Nameless by Julie Cooper
Chapter Twenty-Five
Estate business almost immediately called Mr Darcy away. Mr Williams greeted me in his usual kindly, shy manner, but it was the response of the servants which pleased me most. Almost every one of them managed to take time to greet me during the day, and Mrs Reynolds was nearly beside herself with what seemed like gladness. Nothing would do but that she send someone to fetch Clara, change the menu to my favourites, and continually ask what else she could do for my comfort.
Clara, too, once she arrived, was nearly as gleeful to be returned.
“I apologise for the lack of notice,” I said to her. “I told Mrs Reynolds tomorrow or the next day would be soon enough.”
“Don’t mind it a bit,” Clara replied firmly. “I like my family, but I was beginning to worry you might never return, and then what would I do? This is the best place I’ve ever had.” And then she took great pains over my hair, until it looked better than it had in weeks.
“I have missed you, Clara,” I said, peering at my reflection with a happy sigh.
One person, of course, was not part of my welcoming committee. Steeling myself, I tapped on the door of Mrs de Bourgh’s sitting room. Mr Donavan, thankfully, was not there, but instead the solemn, pinched-face nurse; she looked as displeased at the interruption as he ever had.
“Mrs de Bourgh is having a bad spell today,” she said. “It is not advisable that she be disturbed.”
Especially by you, her look seemed to add. I did not take it for cowardice that I merely shrugged and left. I was too happy to be home to allow anyone’s hatefulness to intrude.
The keys Mr Darcy had given me before he departed with Mr Williams demanded my attention. After leaving Mrs de Bourgh’s rooms, I made my way to the nearest staircase leading to the cliffside wing’s upper floor.
On my first visit to these ‘hallowed halls’, it had appeared as though Anne de Bourgh Darcy was only away, and all was kept in readiness for her return. On my next, the dead flowers and eerie draughtiness made it seem the perfect rooms for a ghost.
This time, it was merely empty. Mrs Reynolds and her workers had cleared everything from the former Mrs Darcy’s rooms; not a stick of furniture remained, neither console nor clothespress. The hand-wrought crystals of the massive chandelier at its centre still tinkled softly upon an invisible breeze, but the mirrors had all been removed.
While they had not touched Mr Darcy’s furnishings, I decided I would have those removed as well. Perhaps he would like to retain the picture of the dog, but I could not imagine him wishing for any of the rest of it. How had she felt, stealing into these rooms, leaving behind one of her handkerchiefs or a ribbon in the game of pretend she had maintained for so long? Taunting and triumphant, or despairing and depressed? What perceptions had driven her upon such a course? I wondered, even, if her love for Wickham had been at the root of it all, if he had taught her, too young, to tread such a miserable path.
No, there were too many terrible memories contained within these rooms, and they all required a completely new purpose. I returned to Anne’s bedchamber, shivering a little at the chill, trying to see it with new eyes. The drapes were closed, preventing any of the March sun from reaching within, and cloaking the room in gloom. I pulled them back and sunlight flooded in.
That was when I noticed a set of gold velvet draperies covering one wall, against which the enormous carved wooden bedstead had once been positioned. Walking forward, I pulled them aside.
A set of three outsized portraits in expensive gilded frames hung behind them. In one, a pretty girl of perhaps twelve years stood beside an impressive-looking stallion. Her eyes were bright, her expression intelligent. The second was a much larger version of the miniature I had seen in Lady Matlock’s possession, a ravishingly beautiful woman with golden hair and adorned in diamonds, wearing wedding clothes. The third must have been painted not long before her death. Still beautiful, even stunningly so, the artist had captured her sultry expression, a certain knowledge of her own feminine powers. Nothing in any of the portraits revealed a hint of the character Mr Darcy had sketched. With a sigh, I walked out onto the terrace that my husband hated.
The view was beautiful, even on this grey and gloomy day. The magnificent sky above, the sprawling valley below, all that was pleasing to the eye and heart dwelt here in one breath-taking prospect. Giving way to temptation, I moved closer to the low wall, where the bold Anne de Bourgh had loved to sit perched over its edge, heedless of peril. Or was she courting danger, the thrill of it, the only way her cold heart could feel alive?
To this day, I do not know what instinct made me suddenly turn. But there was Mrs de Bourgh, closer than I could have imagined; although leaning heavily upon a stout cane, she had made no noise in her approach.
“You were looking at her, were you not? Pretending you were her. Wishing you were her. I cannot blame you for that. She was the envy of every woman.”
