Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Nineteen

Derbyshire weather began growing warmer within a day of the windstorm, promising a temperate and early spring. Mr Williams helped me assemble a list of tenants who might be agreeable to a call, and Georgiana agreed to go along and make introductions—although once she’d looked over the names, she protested that some she knew best were gone. “I thought the Martins would live here forever,” she said sadly.

“His wife died, and he couldn’t stand the place without her,” Mr Williams replied. “His son took a position as steward for one of Matlock’s properties. Darcy has rented the home farm to Martin’s nephew for now, but I know he worries. Too many sons are leaving.”

It was a problem Mr Darcy and I had discussed before—how to retain more of the younger generation, who were beginning to find more prosperity labouring in the northern mills than they could in farming for their parents. The issues were complex, but I liked how he included me in his conversations about them. We were beginning to understand and rely upon each other, I thought, building a marriage and…a love I had once believed impossible. Though he never said the words, it was in his actions, his attention, his concern for my welfare, and his respect for my ideas.

Georgiana and I began visiting tenants, bringing baskets while she helped acquaint me with the wives and daughters. She was shy; this duty was manifestly not her favourite, and the tenants seemed a bit standoffish in return.

However, I had always enjoyed excellent relations with the tenants of Longbourn—not that Longbourn had nearly so many—and had grown up knowing well those upon whose labour we depended, understanding their families and needs and joys and sorrows. It was a connexion unlike any other. My father had been criticised for his liberality—often by my mother—but I shall never forget his opinions on the subject.

“We pretend to be masters of this place, Daughter,” he would say while taking me along to visit the farms, bringing baskets of bounty from Mama’s splendid kitchen. “But without men and their families to work the lands, tend the herds, and bring in the crops, Longbourn dies. Longbourn is the mother, and they are her children. What mother would allow her children to starve while she feasts? And if she does, why, soon she is a mother no more.”

When he died, to a man, they came to me expressing a grief to nearly match my own.

I was determined to know these people of Pemberley and that they should know me—and, perhaps, to continue the legacy of care my father had demonstrated. Happily, by the end of each visit, I felt the goodness of new beginnings and new interests amongst our people, and their interest in me. Mr Darcy was a good master, it was plain—I saw no hunger or serious need. However, they seemed to hold him in some reverence. I was happy for respect, but found awe completely unnecessary. I thought it well that, through me, he should become more approachable to them.

Within two weeks of the fire, the site of Thorncroft was barren of any sign of the wreckage of the former cottage. Mr Williams seemed cheerful, even, as he supervised the work on the day that Georgiana and I walked up to view the progress. It had been decided that the soil was warm enough and the site protected enough to begin the plantings of saplings, along with several more mature trees that were to be replanted there as well.

Somewhat to my disappointment, Mr Darcy was nowhere about—I was wearing a pretty new dress, and was vain enough to look forward to his customary expressions of appropriate admiration. But one of the elderly gardeners, encircled by dozens of pots of delicate young trees, showed us which saplings were going where, fussing and clucking like a mother hen with her chicks. Amused, we listened to his botany lecture while crews of men—some moving pots, some digging holes in preparation for the replants—followed his commands.

Suddenly, one of the men cursed loudly. My head swivelled towards the sound, and the gardener, tutting disapprovingly, apologised and ambled over to where others were beginning to congregate beside the agitated man.

“I wonder what they have found?” I questioned idly.

Georgiana twirled the new parasol she had purchased at our last foray into Hopewell, bored. “Probably some Roman artifact. Every now and again, someone will find something ancient and unrecognisable and everyone makes a fuss. Shall we walk back down?”

Her supposition seemed unlikely to me, because our diggers today did not seem of the sort who would recognise unrecognisable artifacts, of any era. I watched Mr Williams stride over, looking impatient, the men making way for him as he crouched over something. And then he stood, speaking a few words to the men surrounding the site, one of whom immediately took off running. All work ceased. Men were milling about, talking amongst each other, but quietly, soberly.

