Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Twenty-Three

Iought to have been ashamed of my appearance as we crept back to the house and entered my chamber by a rear door and a servant’s stair. I was too happy to feel much chagrin, I admit. However, I could also admit a longing for Clara when I saw myself in the looking glass. There was grass in my unmanageable hair to match the stains upon my gown—there would be no doubt in the mind of my aunt’s maid as to what excesses we had been indulging. I must have made some noise of dismay, for my husband appeared behind me in the glass.

“I suppose I must assume all responsibility for such dishevelment,” he said, smiling as he extracted a dead leaf from my hair.

“I ought to call Susan for help,” I sighed. “My aunt’s maid, that is. But she has known me since I was in the nursery, and she will not hesitate to say exactly what she suspects of the origins of such untidiness. Not that she would be so very far from the truth.”

But he was not paying overmuch attention to my predicament. Instead, he began removing the remaining pins from my hair, plucking them one by one as he rifled through its masses, his strong fingers searching and his expression, reflected in the mirror, intent. When he’d found them all, he took up my brush.

He had played the lady’s maid once before with my hair—although he’d mussed it far more than taming it. It reminded me of what he had said, then, of his attraction to me so long ago, at Netherfield Park. I had not known it, busy as I was hating him at the time—but in the newness of our marriage and intimacy, and the resolution of such an argument as we had been having prior to that moment, I had given little credence to his words.

But now, it seemed…important. I had tried to dismiss his reasons for seeking me out, for finding me at Rosings and then asking for my hand. Convenience, I had believed first. Responsibility, I had believed later. And perhaps it was those things, too. But not solely. Not only.

He wanted me again, though we had only just lost all sense and decorum in the orchard together. His passion for me, for what we had together, was as real as mine for him. It would be a long while before we were ready to make an appearance downstairs.

* * *

The children were somewhat in awe of Mr Darcy, for even in ruined neckcloth and wrinkled coat he was a figure of nearly overpowering distinction. His manners were of the most formal and grave sort, which was somewhat quelling to the natural exuberance of youth. However, my aunt—a superb hostess—was able to draw him out a bit, and an excellent meal further compelled the mood towards contentment. Mr Martin was my greatest surprise.

In my presence Mr Martin had always shown himself to be quiet, courteous in manner, and completely unruffled by any problem, no matter what it was. If the cow went off its feed or the well smelled sour or the boys were bickering, he simply…fixed things. My uncle had been a gregarious man, a handsome, generous and intelligent man. He was adored by all who knew him, and his family most of all. But he was not the person whom one might have called upon to restore an aging house to sturdiness, or to show a rambunctious eleven-year-old how to whittle a boat from a stick. I had grown much impressed by Mr Martin’s calm, steady manner.

He was different in company with Mr Darcy. With twinkling eyes, he made much of my husband’s presence at the table with a sort of exaggerated respect, mostly ruined by his occasional aside regarding the gentry’s ability to misplace their wives. To my astonishment, Mr Darcy ignored this as if such teasing were a commonplace. The boys finally made so bold as to question Mr Darcy regarding his mount—evidently a horse with a distinguished lineage, about which Mr Martin and my husband found a great deal to say, and as if they had shared many such discussions over the years upon any number of similar topics.

After dinner, Ellen played for us quite prettily, and I told her of Mrs Bingley’s prowess at the instrument and the duets we had been practising. We tried one of them for which Ellen possessed the music, and we laughed together over mistakes—usually mine—but were encored by our audience.

Finally, however, only the four adults remained in the cosy parlour and I grew aware of a tension building within my husband, a certain restlessness within his usual restraint. I was not left long to wonder at its meaning.

“Martin, what do you hear from your nephew? Regarding the current disposition of the villagers?”

Mr Martin sighed. “Better than it once was, but not as good as it should be. I do not think the mistress’s absence is helping much. Folks think you chased her away.”

“And so he did,” I piped in. “And I still have questions as to why!”

Mr Darcy grimaced, but Mr Martin nodded. “In a word, ‘Peterloo’,” he said.

“Peterloo?” I questioned. “But…but what has that to do with poor Miss Bingley?” Last August, England’s calvary had stormed into a crowd of sixty thousand citizens peacefully gathering in St Peter’s Field near Manchester to demand political reform and representation in Parliament. Hundreds were injured and more than a dozen died. The papers referred to it as the ‘Peterloo Massacre’, while I called it horrific no matter its title.

Mr Martin glanced at my husband to see whether he would answer my question, but Mr Darcy’s face had turned to stone. “Aye, ’twas a nasty business, and a shameful one as well. In trying to stifle rebellious voices, they only shouted their cause to the world. More than ever, folks want change.”

“Change is all well and good,” Mr Darcy spoke sternly at last, “but too many are too willing to tear down the old order without reason and stability, using violence to do it. Change takes time, lest more innocents suffer.”

“Ah, but time is a luxury when the world is burning,” Mr Martin replied. “Ye must convince more of those high and mighty grey heads to listen to ye.”

