at least indirectly. She had been a silly young girl with too much freedom and too little sense. We had tried so hard to discover her; my uncle had expended a good deal of coin in the search. My husband’s arms tightened around me, as if he could stop the shaking.

I tried to make my mouth form words. “I have thought, so often…if only, if only. If only Papa had refused her permission to go to Brighton. If only the Forsters had been better chaperons. If only I had remained at Longbourn, at least until she sought asylum there. If only she had come to Gracechurch Street instead.”

“It is my understanding that she was unaware of the deaths of your parents until Mr Collins informed her. It came as quite a shock. I did encourage her to write—I promised to see that any letter was delivered. But she said she was dead to her family, and it was just as well she stay that way.”

“That is what he told her,” I whispered.

“I apologise for not informing you sooner,” he said gravely. “I did not understand any news would be welcome. I ought to have realised you would never—”

I shot bolt upright. “Never apologise,” I ordered fiercely, taking his face within my hands. “Nothing could exceed what is owed you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, undoubtedly bearing excessive mortification, for the sake of discovering her.”

He looked down upon me with affection and sadness in his gaze. His hands were in my hair, withdrawing pins, letting it down. “No,” he said.

“No?”

“I am happy if I was able to ease some little fragment of the great pain you have endured. I feel, and always will, that Wickham chose her as his victim at least in part because of me. I did what I could for her because it was the right thing to do, and because, had I made known his character to the citizens of Meryton, it all might have been avoided. I could have ruined him in the neighbourhood and in his regiment. Georgiana could have weathered the word of a known scoundrel. I can see it now, but at the time I was too conscious of status and reputation and…my pride.”

My hair was falling down over my shoulders like a curtain now. It was so heavy that wearing it up ached a little, a pain I was well-used to bearing. In fact, it was only its cessation that brought it to my consciousness. The news of Lydia’s survival was like that. I had become so accustomed to the sorrow, I had not realised its weight until it was lifted. I smiled, feeling almost buoyant. Mr Darcy’s hand went to my lips, tracing them, and I wondered if he could see something new in me.

“I received your letter,” he said. “I returned home as soon as I read it. I did not mean to hurt you with my absence, I promise. I have been alone for so long, I fear I am not in the habit of explaining myself or my reasons for doing as I do.”

There it was again—a reference to his essential loneliness. It spoke to my own.

“I suppose I am not, either. For instance, I ought to have begun with an explanation. I did not know, when I entered this parlour, that Mr Wickham would be waiting for me within. When I attempted hitting him with a candlestick, he restrained me. You did not intrude upon a lover’s embrace.”

He gave me his sad smile. “I admit I was shocked to see you thus, but it only took a moment for me to see that he was imposing himself. I do not believe a word he utters. He could not speak the truth if a pistol were pointed at his head.”

I nodded, and then said that which I most feared saying, for if he would not take my distress seriously, it would indeed be difficult—especially now that I knew what I owed him. And regardless of his rejection of my gratitude, he was owed a great deal.

“Mrs de Bourgh brought me to him, without warning, leaving me here alone with him. Obviously, he has informed her of my family’s history with him, and doubtless she will use it to hurt me if she can. She hates me, sir. I can understand it. I understand grief. It would be better, far better, for her to live elsewhere—for both of us.”

He opened his mouth to speak before dropping his head back to the settee. It was his turn to talk to the putti. “I made her a promise that would I watch over her mother.”

He did not have to tell me who the ‘her’ was. Anne Darcy had extracted a vow from him—perhaps on her deathbed?—and his personal code insisted upon its fulfilment. Controlling him from the grave, to my mind, but he would likely not see it as such. I could go elsewhere—he would never stop me—but I would not be driven from my home by a bitter woman obsessed with the past. I had lost too many homes as it was, and I loved Pemberley already. I said the only thing I could, my own vow, made from the best part of myself.

