Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ispent a great deal of time over the next week simply…walking. The area was a pretty one, the weather unseasonably dry, if cold. Mrs Spengler’s property encompassed an apple orchard, as well as grazing grounds. I enjoyed walking in the long grass, envisioning how the place would appear when the trees were heavy with fruit.

My life felt quite purposeless when compared to my goals and dreams of only two weeks past. Then, my head had been full of plans for Pemberley and an estate school and learning how to be the best mistress possible. I expected to grow in love and connexion with my husband, and him towards me. Instead, I merely walked, meandering amongst dormant trees, dead grasses, and lifeless grey skies.

I had been reduced to waiting impatiently for the mail delivery, then feeling a new rejection with every absent letter. None arrived, from my husband, at least.

It was Georgiana who wrote first. Sadly, her news was most unwelcome. She said that public outcry was such that there would almost certainly be a coroner’s inquest. She and Bingley were doing their best to be supportive, but neither had much influence over the state of affairs—and her brother had booted them from Pemberley as well. The letter was not long, but included a caricature purchased in a London print shop, sent by some ‘helpful’ neighbour. In it, a man bearing an unmistakeable resemblance to Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the middle of mounds of dirt littered with bones, attempting to shove an excessively tall beaver hat down over a monstrous pair of horns jutting from his head. The caption read, ‘Nowhere to Hide’.

I tried to understand his distance. He was a fiercely protective man—even, it seemed, towards near-strangers for whom he had somehow assumed responsibility. He would hate for me to be tarred with the same brush; I was certain he wanted me far enough away from Pemberley that I should not be mocked, scorned, or otherwise distressed by the encroaching scandal.

But I did not care about caricatures. If they drew one of me, I would frame it and put it on the wall—laughing all the while. If anyone could have goaded Mr Darcy to violence, Anne de Bourgh or Wickham ought to have driven him to it long ago, and yet he had never, it seemed, given way; the thought of him as a danger to Caroline Bingley was, simply, ludicrous. I wanted to be beside him in this adversity—but even more, I wanted him to want me beside him. I tried to conquer my hurt, yet it seemed he had put me completely from his mind.

The next day, the post arrived with a letter from Mr Tilney, informing us of the safe and happy arrival of our new niece. “A baby girl, at last!” my aunt cried. “Jane must be so pleased!”

I was ecstatic for her, and then overwhelmed by a sudden and horrifying wave of jealousy so strong, I was speechless with it. I turned without a word and fled the room, seeking the privacy of the empty parlour. There, I pushed my palms into my eyes, trying to halt the onslaught of stupid tears.

Of course, my aunt followed me immediately, sitting beside me and gently patting my shoulder whilst I regained control.

I meant to say that it was only my joy causing such emotion. I meant to find false words of cheer and happiness. Instead, I blurted bitterly, “I think I almost hate him. I will never have a marriage like Jane’s. I will never have a family of my own! He sends not a word! Not even a short note to see if I am well! Nothing!”

My aunt looked at me sharply. “Forgive me, Niece. I have not seen any letters posted to him, from you, for him to answer.”

I rolled my eyes. “He expelled me from his property, from his life. What am I to say to that? Plainly, he does not wish my affection. Should I express my anger and hurt, instead? Should I be as my poor mama, plaguing a husband who barely tolerated her?”

Her expression softened. “Your parents’ marriage was often a difficult one. But my dear, you know that your mother seldom understood matters as they really were. Your father lacked the patience to explain. In this situation, there are other circumstances at work, having nothing to do with like or dislike. I am certain Mr Darcy would take seriously anything you wished to say.”

After a moment, the bitterest truth tumbled from my mouth. “With nearly every difficulty, every time we are at odds, he retreats from me. It is up to me to make amends, to take any steps towards reconciliation.” I told her of how, displeased with my disobedience in visiting Hopewell, he had withdrawn all the way to London, only returning when I wrote to him. And other disagreements, requiring me to venture into his rooms, his territory, so to speak, and aggressively demand understanding. “Just once, I would like him to make the first effort, however small. Especially in this situation, which he controls.”

My aunt sighed while I seethed with resentment—tensing as I prepared to hear a lecture on my duty, and what I, what our entire family, owed him.

“What do you wish your last words to him to be?” she asked instead. “If today were your last day on earth, what would you say then?”

