Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Sixteen

In the morning, I learned that Mrs de Bourgh now suffered from a terrible fever as a result of her injuries. I told Clara the details of what occurred in the gold parlour, deciding that, in this case, countering the potential of false gossip with the truth was a better plan than maintaining strict discretion. And then I sought out Mrs Reynolds privately.

“What have you heard about what happened yesterday?” I asked directly. “You need not varnish the truth. It is best we know exactly how bad the gossip.”

If she was surprised by my question, she did not show it. “Most of it is nonsense,” she said. “As if you would be taken in by the likes of Mr Wickham, in your own home. The old master cared for him, ’tis true, but he has turned out very wild. And the idea of Mr Darcy losing his temper, even touching the old lady in anger! Balderdash!”

“You are sensible, of course,” I replied, seeing that I had correctly interpreted the reception of yesterday’s events. “Mrs de Bourgh has allowed grief to consume her mind.”

“A terrible truth,” she nodded. “Of course, everyone knows Mr Wickham is not welcome here. Mr Darcy made it very clear after his treatment of poor Sally—a housemaid, you understand—that he was not to return.” She furrowed her brows. “It was one of the few times the master and mistress openly disagreed. Mrs Darcy did not believe Wickham had done, er, what he was accused of, but of course, he was her cousin. We none of us like to believe the worst about our relations. Still, Sally told me and she was no liar, and I told the master, and he stood for her. Had Wickham run out of Hopewell, he did, or at least away from the few who still received him. Helped Sally resettle elsewhere, as well. Gave her a new start.”

To my relief, it was evident that Mrs Reynolds would never believe anything Wickham said, and I blessed poor Sally for naming her despoiler. If the village was of a like mind, his assertion of ‘numerous friends’ and threats of ominously influencing public opinion were empty ones. “Mr Wickham claimed that the first Mrs Darcy hinted to others that she was mistreated by Mr Darcy, and that is why talk of his culpability in her death will not fade. I hope you will do your part to dispel any such malicious gossip. Mr Darcy is the very best of men, as I am sure you would agree.”

“I certainly never heard the mistress speak of Mr Darcy with anything except respect.” She hesitated. “Perhaps they had their troubles. Many marriages do. You may believe that I will not tolerate any scandalmongers in this house.”

“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. And, perhaps grief has disordered Mr Wickham’s mind as well, that he would say such things. Mrs de Bourgh threw herself against the windows right before our eyes. There was not a thing either of us could have done to stop her, we were so shocked. Mr Darcy and I believe that living here, where she and her daughter were so happy together, is increasing her grief rather than diminishing it. We hope a drastic change of scenery will help her recover more completely. Mr Darcy will remove her to her old home in Ramsgate as soon as she is well enough to travel.”

I did not mistake the look of relief upon the housekeeper’s face. “Very good ma’am,” she said.

“Feel free to repeat this information to the household, in order to quell speculation. I was alarmed by Nancy’s fear of Mr Darcy yesterday, and remain appalled by the treatment I received by certain tradesmen in Hopewell. It is all ridiculous. I have known Mr Darcy for many years. My sister is married to the vicar who holds the living at Matlock Court; my husband is well respected by all, from the Earl of Matlock and his countess to the lowliest servant. The very idea of fearing him is preposterous.”

It was, perhaps, a bit of hyperbole; Jane had never mentioned Mr Darcy at Matlock Court. I had, personally, spoken to the earl perhaps four times in my life, and I believe our conversations had more to do with the weather than his relations. But one could assume.

“Of course, Mrs Darcy. Pemberley is loyal to Mr Darcy, and always will be. I have spoken to young Nancy. It will not happen again.”

“I do not wish her to be disciplined. I only say this because I cannot abide the idea of anyone here living in fear,” I said, nodding. “There is no reason for it.”

After leaving the housekeeper, I took my letter case to the green parlour; it was another of my favourite rooms, for it looked out onto Pemberley Woods. It took me some time to compose myself enough to begin writing. I wondered whether I ought to offer to bring Mary to Pemberley—an unappealing thought—and what Kitty, never an admirer of Mr Darcy, would have to say about my marriage to him. Most of all, I wondered why Mr Darcy sought me out at Rosings after all these years, how he could possibly have remembered me, despite his claim of a long-ago attraction. Had it to do with his rescue of Lydia? It seemed more likely. Since he took responsibility for Wickham’s seduction and her subsequent difficulties, he might also assume obligation for other consequences of it, such as my parents’ deaths, perhaps even my lack of marriage prospects, though sacrificing himself on that altar was quite a stretch. He had indicated that if I was at all the same person he had known eight years previous, he was determined to propose marriage. But what had he really known of me then? That he liked my hair?

I had not even liked him in those days; I had thought him arrogant and unkind. I had believed every disparaging word Lieutenant Wickham uttered. Later, when Wickham’s many unpaid debts to my neighbours became well known, I entertained doubts that the story of his lost inheritance was truthful. And then, when the true extent of Wickham’s depravity was revealed, I even hoped the unlikely story was true, and that someone—even the callous and arrogant Mr Darcy—had gotten the better of the cur.

