Nameless by Julie Cooper
Chapter Twenty-Four
Icould see it in his face now, his usual implacable reserve absent—naked guilt. He had picked through his last moments with Caroline Bingley and found much to criticise. It took me back to those hours after learning of the death of my father, the pain I felt at acknowledging the misery of our final conversation.
What I had said to my father had been honest, but it had not been kind. At least in Mr Darcy’s case, no one could have expected him to behave otherwise—the gentlemanly thing to do was to disabuse Miss Bingley of notions of ruin. But she had boldly addressed his most sensitive concerns, deeply wounding his pride in the process, and he had lashed out in the one manner guaranteed to make her stop. I took his hand in mine.
“Would you like to retire for the night, sir? My aunt’s servants are not accustomed to late hours, and I am certain they are standing about, hoping we will go upstairs soon.”
Again, his wishes were clear to me—what he wanted was to saddle his horse and ride for Pemberley. Anything to divert his thoughts and feelings away from a subject so painful.
“Please?” I added.
Nodding once, he stood, and helped me to my feet. Silently, we climbed the stairs and returned to my room. He became my lady’s maid, and I valeted for him. There was something so intimate in this undressing by firelight; I saw his countenance lighten as he set aside his cares and fixed his attention upon me. I saw, too, how gently he untied every tape and extracted every pin, meticulously laying aside each piece as he removed it.
I had scraped my hair into the tidy bun that was all I could manage on my own, but I knew better than to expect he would leave it be. I decided that I did not much care what Susan had to say about it in the morning, and let him take it down.
Pennywithers would have still more to say to him when he saw the state of Mr Darcy’s clothing, but I did my best to lay it out upon the clothespress so it would not wrinkle further, and hang his coat upon the chairback to try and reshape it.
And then we were in each other’s embrace as if it had been days instead of hours, caught up in the passion so easily sparked and so carefully nurtured by both. I was a bit sore from our earlier antics, but it was all forgotten in the worshipful attentions of a worshipful husband. Afterwards, I rested in his arms, listening to him breathe.
My bed was small, but neither of us had considered he would sleep elsewhere. I expected him to fall asleep quickly, but I did not wish to slip away from consciousness so easily. I had taken for granted the very great pleasure of lying within the arms of the man I loved. I still did not know what he would yet do, but at least I understood more of why he had made the decisions he had, and that we were more equal in our affections than I had previously believed. It was not all I wished for, but I was content enough nestled up against him, staring into the dying flames. I had nearly dozed off, however, when he spoke again, his voice deep, soft, and tired.
“I truly believed she eloped with Krofford. I swear it to you, I had no notion of any other possibility.”
I turned in the circle of his arms to face him in the firelight. Perhaps Georgiana had needed time to consider his innocence, but I never had. “I promise you, sir, I am not one of the Hopewellians, believing the worst of you. That you might have injured Miss Bingley, even by accident, never crossed my mind.”
“You are one of very few,” he said. “But she left a letter stating her intentions to go away with Krofford, and the man and his sister were gone in the morning. Of course, I immediately decided she was trying her plan of pretended elopement, that she had not believed me after all—perhaps that she even expected me to chase her down. And so I told Bingley what had occurred between us in every particular. He was horrified and made haste to follow quickly, questioning everyone he could, but they changed hackneys too often and at the busier inns. The postilions had little to say of use, but he did learn there were three who travelled, and the third matched Miss Bingley’s description. It was thought that Miss Krofford put her maid on a post. After London, there was nothing. The three of them disappeared without a trace.”
“Mr Bingley wrote, your sister said.”
“Yes. He obtained their direction in Austria, and Krofford wrote back disclaiming any knowledge of Miss Bingley’s whereabouts, denying all accusations. I made enquiries, which took a good deal of time. The most I learned was that Krofford currently keeps a mistress whose description could be said to match Miss Bingley’s, although she goes by a different name. Bingley sent more letters, begging Krofford to tell his sister to write and assure him she was well. I saw the latest of his letters before he sent it—he informed Krofford that if he wanted her settlement, he must bring her back to England to be wed. He heard nothing else, but…we still had hope that, eventually, he would want her fortune enough to see it done. He never replied. I ought to have known the blackguard would have married her if he could have.” He rolled onto his back, and I followed, propping myself upon his chest. “I ought to have done more. I ought to have prevented it. I ought to have known.”