Mr Darcy’s grimace tightened. “More would listen, perhaps, if their properties were only fifty miles of good road from Manchester.”

Mr Martin nodded. “The fact is, not all the owners of great estates are as benevolent and virtuous as our Mr Darcy here.”

“Perhaps I am thick-skulled, but I still do not understand how this relates to Miss Bingley’s death,” I put in.

“Nor I,” my aunt murmured.

Mr Darcy remained silent.

“’Twas the first Mrs Darcy,” Mr Martin snapped, showing an annoyance at complete odds with his usual calm demeanour. “Never did think much of her, despite her being so popular with all. That woman cared most about the face in the mirror. I thought it from the first time I saw her and never found any reason to change my mind. Then, just as the papers are full of this Peterloo madness and hatred towards anyone with a bit of blue blood—however benevolent—she up and decides to die, all mysterious-like. Folks are heaping flowers on her grave and crying and carrying on, blaming her husband for her death, even though they’ve known him all his life and he’s never shown aught but kindness towards the lot of them. And Himself, here, refuses to tell a blessed soul how she managed it, instead breeding suspicion and resentment as if such were prized bulls.”

Mr Darcy looked away from him, stubbornly, I thought, and Mr Martin sighed and stood. “But here, I’m naught but an old farmer, awake long past my bedtime. Thank you once again, Mrs Gardiner, for your excellent hospitality. Mrs Darcy, Mr Darcy.” He bowed in a genteel manner that would have served well at court, and took himself off.

After he left, an awkward silence followed. Mr Darcy was either distracted or brooding, it was impossible to tell which. My aunt and I exchanged looks, and then she said, “I find I am rather tired myself. I shall see you both at breakfast tomorrow?”

Mr Darcy had not, precisely, promised to stay the night; nor had he promised to take me with him. In fact, he had ridden from Pemberley, probably so there would be no carriage to convey me home. However, I was confident enough in my powers of persuasion to promise her that he would at least still be here in the morning. “You will, Auntie. Good night to you.”

My husband stood as she did, bowed, and with perfect correctness, wished her a pleasant sleep; however, the greater part of his attention was not on this room or its occupants. What memories was he lost within? When we were alone once more, I determined not to dance around my questions, but ask them directly.

“The body—did it prove to be Miss Bingley’s?”

This recalled him to the present, and he grimaced again. “Yes. I had no doubt of it, of course, for like Bingley, I recognised the rings she always wore. But the scraps of remaining fabric, and the hair colour…yes.”

The gruesome vision appearing in my mind made me shudder. “Why would she leave a letter that she meant to elope? Georgiana explained that much, and her apparent tendre for the Austrian. I must say, I could hardly countenance her doing such a thing. Unless she had changed a great deal from when I knew her.”

He grunted. “No, it was unlike Miss Bingley to behave in such a raggedy manner. But she had been recently humiliated, you see. By me.”

I turned sharply towards him, but he did not look at me. Perhaps he could not, and still relive his bitter memories. There had been an argument of some sort, I remembered Georgiana explaining.

“Why?” I asked.

He did not answer, not immediately. Instead he stood, taking himself to the hearth, grasping the mantel’s marbled edge with both hands and staring into the flames.

“Anne knew what she had in me from the first,” he said at last. “My pride, you see, would not permit me to allow anyone to know of my misery, or that I was a cuckold. I could not bear it. For many years, most all the years of my marriage, it seemed as though it was all I had—my love for Pemberley, my reputation as its master, my family’s honour. It all must be shielded. I could never allow anyone to know of my foolish mistakes. Anne understood all this well before I ever did, understood that as long as she was discreet, I would pretend to the whole world that I was the happiest man in it. Even the servants were fooled. She was expert in deception. Every few days, she would retrieve something of mine—some personal item—and leave it lying in her bed chamber, so the household would believe I visited regularly. And part of me was disgusted by the deceit, but a greater part was relieved she took the trouble.”

I did not, exactly, understand why he told me this, or what it had to do with Caroline Bingley’s death. But there was such bitterness, such self-disgust in the telling, I did not interrupt, lest I disrupt the purge.

“She would throw magnificent house parties, inviting the crème de la crème of society so she could display her talent for entertaining. It was a dangerous game she played, for sprinkled amongst her illustrious guests might be a lover or two, or at least someone whom she had decided to seduce.”

I was revolted, but he had mentioned Thorncroft and its uses to me before. He glanced over at me, his expression full of self-mockery.

“So blatant,” I murmured.

“Not really. As I believe I have mentioned, she was clever, well-practised, and inherently deceitful. It took me a long while to figure it out, and some of it, only in retrospect. I knew she was not faithful, but I was dense and naïve about exactly how unfaithful she was. I knew about Wickham—whom she claimed to have loved since her youth—and he, of course, was barred from Pemberley. As well, I knew of her spiteful act with Bingley, purposely accomplished to wreck my peace and warn me to what depths she might willingly sink. But no, I formed most of my conclusions in hindsight, and the vast majority of them after Miss Bingley’s elop…er, disappearance. That last year of her life, Anne made mistakes she would never have made previously. Mistakes of indiscretion, of recklessness. In the past I have spoken to you as though I understood what I had in her, but truthfully I am convinced I never will.”

