Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Twenty

Iwas angry at Mr Darcy, to be sure. My feelings were hurt at his abrupt dismissal of me, at his willingness, so easily, to send me away, as if I were some servant who displeased him. The worst part was his judgment of my fortitude, my ability to withstand the scandalmongering of a few—or even of many! Had he so ill an opinion of my character?

It had been an uphill struggle from the very start. Every time there were difficulties, he withdrew into himself, a stone-walled shell constructed over the course of his life with another woman. In some ways, she held him captive still, which was what I found most painful and least acceptable. I reminded myself of what I owed him—and patience was the least of it—as I attempted to compose a note to him while imagining his every rebuttal to my every argument. In the end, I only requested I be taken to my aunt’s home in Lambton, rather than be banished to London. Three hours’ distance was better than three days.

And then I sent another note with Clara, asking Georgiana whether she could spare a few moments to speak with me.

Georgiana came to my rooms at once in response; I was gratified to see that, though still pale, she appeared composed.

“How does Mr Bingley fare?” I asked, after we had exchanged a quick embrace.

“He is sleeping at the moment,” she sighed, taking the seat across from mine.

“It must have been a dreadful shock. But surely, there is room for doubt as to her…identity?”

“Not really,” she said sadly. “We both recognised its—her—jewellery. I feel so guilty.”

I raised my brows, and she gave me a wan smile before continuing. “I assure you, I was as shocked as he was to realise Caroline is dead. I truly believed—we both believed—she had eloped.”

“Mr Darcy told me she had. I found it very surprising, and very out of character.”

She sighed again. “She was in love with my brother, did you know that?”

I grimaced. “I suspected it when I knew her all those years ago. He did not seem to encourage her, however. Surely, after he married…”

“Anne used to laugh about it, even needle her a very little bit,” she continued slowly, as though she were seeing it in her mind’s eye. “Although I could hardly blame her, when Caroline was so obvious! Such sheep’s eyes as she made, and always agreeing with every word he said, even the ridiculous ones.” She clapped a hand over her mouth—she was completely unused to teasing her brother—but I waved this off and smiled.

“Indeed. I once heard her wax eloquent upon his method of mending pens.”

She returned my smile, though sadly. “Yes, that sounds very like her. She had offers, of course she did. But they were not the ones she wanted.”

Ah, yes. She had aimed very high, indeed.

I stopped my train of thought immediately. If she had aimed too high, I had not aimed at all, expecting true love to swirl into my life like showers of dandelion clocks. When I knew her, we were both only twenty, and full of unrealistic views—of ourselves most of all.

“Surely, though, she gave up her infatuation? When it was hopeless?”

“I thought so. Eventually, she seemed to adjust, and even, finally, sought Anne’s friendship, much to our relief. In the summer of 1818, Anne held a big house party, inviting Henry Krofford, along with his sister, Maria. They were the Austrian relations of a good family from Norfolk, a very sought-after pair during the season. And of course, she invited all of us. Both of Bingley’s sisters loved Anne’s house parties.”

Henry Krofford, then, must be ‘the German’ referred to by Mrs Longthorpe.

“And Miss Bingley and Krofford…hit it off?”

“Yes! We were all so surprised, but then, he was handsome and articulate. She was much livelier in his company, and seemingly welcomed his attentions. Mrs Hurst was displeased, of course, but only because his estate was not in England. Bingley and I were both very encouraging. She was not always the easiest person with whom to share a home, you see.”

I could easily see that.

“But why did everyone believe she eloped?”

“Because she left a letter saying she would, and she and Mr Krofford—with his sister—disappeared at the same time. I have never been very certain of her reasons, but Bingley knew more than I. Something happened, something concerning my brother. Bingley said only that she and my brother had a falling out of immense proportions, and it had driven her to desperation. Bingley followed, of course, but never could catch them.”

“Surely the Norfolk relations could help?”

“It turned out they were estranged, and not having participated in the Season that year, and having little to do with London life in general, simply did not know their relations had made so free with their consequence.”

“Did you see the letter? From Miss Bingley, stating her intentions?”

“Oh, yes. It was most definitely her writing. There was not much to it, just that she was going away with Mr Krofford.”

“Mr Bingley must have written—surely, the Kroffords’ estate was not a fabrication?”

She appeared very troubled. “Yes, his Austrian estate is very real—and was much in need of Caroline’s fortune, by all reports. But Krofford denied having eloped with my sister. Or anyone else.”

“Why did he leave then? And where did you think Miss Bingley went?”

“There appeared evidence enough that she left with Mr Krofford. Just none that they married, afterward.”

There was a silence as I digested this. It all seemed very unlike Miss Bingley. But then, she had never eloped at all, had she? There was something quite peculiar about the whole story, and that something had to do with my husband.

“Other than family, did anyone else know of the…alleged elopement?” After all, Mrs Longthorpe had understood who I was speaking of, when I mentioned another man.