I was not quite certain how he expected this. Murder would have been the last thing upon his mind, especially after the sordid scene he had been subjected to from her the day before. “Do you believe…do you believe he killed her?” I asked softly.
He shook his head in the darkness. “No,” he said, his voice full of guilt and anguish. “I believe Anne did.”
I was shocked. “What? No. Surely she would not!” I gasped.
“It would hardly be surprising,” he replied, his voice hard. “After all, she tried to kill me.”
There followed several moments of absolute silence while I simply stared at him, shocked speechless.
Why, I am still not certain; it was not as if females were incapable of violence. I had found it within myself, even. Wickham had goaded me sufficiently to visualise a moment of fury and yes, satisfaction at the thought of forever ending his ability to cause hurt and pain. I could, as well, envision a lover’s quarrel ending tragically, of betrayal and passion culminating in death.
And yet, the thought of poor Miss Bingley involved in any such torrid episode was unimaginable. Even her proposal to Mr Darcy offering a forbidden liaison had been somewhat off-putting, with her list of practical requirements for property and wealth. No, it appeared she had been cold-bloodedly murdered, buried in a shallow grave, and—as if that were not horrible enough—her reputation mercilessly destroyed at the same time. And he believed his wife had been perfectly capable of perpetrating both.
“How? Why?” I asked incredulously, still unable to manage a coherent sentence.
But instead of answering me, he looked away. “I should not have mentioned it. Needless to say, she was unsuccessful in her attempt, and I have no proof, regardless. If it was she who harmed Miss Bingley, no one will believe it upon my say so.”
I did not much care for either his vague reply or bleak conclusion; it was as if Anne held a pitiless power over him, even in death. I wished that speaking openly of her was not so difficult for him, that he was not so accustomed to keeping her secrets that he recoiled from revealing them even now. Still, I understood it. The deepest hurts seldom lend themselves to easy speech; they are wounds that bite and sting when poked.
Even so, I might have protested his response, except next he did an odd thing: suddenly, he clutched me to him, so tightly, I almost could not breathe. His heart pounded wildly beneath my ear, his own breath coming unevenly. Startled, I nevertheless moulded myself against him, holding him just as tightly in return, trying to think what I could say; the urge to comfort bested the yearning to prod.
He had suffered more than any man ought to have endured, in the darkness of that marriage. I tried to remember Anne de Bourgh’s appearance from my brief view of the miniature in Lady Matlock’s possession, but it had receded into hazy memory. An impression of beauty, of golden hair, and pale, perfect skin was all that remained. Knowing what I now did, would I still see loveliness of countenance? Would there be any hint of madness or murderous impulse? And why was it, the thought occurred to me, that I had not noticed her portrait when I had visited the cliffside wing’s upper floor? Mrs Reynolds had indicated it had been put in one of the closed rooms, but I had been through them all now without ever noticing it. It had not been removed to Mrs de Bourgh’s chamber. I certainly could not have missed it there.
Well, I would solve the mystery when I returned home—hopefully soon. Hopefully tomorrow, for I was certain Mr Martin could procure a vehicle. And it was time that I redid those upper rooms of the cliffside wing, repurposed them entirely. I was not certain yet for what, but it would come to me. They must be cleared of everything—every stick of furniture, every vase, every candlestick—and completely refurbished. If I could not erase those unhappy years for him, I could at least destroy the monument that upper floor had become to their memory.
“When we return home, I shall need the keys to the upper floor of the cliffside wing,” I began to explain, but he interrupted me, rearing back so abruptly that I toppled off his chest.
“I know you understand my preference that you keep away from it,” he said, in a rough tone which raised my hackles.
“You are an unlucky husband,” I snapped, struggling to a sitting position. “Your first wife was a sordid murderess, and your second—why, ’tis even worse! She insists upon entering any room in her home, at any time she wishes!”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted how quickly I had turned from patience and comfort to snappish vexation. But before I could apologise, he flopped back down onto the mattress and drew me into his arms, sighing, his large hand smoothing up and down my stiff spine, his hold comforting instead of his previous frantic embrace.
