Nameless by Julie Cooper
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was an ugly story, and I understood perfectly now why he had not wished to share any of it. How terrible and vicious it had all become, what scenes of violence he endured, and I embraced him more tightly as I realised that he might have met his own early demise, just as Miss Bingley had. It was no wonder he believed Anne had killed her.
But he still had not explained how she had met her death.
While we had been talking, the late afternoon sun weakened into nightfall; the servants, probably noting Lord Cavendish’s hasty departure and the fact we had remained closeted in the library, had not disturbed us. We were accustomed to eating early and rising early, country hours which appealed to both of us and our servants as well. Now we sat quietly by the light of the fire, simply holding each other. Mr Darcy seemed calmer now, his body peaceful against mine. That awful rigidity possessing him at Lord Cavendish’s departure was gone. For the first time in our marriage, instead of walling me off from his pain, he had drawn me to him. His instincts were to protect me from ugliness. His experience had taught him that he was unacceptable and unlovable. He had overcome both instinct and experience in order to reach for me. And so, despite the dreadful topic of conversation, I felt closer to him, and more content, than I ever had. A part of me feared that if we did not complete this discussion now, we never would, so horrible was its subject. But a greater part of me simply trusted him. He would tell me what I asked, when I asked it. He was trying.
“Cook will have dinner ready by now, and Mrs Reynolds will be fretting about whether to risk her temper or yours by interrupting us,” I said. “I know there is more to this story, and I very much need to hear it. Perhaps we should have our evening meal, and talk more when we are refreshed?”
He bent to kiss me, lightly, tenderly, a gesture of appreciation as well as affection. “Thank you,” he said, “for listening to so much. Yes, let us take a respite from the past to enjoy what is here and now.” Standing, he helped me rise and kept my hand in his as we left the library.
We were mostly quiet in our evening meal; I had much to contemplate, while Mr Darcy was never talkative. How had it been, at all those meals he had shared with the late Anne de Bourgh? Granted, by his own admission, he had been ignorant of the lion’s share of her disloyalty. Still, he had known enough, had he not? He had known her disgust of him; he had felt his disgust of her. The violent rows, the huge betrayals, the parts of his marriage he had hitherto shared—these, perhaps, would not have been the worst part of such an unequal alliance. No, it would be the hours, day in, day out, of loneliness and isolation. The endless dinners while the servants looked on and she, maintaining her charade of perfection, chattered about the parties she organised, the shopping she’d done, the redecorations she planned—her mother her fascinated audience of one—while he simply ate, endured, and waited for the meal to be finished.
What had Mrs Reynolds said? The master had ‘gone quiet’ until she’d believed it was simply his way. I had wondered, when she said it, how much different he could possibly have been from his usual manner.
But though he was a quiet man, he was not a dull and solemn one. He thought before he spoke, and preferred to listen over speaking; he asked questions—how had my recent tenant visits gone to the Allen and Henshaw families? What news from the Bingleys in Georgiana’s latest letter? Had I read of the recent unrest in the papers resulting from the Cato Street conspiracy? What were my thoughts upon the matter? And always, always, he gave my answers his complete undivided attention, as if I were the most interesting person he had ever met.
How could she not have loved him?
* * *
He came to me before Clara was finished braiding my hair, simply standing in the doorway, waiting. She quickly completed her work and wished us a good night, for there was something in his demeanour expressing impatience, though he said not a word to indicate it.
Could it be, I wondered, that he actually wished to speak of it all? That he found some sort of relief in unburdening himself thus? He took my hand, leading me back to his own rooms. He had candles lit, his fire built up, and the leather settee drawn before it. There was even, I noticed, a covered tray on the table beside it, a sign of refreshments available if we wanted them. He removed his banyan and tossed it onto his bed, taking a seat before the fire. I sat beside him and he drew his arm around me, but once we were settled, he made no move to begin speaking. Rather, he seemed content to just be.
The unburdening required completion, however, and so I asked my questions.
“Were you injured? When she came at you with the poker?”
In answer, he shifted away to pull his nightshirt off one side, exposing his middle and twisting around to present his back. “Is the light enough to see it? Right there.”
I examined his skin where he pointed, immediately noticing a scar that I had previously attributed to some childhood injury. It was fairly thick, as if from a deep puncture, on the left side of his back. But as I scrutinised, I noticed other ones, not so obvious, as if she had stabbed at him again and again more shallowly while he twisted and turned away from her, and I shuddered. Even a non-mortal wound was dangerous, the risk of infection great.
I placed a kiss upon it, foolishly, as if that could heal the old wound, and he drew me up to stop me. “You had not better,” he said, “or my thoughts will stray far from the past, to the perfect present, here alone with my beautiful wife, and nothing to prevent me from doing with you whatever I will.”