But mostly, I had forgotten him. It seemed wrong, somehow, now that I loved him so.

* * *

February 1, 1820

My dearest Jane,

I hope this letter finds you in the best of health, and that you are devoting several hours each day to rest and ease. But I know you will not, and I shall be required to write to Mr Tilney to ensure you are taking good care. I received your letter requesting reassurances that all is well at Pemberley. If I have failed to convey this in previous letters, please understand from this one: I am happy, very happy, to be married to Mr Darcy. I know we did not like him, so very long ago. We were young, and we did not realise his character was of the finest. He has shared some private reminiscences that explain why his temper was not perfectly calm during the months he was in Meryton—but truly, I misjudged him.

I have realised that you must have encountered him over the years at Matlock, though you have never mentioned it—perhaps not wishing to recall to my mind any past unpleasantness. My husband is never comfortable with people who are less known to him, but I hope you have seen his essential good nature, regardless. I feel confident that you, with your kind heart, have long ago forgiven him for any misunderstandings.

And now I must share something that, however difficult the memories, is sure to reveal to you his goodness.

Prepare yourself for something very wonderful: our sister Lydia lives! Yes, it is true. You know, of course, that we were sadly deceived in the character of Lieutenant Wickham. It seems that Mr Darcy has had dealings with that scoundrel going back many years. (You are not to believe the stories W. shared with us regarding him and his inheritance, which are all lies—if you ever did believe them. As I recall, you were the only one who gave leave to doubt from the beginning.) Mr Darcy discovered what had happened to poor Lydia through his aunt’s connexion to Mr Collins. Oh, Jane, he sought her out! I quail to think of the indignities he must have borne in order to discover her. She was in the most vile and desperate of situations, but he arranged her passage to America, where she very much desired to go. He did not admit this, but I believe he must have given her something to live upon once she arrived, because she seems to have prospered most ideally. She is married to a successful man named Brackett and they have two children. We may write to her through a business associate of Mr Darcy’s, although she may not acknowledge us, considering Mr Collins’s edicts and the deleterious effect they had upon her. Nevertheless, if you wish to enclose a letter to her in your next missive to me, Mr Darcy has promised to ensure she will, eventually, receive our correspondence.

I finished with assurances of our coming visit in the summer, and said nothing of Bingley, of course. She must already know—must have discovered through her connexions to the earl—of his marriage to Georgiana. How very like Jane, that she had never mentioned a word of it to me. Had I heard of it in 1817, in my ignorance, I might have been bitter indeed. No, she had kept it all to herself. How astonished she must have been when she received word of my hasty engagement to Mr Darcy, with what she knew of my long ago and too-oft expressed opinions of him! No wonder she had required Mr Tilney to do his best to delay our wedding!

I wrote a similar letter explaining Lydia’s circumstances to my aunt, which I knew would be most heartening to her. To Kitty, I wrote a rather longer missive, announcing my marriage to Mr Darcy and giving the details of Lydia’s life. Kitty had suffered Lydia’s loss most deeply, and, I think, felt somewhat responsible. Although she had not known the extent of Lydia’s plans, I knew she felt a good deal of guilt and sorrow over the affair. She had married the first young man to ask her, a nephew of my Uncle Philips acting as his clerk, and while it was not an auspicious connexion—my father would never have approved it—I believed she was happy. As the Philipses had never had any progeny, and as my Uncle Philips is prosperous enough, and intends to provide for his clerk and eventually turn over his practise to him, her prospects are good. Her guilt, I felt, had kept us from having a closer connexion. She has something of my father’s intelligence, and a surprisingly sly wit—my Aunt Philips often bearing the brunt of it, all unknowing. Still, in the last few years, her letters had been…softer, full of news of her son and the daily doings of Meryton, which I had found comforting. I believed this letter would bring her a good deal of comfort in return, as well as astonishment.

I struggled with what to say to Mary—and hence, to Charlotte. In the end, I simply announced my marriage and my new direction, with no explanations whatsoever. If Kitty wished to reveal Lydia’s fate, she was free to do so; I, however, would not invite any of her opinions, conjecture, or judgments—or, worse still, Mr Collins’s, expressed through her letters. Mary would always be…Mary. She would likely be happiest living out her days at Longbourn, which she loves.

Mrs de Bourgh’s fever continued to rage. I would never be the sort of person who would hope for another’s death, but I did not precisely miss her and her criticism and hatefulness. I still longed for the day when she was healed and on her way to Ramsgate.

I went into the village again and again; my husband insisted upon accompanying me. I was not sure his attendance did any good, for he mostly glowered like a very large, grouchy bear, ready to growl at anyone who might dare disrespect me. No one did, of course, while in his presence. I did my best to demonstrate such warmth and affection as I felt appropriate in public, counting it a victory when I managed to get a smile from him.

Georgiana and her husband arrived for another visit. I was very glad to see her, for Mr Darcy was preoccupied with a great deal of estate business and I was hardly overwhelmed by visitors or invitations. At least Miss Bickford had now managed the awful drive up and down the mountain three different times, and my wardrobe was nearly sufficient for Mrs Darcy.