I looked at her askance. “I never did ring a peal over him the way I did Papa,” I said stiffly. “I believe I have learned some self-governance, though I felt Mr Darcy’s rejection most cruelly.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. “I did not mean to imply you said or did anything wrong. It is only…once I, too, thought I had all the time in the world to say everything that matters most. My last words to your uncle were not ones of anger. As he was leaving for his warehouse, I asked him to see about getting Mr Baker to look at the porch rail. That is all. I did not add any expressions of affection or care, I am certain.”

I squeezed her hand in return. “Uncle knew of your love for him.”

“Yes. But all of our words are final, now. Nothing more can be added. I hope they were enough, but I wish there had been fewer exchanges over home repairs, and more of important things. You have every right to be angry, darling. I know you do not wish a marriage like your own parents had. You saw your mother begging for the crumbs of your father’s attention, in all the ways least likely to result in getting it. But very often, it takes great strength to exercise humility. To let go of your sense of ‘rightness’, in exchange for something more important. I wish, now, I had done so more often. Of course, your uncle would never have taken too much advantage. He would not have seen my needs unmet, my wishes disrespected in favour of having things all his own way. Perhaps you cannot trust that Mr Darcy would feel the same.” Squeezing my hand once more, she left me alone with the warmth of the fire and the cold reality of her sorrow.

‘All of our words are final, now.’This struck me with a tragic sort of power. No, I did not fear that Mr Darcy would wish me to transform into a servile version of myself, such as his aunt, the dowager countess, had wanted. I would never be my mother, and Mr Darcy would never be my father. If I, or my husband died today, our last words to each other would be…nothing. Was that what I wanted? It somehow seemed almost worse than had they been words of anger, the silence a sort of ultimate indifference.

And so I fetched pen and paper, and stared for a long time at the sheet, picking through and discarding every word that occurred to me. Most of them were too angry to put to paper, for I had not learnt to conquer my resentment. Of course, resentment was not all I felt, either.

I missed him almost desperately. But if he did not wish for my affection, how was I to express it? Upon reflection, I realised I had erred in refusing to go to him that night after he had pronounced my expulsion. Only now could I see that my refusal came as much from fear as from any desire to avoid paining him with unrequited love. What if I begged to be allowed to stay, and was denied? My pride, hurt, and cowardice had combined to allow an acceptance of a fate with which I most heartily disagreed.

If there was one flaw I would never accept in my character, it was cowardice. It was always better to know than to wonder, and resentment hardly made for a comfortable alternative.

Dear Sir,

I wish you would come to see me, as soon as you can spare the time.

Sincerely,

Your Wife

I sent it by regular post. Mayhap it would take a day or two to reach Pemberley. Perhaps after all, he would not come. But he might write to tell me why he would not. I could be satisfied with that, I decided. It would be something.

But for six days, his silence stretched into its own ultimate indifference. I pretended not to grieve.

* * *

I was drawing in the orchard, though the air was chilly, and the clouds were thick and weighted with moisture. It mattered little, for I was there more for the solitude than the opportunity to practise my sketching. My paper remained as blank and empty as my mind. And then, a noise reached my ears, the sound of boots upon the dry grass, and I turned towards it.

And there he stood. Tall, stern, severe, as if dragged there against his will, his expression matching the forbidding sky. I rose and gave a small curtsey. He bowed slightly. And then he spoke.

“You have summoned me, madam. As you can see, I am here. How might I be of service?”

No greeting, none of the words I had both wished and yearned for, nothing of regret and longing. But then, life was not a Radcliffe novel, was it? Here I was, hurt and resentful and mystified by his manner, and there he was, impossible and arrogant and thick as Pemberley’s walls. For all I knew, he might never stand before me like this again.

Anger and pride warred within me, begging for release, wanting to crush any pretensions he might cherish towards being a gentleman I could trust and respect.

And yet…would those be my final words?

His life bespoke a different story, one of silent, unacknowledged acts of kindness—of duty, of generosity, of caring. Towards Lydia, my aunt, possibly even Jane, over the course of years. Which man would I speak to, today?

“I-I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how grateful I am for your intervention in the affairs of my aunt and my poor uncle,” I managed.

These words, evidently, caught him by surprise, for his eyes widened and brow furrowed. “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry, that either of you ever learned of it. I did not think Mr Ferrars was so little to be trusted.”

“It was an accident, I understand. A misdirected paper that hinted of your involvement. My aunt questioned him thoroughly and I am afraid he was no match for her. You must not blame him. She was determined to have the whole truth out of him.”

He nodded once, crisply. And simply stood there.

I looked at him, begging him—in my mind—to take me in his arms, but the tender scene I craved apparently refused to enter his head.