He had been married for seven years, and yet, he was saying, he had never really known his wife. Part of it, he had previously explained—she had driven him away, manipulated him, deceived him—but I was half convinced he had never really wanted to know her. He had made himself try, perhaps until she had fired a cannon into her marriage by means of her liaison with Bingley. The true mystery to me was why in the world he had ever married her in the first place, as I had often wondered.

“My sister told you of the Kroffords?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Yes. It surprised me, I will admit, to learn that Miss Bingley was still unwed two years ago. I had always believed her committed to the prospect of finding an acceptable partner.”

“She did not take particularly well, but it was her own choice,” he said grimly. “She had offers.”

“Still, she had reached an age when one wishes for a home of one’s own,” I said. I certainly knew the longing.

“That was to be the purpose of this grand house party, ‘the grandest party of 1818’, Anne promised. She, who had never cared much for Miss Bingley, was suddenly obsessed with finding her a husband. And Miss Bingley, who had never cared much for Anne, was suddenly eager to spend every moment in her company and seemingly to accept her guidance in affairs of the heart.”

“Was it because of Mr Krofford, do you think?”

“That is what I thought at the time. She had been introduced to him during the Season, and he was said to be a catch. Many other women certainly thought so, and I supposed she was competitive. For Anne’s motives, I could not say. I distrusted them, but what was I to do? Krofford was accepted in all the best circles, and it was Bingley’s duty to investigate him thoroughly.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I had begun, by then, expecting more independence of Bingley. I told him he ought to look carefully into Krofford’s concerns, and left it at that. A match seemed imminent.”

He left the hearth and sat down beside me again. But his elbows were braced upon his knees, his head bent downwards, his posture, defeated.

“One afternoon, Miss Bingley entered my library when I was alone. Most of the guests were participating in a picnic of some sort, requiring half the household to serve them, so there were none to see her do it. Of course, I asked her why she was not with the others. By way of reply, she burst into tears.”

“That…must have been awkward,” I said.

He sighed and leant back again, staring at the ceiling. “She told me she loved me—had been in love with me for years. That she had no choice but to accept my marriage, and had wished me happy, but obviously I was not, because my wife was a cheat, a liar, a faithless harlot. She had proof, she said.”

“Oh, my,” I breathed. “How awful.”

“Exactly. I told her it was none of her affair, and she ought to mind her own troubles and stay out of mine. I was humiliated, and rather harsh, I am afraid. And she…”

After a pause, he began speaking again very softly. “She offered to become my paramour. She said she did not want to love any other, that she had no care for her reputation. She asked for a house—she had picked one out, I believe—within ten miles of Pemberley, and another home in London. A horse and pair, an allowance, servants, and jewels. In return, she would see to my happiness in all…the most intimate of ways.”

His cheeks flushed. Plainly, the memory embarrassed him, even now. And how like the Miss Bingley I remembered, to detail her pecuniary requirements along with her illicit proposal!

“And how did she expect you to explain it all to her brother? Her sisters? Your family? Did she really think you would care so little for your reputation as she evidently did for hers?”

He sighed. “I told her it was out of the question. I told her that her brother would kill me, that our sisters would be humiliated and neither would recover from the mortification. She responded that I need not worry about a thing—that Krofford had proposed an elopement, and she would pretend to take him up on it, but would simply escape him at the first busy inn and send word to me where she waited. The world and her family would think her scandalously connected abroad, but she was ready to start afresh. For love only, without rules.”

“But with two homes, a carriage, servants, and jewels for comfort.”

He smiled sadly. “I did not think of that, so much. She was offering to give up a great deal. It would be stupid not to demand comfort.”

A silence stretched between us. I decided to ask what I wished to know. “Were you tempted?”

He looked at me fully, for the first time. “No. I was lonely, and I did wish for companionship, but she deluded herself in thinking that she would not be recognised ten miles from Pemberley, and gossiped over—as if the scandal would never escape her control—or even that she could be happy in such a situation. Besides myself, Mr and Mrs Bingley would be its victims, as well as the Hursts.”

For all her wealth and education, had Miss Bingley clung to the same silly imaginings and unrealistic dreams as Lydia? A man like Wickham would only have taken advantage of such naivety, but I supposed it was unlikely that she had appreciated Mr Darcy’s more honourable rejection.

He sighed again. “There were more tears, more pleas, more accusations against Anne, and more…offers. But I simply did not think of her as a lover and never would. It was a foolish dream, such as befitted a much younger, less intelligent, less well-bred female. In a word, it was stupid.”

I winced. “I suppose you told her that?”

“Should I have allowed her to keep her silly fantasy alive? Perhaps wait until she chose to compromise herself in a way worse than simply appearing in my library unaccompanied? I thought to nip it in the bud.”

I nodded, but it had been far too late for nipping—that bud had taken root over years and years and years.