“I am so glad you are here,” I greeted Georgiana with real pleasure.

“Oh, I had to come as soon as I received your letter,” she replied. Within a few moments, as we were walking alone together, she asked, “How is Mrs de Bourgh?”

“Not yet recovered,” I replied. “She lost the sight in one eye and is in a great deal of pain. The fevers come and go. The doctor says she must not yet travel.”

Georgiana nodded soberly. “How horrible a thing to witness! I cannot imagine her behaving in such a manner. She has always been so dignified.”

We had been walking towards my favourite parlour, but on impulse I said, “Oh, come with me.” She followed me, incurious but willing, as we went to my sitting room—but we did not stop there. I went directly through my rooms and into my husband’s bedchamber.

“I saw keys here once,” I explained as I opened the drawer of the bed-chest, “and I wonder whether any of them fit the doors leading into the upper floor of the cliffside wing.”

I looked at her as I said this to see her reaction. Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear…Fitzwilliam would not like that. He wants no one up there.”

“I know. But I wish to show you something.”

She said nothing further, and I grabbed the ring of keys. I wondered whether she would even follow me, but she did, keeping up as I strode purposefully to the nearest stair, our half-boots echoing loudly upon the steps leading upwards.

The door, as expected, was locked. The second key I tried, however, opened it, and we quickly found ourselves in the corridor nearest the mistress’s chambers.

“It feels strange to be in here again,” Georgiana said, almost whispering. “It all seems so…lifeless now.”

She was correct. While it did not smell especially musty, one could tell that this floor no longer gleamed with precision spotlessness. The niches no longer contained empty vases and dust had collected in some of them; the rugs had vanished and the floors no longer shone.

“The last time I was here, it was pristine,” I replied. “But Mrs Reynolds has since made it clear that none of the servants will be directed up here by other than herself or me. Let us see whether there are any other changes.”

“You were up here before?”

“Oh, yes. It was…disturbing. I am almost happy to see it growing dusty with disuse,” I said absently, counting doors. I did not enter my husband’s former rooms, instead going directly to Anne’s bedchamber.

This time when I entered, I was more prepared for the sight, but the changes were eerie ones.

“Oh my,” Georgiana said.

Vases of flowers were still in place, but they were all dead and drooping. The rose petals scattered over the bed were blackened. A négligée was still draped across the foot of the bed, a different one this time, black, instead of pink, and matching the dead flowers. A silver brush set lay on the dressing table, as before, but the various cosmetics had all been tidied, their lids closed. The brush contained several golden hairs, as if its owner had just laid it down. I shuddered. I was certain that brush had been clean the last time I’d seen it.

“I wanted to show you this,” I said soberly. “Mrs de Bourgh kept it all as it was when Anne was alive. She replaced the flowers daily, but of course, she has been ill so they have since died. I know Mr Darcy took her key from her, but plainly she had another. She is unhealthily obsessed.” I gestured to the dressing table, telling Georgiana how it had appeared the last time I was here with its open cosmetic pots. I told her about breaking the figurine, and how Mrs de Bourgh had tried to embarrass me with its absence. And lastly, I told her about the unhappy surprise of George Wickham’s appearance in the parlour to taunt me, though mentioning nothing of his affair with her brother’s wife.

She turned white, and I thought she might swoon.

I shepherded her out of doors onto the terrace. Once again, the view struck me, and with it came the feeling, almost, of flying into the vast sky. There was no furniture out here, but I wished there had been a bench to sit upon and absorb the sight. On the other hand, it was chilly, and my companion looked quite pale.

“I am sorry to have mentioned him,” I continued. “Your brother told me how he took advantage of you.”

She appeared shocked, and then hurt at this betrayal of her secret. I placed my hand upon her shoulder. “I only wanted you to know that I understand, and why he shared with me your distressing experience.” Then I told her of Lydia, and what her association with Wickham, ultimately, had cost her. And me.

“I am so very sorry, my sister,” she said, immediately casting aside her own embarrassment. “Do you believe Mrs de Bourgh knows everything? But of course, she must, or else she would not have known to bring you to him. I wonder how she knows him?”

I admit to having been surprised by this question, although I should not have been. Possibly because of the way Wickham had spoken so boldly of his affair with Anne, and how plainly my husband had admitted their longstanding history, I had somewhat blithely assumed that Georgiana had at least suspected Wickham’s involvement.

“They are distant cousins,” I explained. “Wickham stayed with them in Ramsgate when he was, er, courting you. Mrs Younge is another cousin, and they set her up to deceive you and Mr Darcy.”

Georgiana shivered, and I did not think it was entirely due to the cold. “But he had rooms in Ramsgate,” she said in weak protest. “My brother wrote to him there.”

“As I understand it, they disguised the connexion until much later. Your brother did not know until after the wedding.”

Georgiana stepped slightly closer to the low wall, looking out over the valley floor, and I moved beside her. “All that time. This explains many things,” she murmured. She glanced over at me, then back out at the peaks. There followed a long silence, broken only by a hawk’s echoing cry.

When she spoke again, there was a definite bitterness to her tone. “Did Fitzwilliam also tell you that my husband is—was—in love with his wife?”