She had lost at least three stone, and a bandage covered one side of her face; what skin was visible was pinched and sallow. The nurse had not been lying to me—her patient looked very ill indeed.
“Mrs de Bourgh! You ought to be abed,” I said, surprised. “You are ill.”
“I am well enough. I have come to a decision. You are not to be blamed for attempting to take her place. You did not know, when you wed, the impossibility,” she rasped regally. “I am too old to change easily. I shall live out my days at Pemberley, as few as they are likely to be. It is where I am closest to her. I must remain and mourn her, here.”
Well. This ‘offer’ was somewhat astonishing. Her version of an olive branch, I supposed. Looking at her, scarred and sickly, my heart filled with pity. The part of my soul that was wearied to death of conflict wanted to accept it.
“I am sorry for you, and for your sorrow,” I said, knowing my sympathy was unwanted. I walked past her and back through the door I had left open, into Anne’s former bedchamber, hoping it would encourage her to come in out of the cold. “I hope you will understand that I bear you no ill will when I say that I feel your departure is best for your welfare as well as ours. I also hope you will take your daughter’s portraits with you when you are well enough to travel, that they might always bring you comfort.”
Her one good eye narrowed as she followed me. “You believe you can erase her from Pemberley just as you removed her belongings, her pretty things, her slippers and her dresses. But she is still here! She made Pemberley the grand home it ought to be, and it needs her, yearns for her! Though every servant in the place calls you by her name, you will never be Mrs Darcy!”
I sighed. “Mrs de Bourgh, you have admitted her unhappiness in her marriage to Mr Darcy. Why would you wish her to remain here, the scenes of such despair? If she hated him, why do you not take her back? Return her to her childhood home, where she was once happy and free.”
“Pemberley was hers,” she hissed. “Pemberley was everything. Even Mr Darcy understood it before he grew so foolish and weak. Pemberley was the prize, and it belonged to her! It belongs to her, still! She made it what it is, and she is Pemberley!”
I swallowed another sigh. “I am Mrs Darcy at the moment, but a century from now, God willing, there will be a different Mrs Darcy caring for it. We are none of us Pemberley, and Pemberley is not us. We Mrs Darcys must stand upon our own lives and loves, our own aspirations and accomplishments, just as Pemberley stands upon its foundations. Without those things, I am as empty as these rooms. I hope, most sincerely, that your daughter will be remembered fully by those who loved her, and not merely as the mistress of a house, however grand.”
For a moment, uncertainty crossed her expression, as if a part of her mind could see the sense in what I said. But it was quickly gone. And swiftly, before I could step away, she spat at me, a glob of spittle just missing my boot.
I rolled my eyes. “A childish display that changes nothing. I will call for someone to assist you in returning to your rooms. You should not be out of bed.” Matching words to action, I tugged on a nearby bell rope.
She just stood there, staring at me, breathing hard. I wondered, in fact, whether I should do something more, for she looked as if she might topple over. However, even in her present state of distress, she would probably prefer dropping to the floor rather than accepting my assistance.
A maid and a footman, both a bit out of breath, appeared from doorways at the opposite ends of the room.
“Mrs de Bourgh requires assistance returning to her room,” I said, nodding at the footman.
“She forced me to come up here,” she croaked, wailing. “I told her it was too much, I was too ill. But she insisted. And then, all she cared to do was taunt me with my poor, dear dead daughter’s portraits. She threatens to burn them. My poor, poor, pretty girl.” Great tears dripped from her chin. “And then she spat at me. I will never call her ‘Mrs Darcy’. Never!”
“Please help Mrs de Bourgh,” I repeated calmly. “And do give her nurse a message from me—she must keep a closer eye upon her charge. She ought not to have been allowed to climb the stairs alone.”
The footman, John, tentatively approached the elderly lady, holding out his arm. For a moment she drew back, and I thought she would refuse it. Then, remembering she was supposed to be an injured party, she took it and slowly limped from the room. I turned to the maid, whose mouth was gaping.
“Martha, please clean up Mrs de Bourgh’s, er, emanation upon the floor,” I said, pointing to the mess at my foot with a raised brow.
I saw her face clear as she realised just who had spat upon whom. Mrs de Bourgh had overplayed her hand. Again. “And ask Mrs Reynolds to come upstairs when you have finished, please.”
Upon her departure, I took a somewhat shaky breath. Had she truly believed I could allow her to remain at Pemberley? Or was Mrs de Bourgh not quite so much the invalid as her appearance indicated? Had she slipped away from her attendants to recommence her visits to her daughter’s rooms? Had seeing them stripped bare set off even darker impulses?