I watched for several minutes, but work did not resume. “Something is the matter,” I said at last, starting for Mr Williams. Georgiana followed me with some reluctance, which I could understand. The steward’s expression was grim.

“What is happening?” I asked him.

If ever a man was the picture of reluctance, it was Mr Williams at my approach. His eyes darted from side to side, as if searching for any avenue of escape.

“There has been an, er, unusual discovery. I would, um, prefer for Mr Darcy to reveal any particulars at his discretion.”

“Every single person here, with the exception of myself and Mrs Bingley, already possesses some knowledge of the matter,” I retorted. “It is far too late for discretion.”

At that moment, the sound of approaching horses caught our attention. Mr Williams appeared relieved as my husband and Mr Bingley dismounted. Tossing their reins to a man waiting to receive them, they strode towards us; Mr Darcy was hatless, which was unusual indeed. I wondered if he’d ridden here so quickly, it had blown off. I was to be disappointed in my quest for information, however. He nodded his head at me in an abbreviated gesture of acknowledgement and said but one word, addressed to Williams:

“Where?”

Mr Williams paced towards the spot where the men had been digging, Mr Darcy directly behind him. Georgiana had waylaid Mr Bingley, but he only shook his head, unwilling or unable to add anything more useful, and they trailed behind me as I followed him to the excavations.

I came up beside Mr Darcy, observing the ground before us. At first, I could only see what appeared to be scraps of rotting fabric. And then I noticed it.

Georgiana, peering over my shoulder, gasped. Mr Bingley, taller than both of us, cried, “Great gads!”

There amongst the mounds of dirt, protruding from the fabric’s mouldering folds, were the skeletal remains of a human hand, golden rings resting upon the bones.

Before I could say a word of either wonder or horror, Mr Bingley fell to his knees. “No, no,” he cried. “It cannot be. Darcy, why does it wear Caroline’s rings? What can it mean? No! It must not be!”

And then, he retched upon the ground and began to cry.

* * *

Surprisingly, it was Georgiana who moved first. Her face had gone utterly pale and she looked nearly as green as Mr Bingley, but she went to her husband immediately, gently rubbing his back until he could stand again. Mr Darcy handed him his handkerchief, with which he wiped his sweating face; then did not seem to know what to do with it.

“Come, Mr Bingley. Let us return to the house,” his wife said gently, and her words seemed to recall him to the present.

“I shall take you to my study,” Mr Darcy said, but Georgiana objected.

“No. We shall retire to our rooms,” she insisted.

“I will have the carriage brought up,” I offered, but she shook her head.

“No. The walk back to the house will do us both good,” she replied determinedly, taking his arm. “Brother, I am certain Mr Bingley will wish to speak with you…later. Preferably not until tomorrow.”

Even amidst my dismay over the afternoon’s discoveries, I recognised the new protectiveness in Georgiana for her husband. Evidently, she had indeed made great strides in overcoming the bitterness she had carried towards him for so long. He clung to her arm as if it were a lifeline as they made their slow way back to Pemberley.

Mr Williams cleared his throat. “Sir?” he addressed my husband, who stood frozen, his expression implacable. “Shall we…” he gestured towards the grisly remains.

Mr Darcy ignored him. “I will escort you back to the house,” he said to me.

“It is not necessary,” I said firmly. “I will speak to you later.” Without waiting on his reply, I marched down the hillside after the Bingleys, not wanting him to see my trembling, or them to notice me.

I did not—or rather, had not liked Caroline Bingley. When I had known her, I believed her self-absorbed, petty, and unkind. But she was—had been—a human being, who loved her sister, pretty clothing, and dancing the cotillion. Had she been granted a longer life, who was to say that she would have remained small-minded and critical? Her opportunities for growth and self-improvement had been cut drastically short.

I remembered what Mr Darcy had said about her when I had asked him about the Bingleys, in Rosings’s garden. Eloped, he had claimed. I had thought it extremely uncharacteristic at the time, but had not questioned it. I simply had not cared, then, if she had fallen off the face of the earth. She had wished for me to disappear, and her wish had come true. Rather than dwell upon ‘if onlys’, I had shoved everyone from that old life out of my mind.

