Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Iwas uncertain when, exactly, Mr Darcy would see fit to speak with Mr Williams—but I was not overly surprised when it happened within a few days. When Mr Darcy decided to act, he seldom delayed.

I had received a letter from Jane—a thick one by the feel of it—and was anxious to read news of her and her little daughter, her boys, and Mr Tilney. I wished to savour it, however, so I forced myself to wait until after I attended to the daily duties, inspections, menus, and business of the mistress of Pemberley before finally retiring to the library to read it.

But the library proved occupied. Mr Darcy and Mr Williams stood as I paused in the doorway.

“Oh,” I said. “I did not realise you were still busy in here. I will go elsewhere.”

“No, please enter,” my husband said. “Mr Williams wishes to speak to you.”

“To me?” I asked, surprised. Mr Williams seldom had a direct word to say in my company.

“I wish to apologise,” he said in his usual diffident voice.

Shutting the door behind me, I took a seat upon the leather couch. Mr Darcy sat down beside me, with Mr Williams in the chair across from us both.

“I am certain you have nothing to apologise for,” I said, after an awkward moment.

“Oh, but I do,” he said. “I have known Mr Darcy all my life. Never have I seen him behave in any manner except as a gentleman ought, and yet I was mistaken, sorely mistaken in his character. Oftentimes, I decided that she must be wrong, that she must misunderstand. It seemed impossible, the things she said.”

I did not have to ask who ‘she’ was.

“Oh, she never accused him of anything outright. It was all subtleties and subterfuge, hints and then retractions. There was nothing to confront him about, really—and all of the time, I was ashamed of my feelings and what they were. I knew it was wrong, to covet another man’s wife as I did.” He looked up at his employer. “If I had understood you knew, I would have resigned my post. I thought I hid it. I tried to hide it. I tried not to feel it.”

“That is one of the many reasons I said nothing,” my husband explained. “She wanted you to leave me. Estranging me from those I cared for was her first object, always. I simply said nothing for…too long. It has become rather a habit with me.”

I took his hand in mine, and squeezed.

Mr Williams cleared his throat before resuming. “Mrs Darcy, you spoke to me about a subject of some significance shortly after your arrival at Pemberley. At the time, I was grieving and resentful of Darcy’s new marriage, angry at him for so quickly replacing Anne as mistress. I want you to know, before I say anything else, that by the time your husband spoke with me this morning upon those other painful subjects, I had already decided that I was mistaken. Not only are you better to our tenants than she ever was, but Darcy is so much improved in spirits. I wondered, you see, if he would treat you with the same disdain Anne accused him of—instead, I saw the difference in how you treated him. I did not want to see it, I suppose. I wanted to believe her perfect and perfectly justified.” His soft voice was bitter.

“If there is any apology needed, please render it to my husband. I would hope, if ever a female at Pemberley were to come to you with tales of abuse, you would go to him immediately—even if he was the one thus accused.”

Mr Darcy demurred. “You did not know her, darling. Her manipulations were masterfully performed.”

But Mr Williams shook his head, firmly. “You are correct, Mrs Darcy. It was only complicated in my mind—with shame, fear of losing my place, fear of losing what little connexion I had with her. I have already apologised, and will continue to feel self-reproach over my part in such deceit. Mr Darcy has rejected my offer to resign, wishing me to stay on. However, if you desire me gone, he has promised me that he will not object.”

“Me? Why would I wish you to leave?”

“The day when you asked me if I believed he killed his first wife, I turned away from you rather than answering. I ought to have reassured you of his fine character, which I knew to be true and honourable. Instead, in my bitterness and grief, I justified frightening you, when I knew you were safe—would always be safe with him.”

Mr Darcy sighed. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Richard, tell her what you saw. Tell her what happened on the day she died.”

There was an uncomfortable pause while the steward collected his emotions. When he spoke, it was his feet he addressed. “Late one afternoon last September, Mr Darcy informed me there had been an accident, that Mrs Darcy had fallen from the balustrade and was hurt. I went as quickly as I could to her side; to say she was hurt was to put it mildly. She was pale as a ghost and more dead than alive, I thought. I-I wept, to see her so broken. She opened her eyes to look at me, and then begged me to push her the rest of the way off the cliff, saying she could not live thus injured, that she could not feel her-her limbs. I told her I couldn’t, I couldn’t, that I would love her as she was, that I would care for her myself, if Darcy wouldn’t.”

The man was not sparing himself in the slightest in this candid retelling. I could see the memories deeply embarrassed him, and confessing them all before his employer—and, I thought, dearest friend—was a penance for his pride.

“That was very kind of you,” I said gently. Mr Darcy squeezed my hand.

“She did not want my kindness,” he said, a little of acrimony in his tone. “She told me to go away, that she did not want me there, that Darcy had promised to finish what he’d started and she would hold him to it. Those were her very words, ‘finish what he’d started’.