The look in his eyes was an intent one I had seen many times before, and I admit I was dearly tempted. But it was time to put the past away, cut it off like deadwood, understand it, learn from it if we could—but press forward, regardless. I smiled back at him, but helped him replace the nightshirt.
“Thankfully, she was unsuccessful in her attempt,” I said.
“She struck me from behind, as you can see, or her attack would not have amounted to much. Fortunately, my coat material was a dense wool, which protected me somewhat, though it hurt like the very devil. I suppose, had it been a normal day, the servants would have rushed in, as I yelled loudly enough—but it was a harvest feast day, most were away, and Pemberley operated with a skeleton crew. As soon as I got the weapon away from her, I asked her what she thought she was doing and told her I would have her committed to Bedlam.”
“A fair consequence,” I said.
He sighed. “She was completely lost to rage, cursing me, then threatening to do herself harm and running out onto the terrace. She had always loved sitting on the edge of the balustrade with her feet dangling over the edge, though I often warned her it was foolish. She did it again, threatening to drop, but this time, you will forgive me if I was not overly concerned for her health and safety.”
“Of course,” I murmured, remembering what Georgiana had told me regarding the prank he had once played, of pretending to drop from the balustrade while she watched, in reality landing upon a ledge beneath it. “You do not mean because of your wounds. She threatened to fall from the one place it was safe to do so?”
“Not by any means safe, but less perilous,” he agreed. “How did you know?”
“Your sister told me of your hoax,” I replied. “When you were a boy.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “I was a stupid, thoughtless gudgeon, and I ought to have been horsewhipped for terrifying her so cruelly. And perhaps my grandfather ought to have been as well, for creating so dangerous a terrace in the first place. Yes, Anne was in the exact spot it was safest to execute such a deception.”
“But she knew you pulled the same trick in the past, that you would be aware of the ledge below.”
He shrugged. “My guess is, she had always wanted to try it herself, and was angry enough to do it—to at least get some response from me after all my past warnings and to attempt to penetrate my current indifference. But once she let herself fall, I did not even glance over the edge to see whether she was safe. Instead, I returned to my rooms to clean myself up—I was covered in my own blood. I had at least planned my foolish, inconsiderate boyhood prank out beforehand, equipping the terrace with rope to enable a climb back up to safety. Hers was an impulsive, dramatic performance. I thought to let her stew and bandage my wounds before I rescued her. It was, perhaps, a quarter-hour before I went to fetch a rope ladder to haul her back up. It might have been a half an hour before I returned to her.”
“Did she…had she broken her neck in the fall?”
“She had broken something. I saw she was lying at an awkward, unnatural angle on the ground beneath the ledge.”
I shuddered at the image. “An accident then. But definitely not your fault.”
He sighed. “I secured the rope ladder, then climbed down to her as quickly as I could. She was still conscious. ‘I made the landing,’ she whispered. ‘I tried to climb back up again, though, and slipped, missing the ledge. I cannot move my legs, or feel them. Please, if you have one ounce of pity in your soul, push me the rest of the way over the cliff and finish the job.’ I noticed then, how she had raked the dirt, trying to gain traction enough to do it herself. But she was a good four feet from the edge, and she hadn’t the strength.”
I looked up at him. “Did you do it? Help her finish her suicide?”
“No,” he said gravely. “I assured her I would get help. I climbed up the rope ladder as fast as I could, hurrying to the stables to have Frost fetch the doctor. I nearly ran headlong into Richard, and told him, very briefly, what had occurred, and sent him to wait with her. Then I searched the stables for more rope, and something that would work as a makeshift litter, and hurried back with Frost’s son. When we reached the terrace, I looked over the edge. There was no sign of Richard. There was no sign of Anne. I swiftly climbed back down the rope, peered over the cliff’s ledge, and saw her broken body below.”
“You believe he ended her,” I said, rather unnecessarily.
“One of the many sordid confessions she threw at me in that final row was how she abused poor Richard, exploiting his love for her to make his life a misery. He resisted her—he never did anything adulterous, she claimed—but he is shy and awkward with women, and she, apparently, would repeatedly express to him, with great longing, how much she wished she was married to him instead of me, how unhappy she was with me. She laughed at the tears he’d shed over her, telling me that his pain was nearly as good as a whipping for her enjoyment.”
“Oh. That is sickening,” I said.
“He did not return to Pemberley for over a week. I am certain he was quite helpless against her orders. I never told a soul he might have been there.”
“What did you tell the doctor when he arrived?”
He shook his head. “Old Mr Simpson was quite elderly. He never climbed down the rope ladder to examine the grounds. As it was, I could easily see the slight indentations where she had fallen, and the scratches in the earth showing where she had futilely tried to move herself. There were no indications that she had been able to get any further, but some of the scrub was bent or broken, a sign perhaps she had been dragged.”