Sighing, I abandoned contemplation of the problem of Mrs de Bourgh in favour of a different matter entirely. Walking the length of the room, the dressing room, the sitting room, then through the same set of rooms on Mr Darcy’s side, I considered them all carefully. I also looked in on all the rooms on the wing’s other side, to which I had paid little attention in the past. By the time Mrs Reynolds joined me, I had the beginnings of an idea.
“Mistress, Martha told me what has happened here. I am so sorry. I had no idea the old lady was strong enough to dress, even. Her nurse says she only dozed off for a few minutes and her patient was gone when she awakened.”
“Hmm. Did she ring for assistance in finding her patient?”
“She did not, ma’am.” I could tell by her tone that she, like me, was not overly impressed with the nurse’s performance. “I have stationed John in her corridor and will ensure, henceforth, someone is always there.”
“Very good. I was looking at her daughter’s portraits before she entered,” I said, gesturing at the pictures. “I am afraid the sight of them reminded her of all she has lost.”
“Perhaps, but it is kind of you to say so, mistress, after her treatment of you.”
“She is elderly and ill,” I replied, which was true—but I was also fairly certain her grief had evolved to the worst kind of bitterness, and well before she had injured herself. “I cannot decide whether these portraits are better hung in Mrs de Bourgh’s rooms, or if it would only exacerbate her, er, condition.”
Mrs Reynolds looked pained. “I asked the master, ma’am, when you were away, what he would like me to do with them when we cleared these rooms.” She hesitated.
“What did he reply?” I asked, curious.
“He said to put them anywhere I liked, as long as he never had to see them again. I am afraid the attics are too damp. I know they were painted by masters, costing ever so.”
I came to a decision then. Normally, I would not share any such personal details, but the housekeeper had long since proven her devotion to Mr Darcy. “Mrs Reynolds, I tell you something now in the strictest confidence, something I am not sure Mr Darcy would care for you to know. His first marriage was terribly unhappy, for him at least. I suppose that the reasons for that no longer matter but you advised me once of your opinion that Mr Darcy is a good man. I would say he is the best of men, and has borne much while attempting to…”
I stumbled to an awkward halt, my throat closing at the thought of the pain he had endured for so long. She placed a gentle hand upon my arm.
“I understand,” she said. “The master had been so…quiet, for so long, I simply grew to think it was his way. I always thought him content, until he brought you home and I saw what happiness looked like on him. And then, while you were gone visiting your aunt, he grew sombre again so quickly, and I knew, somehow, you took his happiness with you.”
I smiled at her, for it seemed to me he was always a quiet man—how much more silent could he have been? “He did not want me to be affected by the gossip,” I explained. “He thought removing me to my aunt’s would protect me from it. I insisted upon returning, but he worries, still. Lord Cavendish will be home within a few weeks, and I believe he fears a siege once the coroner’s inquisition begins.”
“I cannot believe it. I have heard the silly rumours, but surely not an inquest? They would not dare question Mr Darcy of Pemberley!”
“An inquest would reveal nothing,” I said, “because he has done nothing wrong. He is no murderer. There is no evidence. He cannot be held accountable simply because no one has any better idea of who harmed poor Miss Bingley.” I took a deep breath. I had not called the woman upstairs to alarm her but rather because I wished to speak of my ideas to someone who loved Pemberley as Mr Darcy did, and as I was beginning to.
“I will not fret about the future. I wanted to speak to you of a different matter entirely, regarding refurbishing these rooms. I have a design in mind, but we will need architectural assistance and a good builder in order to make some major alterations here. It is long past time, I think, for change.”
As I revealed my ideas for this wing, and as I saw her dawning excitement at my account of them, I was encouraged to be excited as well. Perhaps Mr Darcy would also approve, and the work of change and renewal could transform even this hated scene of too many awful memories.
But to this day, a small, superstitious part of my nature wonders whether the very act of speaking of such plans and future hopes within the self-same spaces once presided over by Anne de Bourgh Darcy caused more trouble, after all.