“There were whispers, but Anne did everything she could to distract her guests and…” she paused, and then continued in a low voice, “When Bingley left on his search for her, he put it about that he was taking her home to our estate for reasons of illness. The absence of the Kroffords was noted, of course, but Anne gave some excuse, and…well…that is…Caroline was not very interesting, to most people.”

And there it was. No one had much cared what happened to her, beyond her immediate family—all of whom had the greatest interest in keeping her whereabouts quiet. Poor, poor Miss Bingley.

“I know that Bingley never stopped trying to make contact,” Georgiana continued. “He wrote to Krofford several times, and each effort was upsetting to him. But he truly believed her away, living some kind of life in Austria. He is heartsick, now. I will take him home, where he can mourn her, and arrange for her burial.”

In her immediate concern over her husband, Georgiana had as yet given little thought to other consequences of finding the body.

“Mr Darcy is sending me away,” I said. “He wishes me to go to London.”

She looked up sharply. “What? But why?”

It was my turn to sigh. “My dear, someone is responsible for Miss Bingley’s untimely demise. The great opinion of the neighbourhood is that this person is my husband. He apparently finds me incapable of living amongst such conjecture.”

I thought she would swoon, she turned so white with shock. “Oh,” she choked. “This is so wrong! It is impossible! Will you go?”

“He has hardly given me a choice. However, I shall not go all the way to London. I shall visit my aunt Gardiner, who lives but twenty miles away in Lambton.”

“But why would he want you to leave? It makes no sense! I will speak to him.”

But I held up my hand. “Please, do not. If he does not want me here, I hardly wish to force myself upon him. Still, you must tell me—do you think Mr Bingley will stand by him? Will he believe the gossip?”

I expected—and indeed, hoped—she would immediately sputter in indignation at the very idea. Yet, her subsequent thoughtfulness was a more realistic response. I understood then, that she was deciding whether she would believe the gossip, as well as Mr Bingley’s reaction. I knew she would defend Mr Darcy publicly; she loved him dearly, and her own reputation had a stake in the scandal as well. But she had questions with no answers—or answers only he could give—and a husband with whom she had only recently reconciled.

“Bingley will stand by him,” she pronounced at last, and I breathed more easily. Georgiana, at least, thought Mr Darcy had nothing to do with the death of Miss Bingley, and she believed her husband would be loyal. That was something, anyway.

After she departed, I called Clara to pack my things, my mind racing with urgent arguments protesting my eviction. Every part of my soul opposed the abandonment, for it felt like nothing less. I did have motive for acquiescing, however: a deep desire to seek advice and even solace from my aunt. I was in love with my husband, but—although I was certain he felt affection, at least at times—he, clearly, did not share the intensity of my own feelings.

It seemed to me that—after suddenly finding himself released from seven years of a miserable marriage—he had reflected upon the course of his life, remembered a girl he had once liked who was of good character, an orphan of small fortune, possessed of undistinguished family (or, in other words, the exact opposite of his first wife), and set out to marry me. Turning back time, so to speak, as a means of blotting out his past and the lost years. Living his life over again, our marriage nothing to do with the woman I am but rather who I am not. I shrank from these notions—there had been that kiss, after all, that first, perfect kiss, and all the ones thereafter. But kisses were not enough to build a life upon, as too many women learned to their regret.

As he was not well-respected by some of the neighbourhood, and since his first wife was both keenly social and traitorously immoral, he would not have wanted too young a wife—one who depended upon a vigorous society for her friendships and entertainment. He would want a quieter person, more bookish—the type who might love Pemberley as much for its trees as its place in the community. And of course, I had no parent to pester and vex him. He’d had more than enough of difficult family relations.

I hoped it was not so, and yet, if not…well, his reasons for marrying me remained as mysterious as those for his marriage to Anne de Bourgh.

I did not regret loving him. But I thought we had at least established a friendship, a mutual passion, a life’s partnership. His habits of secrecy and retreat, however, were ingrained. Just as he had disappeared to London rather than speak to me about Hopewell’s poor opinion of him, he was thrusting me from his sight rather than deliver any explanations regarding Caroline Bingley.

Well. He would not be able to forever retreat from those questions; the magistrate, Lord Cavendish, would, undoubtedly, demand answers. There would likely be an inquest, and my heart hurt at the thought of him facing it by himself.

But that was how he preferred to manage his troubles. Alone.

* * *

I wondered, the next morning, whether he would refuse to see me off. He had not come to me the night before, nor even sent a note responding to mine. I had been tempted to go to him, again and again, but was fairly certain I would cry, possibly followed by undignified begging, and I was determined to subject him to neither. The inequality in our feelings was not his fault, and yet I knew it would pain him if he knew how deeply I was hurt. I took a tray in my room rather than have to wonder whether he would join me for breakfast, barely managing to choke down tea.