“Is that all then? I must be getting back to Pemberley before the light fails.”

I stared at him almost in disbelief. I had to force myself to speak. “Might I—that is, do you wish me to return to Pemberley with you?”

His face was as implacable as ever. “It would be better if you did not. No, I believe you ought to remain here.” With unconscious motion, he smoothed his left brow with his left forefinger, appearing as if he were impatient to leave.

And somehow, in my shock and hurt at this new unkindness, I remembered something from what seemed ages past: as the Dowager Lady Matlock spewed nonsense, he had agreed with every foolish word she uttered whilst making that same unconscious motion.

My husband lied.

I took a step closer to him. His aspect was unyielding. But as I watched his eyes, those dark, expressive eyes, I thought I saw more. I hoped I saw more. I moved to within six inches of him. I could hear his breath’s intake; my heart beat so hard, I was certain he could hear it. I set my hand upon his shoulder.

“What are you about?” he asked harshly.

“I do not know,” I whispered, “but you are making a hash of our entire life together, and I cannot think how else to stop you. In a novel, a passionate kiss does the job. I simply haven’t any better ideas, I fear.” And I set my mouth to his.

For a moment he was immobile, a frozen statue beneath my lips. Then, with a groan, he was returning kisses wildly, desperately, his arms clutching me tightly to him. “I cannot stop this,” he muttered. “I cannot do it.”

“I do not wish you to stop. Do not ever stop.”

He shrugged off his coat and threw it on the orchard floor, drawing me down with him onto it. I went so willingly, uncaring of propriety, of the setting, of the hardness of the ground or even of chill breezes in unusual places. I only cared to hold him as tightly as I could manage, to show him by every action and gesture that I was his wife, his helpmeet, his life’s partner. And when we were as close as a man and woman could ever be, I looked into his eyes. “Never let me go,” I begged, pride vanished. “Please, never let me go.”

“I am not strong enough to do it,” he said. “Heaven help you, but I am not man enough to keep away.”

“The man I need is finally here,” I disagreed most vehemently, and then there were no more words, only a man and his wife joined, bridging the long separation with connexion at last. And when the heavens wept gently upon us, we only laughed as my hair escaped from its pins and curled wildly around us both.

After we had finally quieted, he began to be anxious that I would take a chill from the damp—but, as it was hardly enough rain to moisten the ground, and as he was the one enduring any discomfort while I remained warmly wrapped within his arms, I told him to stubble it and to just hold me.

Thus, it was some time before my brain would actually engage enough to question him. When I did, I spoke into his shirtfront, the scent of his shaving soap comforting me, as he leant back against an elderly apple tree.

“You hardly took your leave of me,” I whispered. “You might have talked to me about the situation, at least, before you sent me away.”

“A man who felt less, might. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping the vows I made on our wedding day to protect and honour you. I still think it. But never have I done something so abhorrent to my personal desires.”

“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it. But what was your intention? To stay away indefinitely, had you been left to yourself?”

“I did not really plan it. I am still waiting for Lord Cavendish to return from London. As his daughter is marrying, he seems in no hurry to do so, although I expect he will by Easter. I wanted to see how it would be.”

“Tell me why you prefer me to stay away,” I demanded.

He briefly clasped me more tightly. “That is never my preference, darling. But I did not marry you only to drag you from one bad situation to a worse one. The talk, the gossip, will be merciless. I believe you better off in Lambton, where I have a few friends and you have many more.”

“That might be true, if you were here as well. It can only cause more talk if we live apart. People will say I am afraid of you.”

He sighed. “I do not care for myself. But come, it is growing dark and your aunt will be worried. We can discuss this in the warmth of her home.”

I was certain I looked an utter wreck—my hair wild, my dress grass-stained. His hat was gone, his neckcloth ruined. I did not, could not care.

“I will not return until you give me your word that whatever we decide, we shall decide together.”

He was silent for a long moment. “I suppose it matters not what I choose. If you call for me, I will always come.”

“However unwillingly,” I chided.

“Too willingly,” he grumbled. “That is the problem. I exercised every bit of restraint I possess. I was as severe and harsh as I know how to be. And yet, you saw right through my guard to the man behind it, who was wishing to do nothing more than throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness. I shall never know how you could tell.” He set me on my feet and searched within the gathering gloom for his missing, probably wrecked hat.

I only smiled, glad he could not see it, and decided I would keep all my secrets at present. Men were so very contrary; a wife needed every clue she could get.