Poor, poor Miss Bingley.

Before I rounded the bend that would take me out of sight, I glanced back over my shoulder. My husband still stood in the same place, watching me go. His expression was as forbidding as I had ever seen it.

* * *

Mr Darcy did not follow me any time soon, and I suffered one of the longest afternoons of my life awaiting news. When Mrs Reynolds entered the gold parlour to inform me of a visitor, I was relieved to have some distraction. I ought to have known it would not be a pleasant one.

I well understood the neighbourhood’s reluctance to welcome me into its bosom. The former Mrs Darcy had been a sought-after addition to their numbers, and her Pemberley entertainments were legendary, even in London. She had been popular, pretty, and added richly to the consequence of their little country society—whilst managing, through ill-natured gossip, to cast aspersions upon the husband to whom she pretended devotion. His lack of sociability made him an easy target for her machinations, but at least he held both wealth and power and thus, acceptance.

By contrast, I was a nobody from nowhere. According to widespread rumour, helpfully conveyed to me by Mrs de Bourgh—probably by way of the gossiping Mr Donavan and his nurse—I was regarded as either a scavenger who had taken advantage of the vulnerable, grieving Mr Darcy (and, it was to be presumed, unfairly snapping him up before their own daughters had even had an opportunity to try) or a weak-willed fool, stupid enough to marry an abusive husband.

Of course, it did not help that Mr Darcy had little interest in mending fences. I understood that he had been the subject of merciless gossip, and could not care for most of their opinions. I wished, however, that he could care more for mine. I wanted to make my own place in this community, judge for myself who should be my friends, and try to earn respect, however slow the progress.

Thus far, I had managed to become acquainted with only two women. Lady Harrington, a very elderly dowager, quite deaf, enjoyed my company greatly, though the visits were rather painful as I had to shout to be understood. The other was, of course, Mrs Longthorpe, though it was evident that she neither respected nor liked me. An inherent gossip, she pretended an attachment only because she could not resist imparting everything she had ever heard, clearly in the hopes that I would, in turn, spill something worth repeating. Still, I did not discourage the acquaintance. Instead, I used it, learning what was said and by whom.

Unsurprisingly, Mrs Longthorpe had immediately heard the terrible story of the recovered remains, and though I tried to subdue her wildest conjecture, she was impervious to my efforts.

“I was well acquainted with Miss Bingley, you know,” she said, pretending shock and grief, even putting a handkerchief up to the corner of her eye to dab at an imaginary tear.

“We do not yet know the identity of the unfortunate person found on our property,” I said quellingly, though, judging from Mr Bingley’s reactions, the assumption would be easily proven.

“You would not have known,” she replied, with false sympathy, “how very close we were. Of course, she was devoted to Mr Darcy. Very devoted, indeed.” The rings on her fat fingers glittered as she spoke. “She often complained of Mrs Darcy’s failures to be a proper wife to him. We tried, all of us, to help her realise just who was improper to whom. She would not listen. And now, it appears, she paid for her inattention with her life.”

A wave of sorrow struck me. Caroline Bingley, whom I had once despised, had probably been the only person on earth who cared enough for—and who paid enough attention to—Mr Darcy to truly realise the sad state of his marriage. Unfortunately, she had addressed her criticisms to the wrong audience, all of whom were devoted to Anne de Bourgh.

“We have no idea how the unfortunate person discovered met his or her end. We shall leave it to Lord Cavendish and whomever else he cares to involve.”

She smiled, all pretend apologies. “Of course, my dear, of course. I hear an express has been sent to him in London, although I wonder whether he will make haste to return. He has always shown such a prejudice in Mr Darcy’s favour. It must be so unpleasant for you, being at the centre of such scandal. I find myself perplexed as to what my role ought to be. As your sole friend, I feel an obligation to inform you what is being said. But would you rather I did not? I would not hurt your feelings for worlds.”