“‘He did this to you?’ I cried. ‘Surely he never would!’ But she screamed at me to go, to get away, and I was afraid of further distressing her, that she would exacerbate her injuries. I climbed back up the ropes, re-entering Darcy’s chamber and this time I noticed what I had missed before.”

He hesitated, and Mr Darcy said to me, “The blood.”

“Ohh,” I replied. “You saw the results of her attack upon him.”

“Except I did not ask him,” Mr Williams cried. “Instead, I imagined multiple scenarios of violence gone amiss, of her guilt and his, mutually.”

“Anne once told him that it was I who had a taste for pain,” Mr Darcy said wryly. “But she also told him I was teaching her to enjoy it.”

“She liked to say things to embarrass me, though,” Mr Williams interjected, his cheeks almost purple with mortification. “I never did really believe it, not of either of you. I supposed she was teasing.”

“I called Pennywithers in,” Mr Darcy said, obviously giving Mr Williams a few moments to recover his equanimity, “and asked him to explain to Mr Williams the wounds I suffered at the hands of the first Mrs Darcy. You know, ’tis odd, I do not remember all the blood and mess of it, but Pennywithers assured us that it was as Mr Williams remembered. He said he had a dreadful time removing it from the carpets, and then gave us a rather gruesome exposition on how he accomplished it. To prevent any in the house from knowing, he burned the clothing, believing that he was protecting both myself and Anne from embarrassment. The soul of discretion, is Pennywithers. Finish the tale, Richard.”

“I took the footpath down the mountainside,” the steward relayed, more quietly now. “I was distressed, grieving, and I had only made it about half of the way down when…when her body went rolling past me. I looked up, saw only a part of a black coat. Mr Darcy wore a black coat when he sent me to her. I thought he might have obeyed her orders, but I never believed he hurt her apurpose. I knew he would never hurt anyone apurpose. I knew it. I also knew she was more dead than living, that her odds of surviving her injury were slim. And at times I thought I hadn’t seen anyone or anything, that it was just a terrible memory, my mind playing tricks. I went to London and stayed…er…inebriated for several days. When I returned, I decided it was simply better not to know, to grow past it.” He hung his head, so obviously ashamed and upset, I forgave him instantly for any words he might have misspoken in the past. After all, he had almost always been kind, but for that one day, one moment alone in the woods at Thorncroft. And I blamed her for that.

“Richard and I climbed down that rope again and had a look around that ledge,” Mr Darcy said. “There is a crevice where a man might hide, if someone truly did climb down the rope besides just the two of us. Neither of us even dreamt of anyone else being there, and certainly we were paying little attention to such details.”

There was a long moment of silence, as we all contemplated the possibility of Wickham’s involvement. And yet, he had claimed he had a note from her, calling him to Pemberley, and that it haunted him, his inability to ever learn what she had wanted. Still, the man lied whenever he opened his mouth. If it were anyone, it had to be him. Yet I could not discount the notion that she might have found the strength to push herself.

“Of course I do not wish you to leave Pemberley,” I assured him. “I think there has been more than enough suffering here, do not you?”

“You are certain?” Mr Williams said, looking up from his feet. “I would not blame you for feeling otherwise.”

“It is time to look to the future, I think. And now gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have letters to attend to. Mr Williams, will you stay to dinner? Cook is serving her venison pie, which I know you enjoy.” I stood, and both gentlemen rose. I curtseyed, and Mr Darcy caught my hand again, kissing it. Mr Williams bowed low.

“Thank you, Mrs Darcy. Yes, please. I would very much enjoy Cook’s venison.” He smiled and I thought how much more handsome he appeared when cheerful. Not anything to Mr Darcy, but still. I grinned at my thoughts, and made haste to my rooms, eager to read Jane’s letter. Such letters as I could write her in return! Though likely, I never would. Who would believe it? Mrs Radcliffe ought to hear such a plot!

* * *

My Dearest Sister,

I apologise for the extensive delay since I began this letter, as Recent Events have interfered in its response. Oh, how I long for your visit, to introduce you to our beautiful baby girl! You shall be here in the summer, as I hope you remember to have promised. Her brothers are so good and sweet and kind to her…

What followed was a protracted description of each of her children—in whom she had a well-deserved mother’s pride. For the first time ever, however, I only skimmed her first several paragraphs, looking as I was for information on a different subject altogether. At last, I found it.

You cannot know how happy I am that you have finally written on a topic that has troubled me for many years and more especially since the surprising news of your marriage. When I first learned of it (which was not, I think, until after Harry was born), it was easy to put it from my mind, for as much as I appreciated Mr Darcy’s solicitude towards my husband, I knew you were not fond of him, and our acquaintance with him had been of such brief duration and transpired during a period of time perhaps better forgotten.

I smiled at Jane’s kindly, convoluted way of saying ‘we hated him, we did not want to think of him’.