“I will not leave you because of her. If this is how it must be, I will make the best of it.”

And suddenly, I was in his arms, and he was kissing me wildly, passionately. A month ago, his intensity might have frightened me; now, I only returned it, my eagerness matching his. I lost awareness of where we were, even who we were. A thousand troubles seemed to be amassing against us, trying to keep us from an ever-elusive happiness. But in this, we were equals. There was joy here, each time we met like this—man and woman, two halves of a whole. The edges of our lives flared out from this point, separate, uncontrollable, at fate’s mercy—but I could let those edges go, when we were one.

Some time later, I came back to myself, sprawled across my husband, breathless, and slightly awed by what had just happened. My hair was at its most untamed, and I reached up to gather it back—but Mr Darcy stopped me with a gentle hand upon my wrist, pushing it back down upon his chest where his heart thundered still.

“You will suffocate beneath it,” I said, my voice muffled in his cravat.

“My preferred manner of dying,” he replied, sounding completely serious.

I could not help but smile. “What if someone enters?”

“Then they die,” he answered. “A murderous reputation must be worth something.” But he heaved a sigh, and carefully helped me up. There were several moments of straightening and rearranging of clothing. His neckcloth was wrecked, as was my aforementioned hair—and most of our mutual dignity. Nevertheless, neither of us could summon much embarrassment. I glanced at his great coat, flung carelessly onto the floor in a way certain to give his valet an apoplexy.

“May I throw your coat over my head to return to my rooms?”

He ceased trying to make something of his cravat, turning to look at me. After examining me for a long moment, he moved to stand before me, tilting my chin up. “Have I told you how exquisitely beautiful you are, Mrs Darcy?”

I laughed. “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, and know I am a degree better than ‘tolerable’, perhaps your compliment is motivated more by gratitude than truth.”

“It is many years since I have considered you as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

I found this an affectionate exaggeration, but asked the question it prompted. “Did you know I was at Rosings? Did you come there…for me, specifically?”

“Of course,” he replied, as if this were the most obvious answer ever.

“But this is unbelievable! How did you even know I was there?”

“I do try to keep in touch with Lord Matlock,” he said.

His expression shuttered, I was certain of it, but I smiled, wagging a finger at him. “It would have served you right if I had increased by five stone and two chins,” I teased.

He dropped his forehead to mine. “My dear, there is very little you could have done to avoid a proposal from me, if you were at all the same here.” He put his large hand upon my chest, where my heart beat strongly beneath his fingers.

And it was to find us in that intimate attitude, that Mrs de Bourgh entered. Her disapproval was immediate and cold.

“Well! Is the reputation of Pemberley to be thus polluted by cavorting and excess? You ought to be ashamed, both—”

“Not another word,” Mr Darcy said, his voice low, but with an inherent authority impossible to ignore. “As you are well aware, your own daughter cared very little for a moral code you now espouse. This is my home, and this is my wife. We shall do as we see fit. If you cannot respect us, another home will be provided for you.”

“Why should she have cared?” de Bourgh hissed, as if she did not hear him. “You were fortunate to ever have obtained her notice! A spirited girl, always the prettiest in the room, always the centre of attention. To look at her was to fall in love. She was too good for any man!”

I glanced at my husband during this tirade, expecting to see his ire ignite; instead, he merely looked fatigued. “Perhaps you believe so, but you digress from the point. You allowed Mr Wickham here, and exposed my wife to him. You know he is not welcome at Pemberley and have disobeyed my express wishes. Give me your word that you shall never do so again, else pack your things.”

“He loved her! Which is more than you can ever say!” she accused. The words poured out of her, vicious and mean-spirited. “He worshipped her, while you were the poorest husband to ever wed a woman. She deserved so much better than you! She hated you!” My husband did not interrupt, bearing her charges stoically. I was not so restrained.

“Wickham is a vile, disgusting worm! How can you defend him?” I cried.