What a despicable woman! If I agreed, she had carte blanche to abuse me. If I did not, however, I would not learn what I wished to know. But it was hardly likely that Lady Harrington would be a ready source of information, was it?

“My feelings are not so delicate. If it is Miss Bingley, and I do not say it could be, my husband will do everything in his power to discover the villain.”

She sighed, as if I were incredibly naïve. “Now, now, we are both women of the world, are we not? Some men, as I am sure you realise, Mrs Darcy, are not satisfied with what is easily available at home. A wife becomes less interesting. They require variety. Some women are weak, allowing a man to do as he will. It is an old story, if a sad one. I cannot imagine why anyone who had the first Mrs Darcy in his bed would look elsewhere, but of course, she never blamed him for it, did she?”

I had expected inferences, but not outright accusation. “I disagree wholeheartedly with your supposition,” I said, forcing an evenness to my tone I did not feel. “My husband takes his wedding vows very seriously. He is a gentleman, and he keeps his promises. By all accounts, Miss Bingley was interested in another man entirely.” After all, it was said she had eloped, and the family had believed it. There was another character in this tragedy, whether Mrs Longthorpe wished to mention him or not.

She waved this away, jewels glistening. “I do not judge. If Mrs Darcy did not care, why should I? Why, even, should he? But Miss Bingley was too demanding. It could not end well.”

“What demands?” I asked sharply, the bile of her implications rising in my throat. “And to whom?”

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “For a divorce, if you can believe it,” she nearly whispered, her eyes gleaming like her rings. “She told me herself that she expected him to apply to Parliament for one. She hinted that she could say much more, and would, when the time was right.”

I rolled my eyes and let her see my disbelief. “No one in their right mind would expect Mr Darcy to obtain a divorce, even if he set up tents for his mistresses on the front lawns. This is all nonsense, as you must have known then and should know now.”

I could see I had made my point, for doubt showed in her expression. “Well, nooo,” she drawled. “But she hinted at the most lurid of accusations. I am certain she embarrassed him deeply.”

“And thus he killed her? Is this, then, your argument? Why should he subject his life, his reputation, and even the honour you suggest he defends, to such infamy? You contradict yourself madam. Either he cares so much for honour that he loses it entirely, or he had none in the first place. If the latter, why bother about the foolish imaginings of a foolish woman, who damaged only her own reputation with her foolish complaints? If we are making wild accusations without any evidence, we ought to at least include the other man whose interest she attracted.”

“The German? But why should he do Miss Bingley any harm?”

Had Miss Bingley’s lover been a foreigner, then? Of course, it mattered little now, and my frustration with Mrs Longthorpe’s ridiculous assumptions mounted. “Exactly! Why should anyone? You have provided no sound reasoning to either accuse or suspect any person of a crime.”

“Mr Darcy’s reputation—” she began, but I interrupted.

“Has always been of the finest. Ask his servants. Ask his tenants. Ask his wife. He has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; pray, do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms. You must search elsewhere for your villain.”

She stood, insulted, and for no good reason I could see. “He is a proud, unpleasant sort of man, but I can see you are resolved on defending him. I fear, my dear, you are in the greatest danger in your marriage. I can only hope you will escape the discredit and misery—or worse—as I predict.”

Turning on her heel, she flounced from the room. I sighed, rubbing at my temples, feeling the beginnings of a megrim.

Mr Darcy entered at that moment through the opposite door from the one Mrs Longthorpe exited. His face…oh, his face! It was frozen in an expression I hated. It was plain he had overheard every stupid, contemptible accusation.

“I am sending you to Darcy House in London,” he said coldly. “I will send an express to Mrs Harris. She will have everything ready for your arrival. There will be no discussion. I will allow no further insult to either of us. Please ask Clara to pack your things. You will leave first thing in the morning.” And, just like Mrs Longthorpe before him, he marched from the room without taking his leave of me.

I sighed again. It only wanted this.