“I am a great trial to you, am I not?” he asked.
“For as long as we both shall live,” I agreed acerbically.
“I am sorry, my darling,” he said. “Even now, I have not yet accommodated Miss Bingley’s death in my mind. I knew my marriage was a bad one. I knew we were in every way unsuited. I thought I understood all the mistakes for which I was responsible. And yet, it appears I have barely scratched the surface.”
I wanted to tell him to let it go, let her go. But of course, the past could no more stay buried than poor Miss Bingley. It all must be resolved. Somehow.
I tucked my head beneath his chin, feeling his fingers stroking through my hair, revelling in his return to my side. I would not lose him to my impatience, or to Anne’s sins. “This is the proper moment for me to offer just the right words of solace and relief. If you could, perhaps, pretend to have heard them?”
He brushed his thumb along my cheek. “Your very presence does it,” he said. “I know I am the most fortunate of men in my second marriage. You…you understand I realise it, do you not?”
It was hardly a burning declaration of love, but its simple, awkward sentiment touched me regardless.
“I want to go home,” I whispered. “And I want it to be our home. I…I hate feeling as if she owns part of it, even still.” And part of your soul, I thought but did not say.
“You heard Martin. There is talk. Talk about Miss Bingley now, as well as Anne. In Hopewell I was labelled abusive before, but I am henceforth to be branded the murderous Darcy. If you support me, if you stay beside me, you shall be dragged into it. The cartoonists in London have already begun to sell their work. When Lord Cavendish returns, he will not be able to avoid a public inquest, much as he would rather not. He is delaying, I am certain, hoping if he misses addressing it at the next quarter-day, it will fade away. It will not, and all my wealth will not protect me. Or you.”
I felt the tension in him as he tried, with all his gentleman’s heart, to convince me of my greater comfort and safety if I stayed in Lambton. As he pleaded with me to do the very opposite of what I knew he wanted, I smoothed my hand across the hard planes of his chest. “I am your wife,” I said at last. “I wish to go home.”
There was a long silence. He did not answer. I thought he had fallen asleep, and I nearly had.
“I know the rooms on that floor must be redone,” he said into the night’s darkness. “I would rather not live in them again, though. I do not believe its terrace to be safe, and hope you would stay off of it. If it would not ruin its architectural beauty, I would wall it off entirely. But I will give you every key I have. Tomorrow. When we arrive…home. Together.”
And somehow, despite murderous mysteries, refused revelations, and a foggy future, I found a sleepy smile as I dropped quickly into dreams.
* * *
Late the next morning, I bid my aunt, my niece and nephews, and Mr Martin a fond farewell and boarded a comfortable carriage the latter had somehow produced. My husband said little, and I wondered if he regretted his decision allowing my return to Pemberley. I refused to think of it.
“This carriage is unusually fine,” I remarked into the silence, only the sound of wheels against road and the horses’ hooves between us.
He glanced around as if only just noticing it. “’Tis Martin’s own,” he muttered.
“Ah,” I said. “He certainly prospers, if he can afford such a vehicle.”
For the first time that morning, he unbent a little. “I did not think Mrs Gardiner would be long in guessing his ruse, but he wrote to me when she did. It lasted longer than I thought it would. He said you guessed immediately he was no pockets-to-let.”
“My aunt was grieving and distracted. And I only guessed in part. I did not expect such a person to patch roofs. Is he in love with her, do you think?”
He looked mildly alarmed, and I laughed. “Very well, I shall not question you. I would not blame him if he is, for she is the very best of women. I hope he is prepared for patience if so, however, for she is hardly done grieving. If you had ever seen my uncle and aunt together…” A wave of the sorrow which at times so easily beset me stopped my words.
Reaching over, he took my gloved hand in his. “I never met your uncle in person, but by all accounts, he was a fine man, and he was certainly a wise and gifted businessman. I do not know Martin’s feelings, but he is a much more cheerful fellow than the man I approached a year ago for advice upon hiring workers in Lambton. I could not have dreamt his solution, but I was pleased to see him take an interest in anything at all. He was so lost when his wife died.”