“You only say that because he cannot be controlled by the likes of you! He is not bound by the decrees of others so wholly unimportant to him. He is brave and free, and you fear him—as well you should! He does as he likes, and he will punish my daughter’s murderer. He has sworn it.” Hatred blazed from her eyes, but it was self-righteousness burning in her voice.

My fury was choking me. I looked at my husband, but he maintained an impassivity I found frustrating. I wanted him to return her vicious words with his own, but he only sighed.

“You shall be removed to the Ramsgate property,” was all he said.

“No!” she screamed. “She is here! She will not allow it! Shestays and so do I!” She began to cry—noisy, racking sobs, so the opposite of my own conditioned restraint, I was taken aback. I think I took a step towards her, but she ran. Not towards me or Mr Darcy but—to my horror and disbelief—past us, with all speed, directly into the large windows behind us.

I flung up my arms, thinking she aimed for us, but still saw what happened next with perfect clarity. Longbourn’s windows were made up of such small, thick panes as to require an axe, at least, to even chip at them. This, however, was Pemberley, and Anne Darcy had redesigned this parlour by adding tall sash windows to what had been a too-dark room; thinner crown ‘lights’ had been employed within them to avoid paying excessive glass tax. The panel lights were, unfortunately, large enough for de Bourgh’s momentum and the impact of her body to impel her head and hand through it, shattered glass and blood spraying.

The next moments remain a blur in my mind. I screamed and suddenly the parlour began filling with servants, followed by Mrs Reynolds, Morton, and a half-dozen others. A young footman fainted. A maidservant was ill. Mr Darcy, splattered in a gruesome red, called for both physician and surgeon. Mr Williams entered from somewhere, helping my husband staunch the blood which seemed to be everywhere, coating everything.

I regained control of my own horror when Nancy, an upstairs maid, began to sob hysterically. “He’s done it, he’s done it again. We’ll all be killed in our beds!” she moaned. Everyone who was not working over de Bourgh turned to stare.

I looked at her with a steely expression worthy of Grandmother Bennet. “Mr Darcy never laid a hand on her, and as long as you avoid dashing yourself against the windows, you need not fear a like fate. You will take yourself to your rooms, please, until you can be sensible.” She shut her mouth, but I saw that some—especially the younger servants—looked fearfully in the direction of the fallen woman. An icy gust blew through the broken panes at that moment, chilling us all.

Nora prevented any further outbreak of hysteria, quickly going to Nancy’s side. “Come, Nan—you know the old lady is dicked in the nob since the mistress died. Don’t you be joinin’ her in Bedlam,” she said, leading her from the room. Mrs Reynolds took charge then, herding the rest of them away. Two footmen were assigned to carry Mrs de Bourgh up to her chamber to await medical assistance; others were charged with boarding up the broken panes until a glazier could be called. I escaped to my rooms, where I could pace and fret without an audience.

I could hardly credit the events of the afternoon. Wickham’s horrible threats, his wicked revelations, and extortion demands. Mr Darcy’s incredible report of Lydia’s salvation, and even his confession of attraction to me, so long ago. He had referenced it before, briefly. It seemed just as incredible then as it did now. And as if all that were not enough, there were Mrs de Bourgh’s furious words and insane conduct.

Except—I did not agree with Nora’s conclusion. I had seen de Bourgh’s face as she flung herself against the window. There had been determination, cunning, and hatred—but a loss of mind, the absence of reason? No. If she was mad, it was a devious sort of madness, perhaps motivated by her grief, but not consumed by it.

I would be willing to wager that before confronting us, she had ensured many in the house knew of Wickham’s visit, as well as my husband’s subsequent expulsion of him. I was certain she embellished the encounter—making much of wondering whether I was ‘safe’ alone with Mr Darcy afterwards. And now, of course, she would lie to anyone who would listen as to exactly how her injury had occurred.

That is, if she lived to tell the story to anyone at all.