* * *
Lady Day came and went, with no Lord Cavendish—sending a clear signal, I hoped, that he was in no hurry to act on the matter of poor Miss Bingley. Nevertheless, the reprieve could not be extended indefinitely, and he presented himself at Pemberley shortly after Easter. It was a surprise to find myself a participant in the conversation between he and Mr Darcy. I had been writing letters in the library, my favoured room, while my husband worked quietly at his desk. We often spent afternoons thus occupied, after he and his secretary or Mr Williams were finished for the day. Once every so often, Mr Darcy would say, “Listen to this,” and proceed to read me a portion of some treatise or article he found interesting—be it agricultural, trade, or politics. He never assumed I would not understand, nor hesitated to answer my questions if I did not. It was my favourite time of day, and I resented the interruption when Morton brought a visitor’s card to Mr Darcy.
His face lost all expression, returning to its most implacable. I realised, then, who the visitor must be. I stood, meaning to excuse myself.
But Mr Darcy came to stand beside me. “Please stay,” he said, as Morton announced Lord Cavendish.
He looked nothing like my imagination had painted him: grey-bearded, portly, elderly and dignified. Rather, he was a short, wiry, restless, soft-voiced man not yet fifty, with a peculiarly penetrating stare. Introductions were performed and he scrutinised me with fixed intensity for a longish moment; I fought the urge to look away.
“Mrs Darcy,” he said at last, “how do you find Pemberley? Are you settling in? I heard you have been away, visiting, an aunt, is it? But of course, we are more remote here, so close to the Peaks. Not everyone can be happy without convivial society.”
“I would be a foolish woman indeed if I could not be happy at Pemberley,” I replied. “But of course, the wife of Mr Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, regardless of any lack of welcome from her neighbours, have no cause to repine.”
He looked a bit startled at this rejoinder, and I was surprised to feel my husband’s touch at my waist—he was so seldom publicly demonstrative.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Well put. I see, Darcy, that you have chosen more wisely this time.”
My brows rose at this obvious disparagement of Anne; perhaps her legendary charm had failed her, for once?
“Have you told her yet what you had in the first one?” Cavendish asked.
“She knows,” he answered stiffly.
“’Tis a fine mess you have landed in this time. Unlucky man! The Scriptures declare you reap what you sow! You sow nothing but trouble! Why is that?” He glared at my husband as if he expected an answer, which irked me.
“‘Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord’,” I quoted mildly. If he was here to accuse with Scripture, I would be happy to argue with him in a language he could understand.
It was his turn to be taken aback, before giving a sharp bark of laughter. “Very well, very well,” he grumbled. “I know you do not deserve it. But Darcy, I cannot stop it. Too many untamed tongues, and what with the latest foolishness from the House of Lords, well…”
“Why should we care if there is an inquest?” I demanded. “Mr Darcy surely has nothing to fear, for he has done nothing wrong!”
He only looked at me sadly. “Of course he has not,” he said. “But what does it matter? I shall hold an inquisition. Evidence shall be presented that a blade, presumably the murder weapon, was found with the body. The blade is engraved with your husband’s initials. It is, by his own admission to me, a blade he once kept in the desk of this very room.”
I froze, not having understood that there was any evidence implicating Mr Darcy. But Lord Cavendish continued speaking, pacing back and forth across the library.
“You, Darcy, will testify that it has been missing for two years, and that you have no idea who took it from your library. Conjecture and rumour shall be presented. I will mention the names of all of the numerous persons, including every single individual who attended the house party during the summer of 1818, the last time Miss Bingley was seen, and who had access to this library, which is kept unlocked. I will call attention to the fact that though the blade was found with the body, due to the state of the corpse, there is no actual evidence proving it to be the murder weapon. I shall point out that it would be a stupid man, indeed, who would bury such incriminating evidence with the body on his own property, when a shrewder one could just as easily have replaced it in his desk drawer. I will emphasise that you were the one who gave orders for your steward, Mr Williams, to dig in the very area where the body was buried. I shall declare a verdict of death by unlawful killing, by a person or persons unknown.”
He stopped pacing and looked at us both. “And it will not matter. You will be beset by conjecture and rumour and innuendo for the rest of your life. Worse, your pretty wife will endure it, and your future children as well. I ask you, Darcy, to tell the truth. Cease protecting a woman who is dead and buried. Sadly, no one truly cares about Miss Caroline Bingley. No one liked her, no one missed her, and that is the hard truth of the matter. They cared for Anne Darcy, and they wonder how she died. Tell them the truth, all of it. Give the world something else to talk about.”
He stared hard at my husband. Mr Darcy’s face had not changed, wearing that same rigid expression he’d worn when putting me in a carriage, sending me away from him against every softer feeling he possessed. Obstinate, headstrong, man.
Lord Cavendish saw it too. He stalked from the room.