I found that puzzling. “But, did you not just admit he was wildly in love with her? He seems quite strong enough to have picked her up. I beg pardon if I sound harsh, but dragging her body to the edge and a solid push is hardly the romantic work of a lover.”
“Perhaps he only moved her closer, and I am mistaken in how. Perhaps she found the strength to push herself the rest of the way, once he helped her gain the edge. Either way, I know it haunts him. I cannot think how to make it better for him—if he truly loved her, would he appreciate knowing she was unworthy of it? Or would he believe it jealousy on my part? Is it cruel to ruin his image of her?”
“How could it be? He could not have loved her, not truly. He did not know her, only the façade she presented to him. Perhaps it happened the way you believe—but you must talk to him. You said Wickham was in the area. Perhaps he was responsible, and Mr Williams arrived too late. He may have been infatuated with the idea of her, but I gained from him the distinct impression he believes you to be responsible for her death. I cannot be certain, of course.”
“I am responsible for it. If I had taken two minutes to lean over the balustrade and tell her I would be back with a rope, she might never have taken the risk of attempting an ascent without one. She would be alive today. Even if I had managed to return with a litter and get her to the house, she was horribly injured. Her life, as she knew it, was over, if she could even survive. My fault.”
“I fervently disagree. No one told her to purposely fall in the first place, or endeavour to climb back up alone. Those were her decisions, made in anger, as the most senseless choices always are. Did you hear her calling for you to help her? I would lay money you did not, or you would have.”
“No. But cannot you think it better to let sleeping dogs lie?”
“As much as I hate to remind you, the dogs growl and bark now rather than nap. Did you tell Mr Simpson the whole truth?”
“Yes, excepting Richard’s part. I told both Simpson and Cavendish that she somehow must have pushed herself the rest of the way. I swore them both to secrecy, for I did not want her death to be thought a suicide. I pleaded with them to regard the whole thing as a stupid accident, since there was no assurance she would have survived, even had she not fallen further. I begged them to say nothing regarding the details of her death. I wanted her to have a Christian burial.”
My thoughts on what good a Christian burial would do for a woman who had lived an amoral life filled with hatred and destruction, I kept to myself.
“And now Lord Cavendish wishes to be released from his vow, and clear your reputation by revealing hers, up to and including her supposed ‘accidental suicide’. Would that be so terrible?”
“Then she lives on,” he said, arising to lean against the chimneypiece and stare into the flames. “Scandal and gossip will thrive on the new tales, growing to legendary proportions, as talk surrounding the too-early deaths of fascinating, wicked, and beautiful people always does. And even more of them will believe I killed her, only now they will assume they know why. I just want her to stay dead. Is it too much to ask, I wonder?”
“Perhaps, as long as her death is shrouded in mystery, it will continue to inspire as much talk as the truth ever could. Surely the inquest would necessitate the truth’s revelation, vow or no vow.”
He just stood there, his tension returning. I understood more now, why he had hoped for it all to remain in the past, why he had so stubbornly clung to his silence. I waited, letting him ponder the myriad lies, confusion, mystery, and horror of it all. It was a lot, I could admit. At last, he sat again, but hunched forward, elbows on knees, head in hands—a desolate pose.
“All, now, is exactly what she would have wanted,” I said gently, coasting my fingers across the thin fabric of his nightshirt, tracing the little pucker of his scar. “People talking about her, wondering about her, remembering her. Perhaps they always will. But they also talk of you, still spreading her poison, and casting your honour into doubt. If Lord Cavendish can clear it, we ought to let him try, I think. But I will stand beside you, and proudly, whatever you decide.”
Sighing, he again took me into his arms, leaning back against the settee. “I cannot bear for you to be hurt by my stupid mistakes. I promise you that I sincerely believed it would all just fade, with a bit of time. Perhaps, had I waited to remarry, it might have. But I was selfish.”
“I am happy we married when we did. With all that has occurred since, you might have thought you never should pursue remarriage. That would be the true tragedy.”
He leant down and kissed my forehead. “Pemberley’s people stay loyal, because I pay them well. The rest? It is as though the first nine and twenty years of my life did not exist, for all the world trusts in my integrity since my first marriage. And now the countryside takes it out upon you, the one most deserving of their respect.”
“Pemberley stays loyal because they have had the best and most opportunity to know you as the good man you are. Your tenants respect you, and treat both of us well. I realise we have a vocal few in Hopewell who have taken a dissenting opinion, and perhaps detractors amongst Anne’s friends in the country and London. If you are not ready to release Lord Cavendish from his promise, will you, at least, speak with Mr Williams? If he had a part in her death, perhaps he would benefit from your understanding.”
For long moments, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
“As I have benefited from yours,” he said at last. “I will do it. I will speak to him.”