But over the years, and each time the subject has arisen, I have wanted to write to you, and tell you that the man who we, doubtless wrongly, blamed for my disappointed hopes was not the villain we thought.

Well, he had been somewhat to blame, but I would never share those details with her, unnecessary as they were for her to know at this point.

However, when you wrote to tell us of Lydia’s rescue at his hand, my astonishment was so enormous, I nearly replied with everything I know then and there. Only a promise I made to Tilney stopped me—for my discovery of the purchaser of Matlock’s benefice and to whom we owed the living, was quite by accident. The earl mentioned it, not remembering it was to be kept a secret from me. Yes, a secret! I really had never given it much thought before that moment, but if I had, I would have supposed that Tilney was known to the earl. They were certainly on the best of terms, then and now. But no, that is not what occurred.

Completely unexpectedly, Mr Darcy appeared in his rooms—do you remember, those rooms Tilney once had on Honey Lane?—and told him that his cousin needed a good man to fill his living, and Mr Darcy wished to recommend him for the post, if he was interested. My husband was, of course, most especially interested, having hoped that his curacy would lead to a living elsewhere paying enough for him to marry. But as you know, he had been in it for four years with nothing to show for it, and though his family are all that is good and respectable, they hadn’t been able to do much beyond his schooling. Still, he could not simply agree without knowing all the particulars, and though Mr Darcy was reticent, Tilney eventually learned that he was paying the earl for the benefice, as his own was filled. I know not how Mr Darcy learnt of Tilney’s need. They went to school together but had not had any contact in some years.

Hah! When Mr Darcy wished to know something, he would soon know it! I had no doubt of it being at his instigation, but of course, now that I knew he often partnered with my uncle, it was easier to fathom how he had come by the information. All he need do was persuade Mr Ferrars, in that listening way he had, to provide details. If my uncle had suspected Mr Tilney’s hopes in Jane’s direction (which, from the perspective of time, seem rather obvious to me now), it would not take much prodding for him to reveal his concerns to his partner.

It was several months after our marriage before Mr Darcy came to visit the earl—he has never come very often, and when he does, it is only to stay two or three nights at the most—and he finally told Tilney (and only because my husband pressed) of his regret over the death of our father. The motive professed was his conviction of it being his own fault that Wickham’s reputation had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, confessing that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself—the evil of course being our father’s death while trying to rescue our poor sister. I did not know then—and neither did Tilney—that he had also rescued Lydia, until you surprised us with the news!

Mr Darcy begged Tilney swear not to reveal his benefactor, and he did not. But when I did learn it, and then later, when I grew to appreciate his many kindnesses to our family (as he was also responsible for the renovation of the rectory after Jack was born, for which information I likewise owe to the earl) and I felt to tell you of his goodness—as I knew you had long outgrown any derogatory feelings—but Tilney was adamant. He had promised Mr Darcy he would say nothing to us, and though I had discovered the truth by accident, no one else should know it. I said I would not, but if you ever asked me outright, I would not lie. Of course, there was no reason you ever would or should. And then came the astounding news of his proposal to you! I begged dear Tilney to do his best to bring you to us, so I could determine whether this was some sort of charitable instinct gone too far—though of course, any man would be fortunate to win your regard.

I tried not to be insulted by her first feelings of distrust—had not I, too, experienced them? By any standard, marrying me was quite the extra mile for a long-ago debt owed a man dead nearly a decade.

But dear Tilney said you were both determined to have the wedding at once, and he could not persuade you otherwise. Oh, did it test the limits of my fortitude to keep my promise! I have hoped and waited for your quick mind to realise it was quite the incredible coincidence, such a connexion between Tilney and the earl and Mr Darcy.

Not so very quick, after all, but then, Mr Darcy had subverted any enquiries by emphasising his connexion with Mr Tilney right from the outset, yet distancing himself at the same time. The trickster! I remembered him asking my nephews’ names—when he knew them all, doubtless!

I will say one other thing—I do not think your Mr Darcy has been happy in a long while. I have quizzed my dear Tilney on the subject, and he could provide no particulars, although he admitted once that the earl did not care overmuch for Mr Darcy’s first wife. I do not know what sorrows he has borne, only that he has them. Perhaps he yearns for a child—although when I mentioned my notion to Tilney, he simply offered to give him Jack, the teasing man!

I smiled, for Jack’s adventurous spirit had landed him in a scrape or two; and how very like dear, sympathetic Jane, to notice my husband’s hidden sorrows!

Since your wedding, I have eagerly awaited your every letter, hoping that your happiness was assured, but also hoping you would ask whether there was more to learn. I cannot help wondering now, dear sister, whether there was always more to Tilney’s placement than what Mr Darcy felt he owed to our father? I will say now how much I like him. His behaviour to us has been, in every respect, as agreeable as anyone’s could be. His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and that, since he has married so prudently, his wife may teach him.

I did not need to hear this further confirmation that he had watched over each of us all these years. It changed nothing. But it was sweet to know, all the same.