But, ever the gentleman, he was waiting when I emerged from my rooms in my warmest carriage dress—for it looked like rain, yesterday’s sunshine replaced by heavy clouds and a chill wind. Without a word or a touch, he walked beside me as we took the stairs, step by echoing step. He was the first to speak.

“I have instructed Mr Frost to take you to Lambton, as you wished.”

I could only nod, my throat tight.

“I suspect that, had I refused, you would simply abandon him at the first posting inn of any size, and find your own conveyance to your preferred destination,” he added.

I glanced at him, but there was no sign of humour—no sign of any emotion, really. Just a dry statement of his belief in my wilfulness, I supposed.

“I did not consider that you might refuse so reasonable a request, and thus made no plan for escape or otherwise,” I said, my voice surprisingly strong considering my inner turmoil.

When we were nearly to the carriage, he asked, “Where is Clara?”

“I have given her a brief holiday; she will visit her family in Buxton. I will not require her services at my aunt’s.” In truth, I probably would miss her, for some of my new clothing would be challenging to manage by myself, and I had grown accustomed to her talents with my difficult hair—but it was not a great enough inconvenience to trade for the privacy I craved.

He nodded.

And that was all. No words of remorse, of course, much less any expression of regret at my absence. In my most optimistic moments, I had hoped he might say something like ‘I will write’ or even ‘I will miss you’.

But no. He handed me in to the carriage, barely touching me and swiftly stepping away as if I were repellent. The footman closed the door and put up the steps. I gazed at him through the window, but he did not look at me, only nodded to Mr Frost. With a jerk, the vehicle leapt forward. Foolishly, I indulged myself, continuing to watch him through the rear glass. He stood against the backdrop of Pemberley, a solemn, lone palace guard, tall and straight, staring ahead and yet, seeing nothing. And then we rounded the bend, and for once I did not notice the cliff’s edge or the road’s curves, but only the distance between us as it grew and grew and grew.

* * *

My aunt was not as surprised to see me as I expected. Mr Darcy had sent a note with his courier, giving her advance warning of my arrival.

“What did it say?” I asked, curious.

She handed it to me. On elegant, hot-pressed paper, in bold and even handwriting, it said:

Dear Madam,

I hope it would not be too great an imposition if my wife were to join you for a time. I am certain Mrs Darcy will wish to explain in more detail. I apologise for the lack of notice; as matters stand now, she will arrive on the morrow. However, please do not hesitate to contact me if this is inconvenient, and it would be better to make different arrangements; my man will await your reply.

F Darcy

I sighed. If I had been hoping for insight into his reasoning for his actions, or a penned regret for sending me away, I would not find either here.

I did not ask where her mother or my niece and nephews were, as clearly she had arranged for privacy. We went into her cosy parlour, where a tea waited with all of my favourites. My appetite was lacking, my spirits were low, and I could not even think how to begin. Nevertheless, there was something about her sympathetic presence—and, perhaps, being surrounded by the pretty, familiar furnishings from Gracechurch Street—that calmed me. And, like a corset being gently unlaced, I gradually released the words, in fits and starts, to explain what had occurred.

I had, of course, written to her previously of Lydia’s deliverance, but the worst parts of the story, I’d withheld; one could not always ensure a letter would reach its intended recipient, and Mr Darcy was far too well known in these parts to trust the mails. Only now could I reveal Wickham’s appearance in my drawing room, his disgusting attempts at a blackmail, my fears that even now, he was finding sympathetic ears for his poison. This, of course, led to revelations about Mr Darcy’s loveless first marriage, Anne’s affair with the blackguard, and her own decimation of Mr Darcy’s character, followed by Mrs de Bourgh’s dashing herself through the window, the fire at Thorncroft, and, finally, the discovery of the body, with Mrs Longthorpe’s subsequent unwelcome visit and my expulsion from Pemberley.

After I finished speaking, there was a long silence—but it was not an uncomfortable one. Although perhaps my tale was shocking, it was not easy to shock Margaret Gardiner. Instead, she only appeared thoughtful, as the fire crackled in the hearth and I realised that I had eaten everything on the plate she had set beside me.

“If your mama is watching all of this from Heaven, think what a commotion she is raising now,” she said at last.

I had to laugh, an unexpected outburst. “It would explain why today’s weather is vastly different than yesterday’s. She would stir up every cloud in the sky.” Inexplicably, my throat suddenly closed. I tried to cover the unpredictable emotion, looking up at the ceiling and down at my feet, but it was impossible to hide my true feelings from Aunt Gardiner.

“I wish I did not care for him so well, Auntie. Our feelings are…unequal.”

At once, she moved next to me on the settee, drawing my head down upon her shoulder. And then, at long last, I released the tears locked inside me along with the confusion and the hurt, and I cried as if my heart would break.