“I hope neither is hurt, but I shall not worry overmuch. They are both of them happier together than they were alone. But will his lands suffer without him?”
Mr Darcy told me of Martin’s very competent bachelor nephew, who had been entrusted with the extensive farming operations while his twenty-year-old son continued to expand his knowledge and experience with Matlock’s stewards. He also spoke of the other tenants, some of whom were newer but many of whom had been with him for generations. They were not all as prosperous as the Martins, who were educated and affluent, but his goal was that all those who desired to prosper, might.
Unfortunately, as we began the twists and turns that marked the mountain road to Pemberley, I felt the change in atmosphere between us. Distraction would not work, I knew. It was better to broach the subject directly.
“When Lord Cavendish returns, what do you expect him to do? Will he take your part?”
“He will wish to, but he, too, understands what Peterloo meant. Gone are the days when a man with wealth enough might do as he pleases without repercussion, whatever my learned friends in the House of Lords believe. Especially as far north as we are, one cannot make enemies of everyone simply because one wishes to protect a friend.”
I was not quite certain this was correct—certainly Matlock existed as it ever had and seemed always would. But perhaps change was in the air. And he believed it enough for both of us.
“Lord Cavendish will hold an inquest,” I said, making it a statement rather than a question.
“I suppose he must,” he replied. “In the matter of Miss Bingley, certainly, but perhaps for Anne, as well.”
“You fear that everyone will learn how Anne died?” I asked, trying to understand.
“Hardly,” he said, making a disgusted noise. “I fear all will learn how she lived.”
I still could not comprehend it; I could not care less if the world learnt of her iniquities.
“Is…is Lord Cavendish a good man? Is he a friend?”
“A very good man. Has known me all of my life.” He turned and looked at me directly for the first time in a while. “I went to fetch him, you know. When I left you so abruptly and went to London. I wished him to-to vouch for my integrity when you learned of Hopewell’s opinion of it. But he was not in London, he was at some house party or another. And before he returned, you wrote to me and so I returned home.”
This astonished me—that he had felt the need to bring in a witness to his character. To me, his own wife. That he had travelled all the way to London to seek out one of Derbyshire’s most respected residents, hoping the man would assure me of his worthiness—as if he required a reference. As if believing his own word would not be good enough for me. What a humiliation that would have been for him! I could hardly credit it.
“I am glad he was not in London, then,” I said. “I do not believe it is possible to hide one’s true self, not without creating a good deal of real distance. At least not for long. And I trust my own judgment of your honour.”
His expression remained solemn. “I could not bear for you to be afraid of me, not for one minute. I only thought to bring you reassurance.”
I should not have been so surprised; such actions were the essence of who he was. As we approached the house, I was overwhelmed by memories—some that had not crossed my mind in almost a decade, but now which I could never forget.
I pictured the ball at Netherfield, so many years ago, as if it were yesterday; the grandeur, the elegance, even the dress worn by Miss Bingley, a fashionable ensemble I had deeply envied, though I hoped I did not show it. It was also the peak of my stupid infatuation with Wickham, and I had believed my evening spoilt by his absence. I blamed Mr Darcy for it, resented having to dance with him—might even have taken the ruinous step of refusal but for Charlotte’s reproof when she saw what was in my face; she warned me not to be a simpleton. I spent the entirety of the set subtly castigating him, taunting him about Wickham, and accusing him of aloofness, prejudice, and inconsideration.
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”
“May I ask to what these questions tend?”
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said I. “I am trying to make it out.”
Of course, I had judged wrongly then, as had most of the county. As did most of the countryside now. It was no wonder he should expect a similar mistake. A wave of sadness surged through me, that such an ill performance should have been the only dance we had ever shared. The carriage drew to a halt, and as he moved to exit, I caught his hand.
“I could never fear you, and never will. In the future, I only ask that you talk to me first, before you decide upon any action either taking you from me, or taking me from you. Please.”
He did not answer me, only squeezing my hand in what was meant, I suppose, as reassurance. It frightened me, almost; the next time, he might destroy our marriage, if he truly thought it best for me. Well, I would not let him, I vowed. Whatever power I held with him, I would use it to keep him.