Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Thirty

Lord Cavendish announced ‘a formal coroner’s inquiry into the death of Miss Caroline Bingley’ would be held the next quarter-day, the twenty-fourth of June, and hied himself and Lady Cavendish back to London.

I shoved any worries about the situation to the back of my mind. Not only was there a lack of hard evidence, but neighbourhood opinion seemed to be tipping in our favour. Old Mr Davis, the linen draper who had been so impolite upon our first meeting, now treated me (and my purchases, it should be noted) with great courtesy, and others followed suit. I did not look upon it as bribery—Pemberley would never pay more than she should have to pay for goods and services. But she would pay fairly, and between a flourishing trade with Hopewell, new connexions with leading citizens, and London gossip having moved on to much newer scandals—well, no one was particularly pressing to have my husband hauled off to the stocks, so to speak. Seeing Mr Darcy at the Cavendish ball had reminded everyone who he really was, making print shop caricatures and anonymous broadsheets seem utterly ridiculous.

Bingley and Georgiana stayed for a month, and during that time, Georgiana shyly confided that they were fairly certain of ‘a happy event’ before Christmas. I was so delighted for her, and Bingley was over the moon with happiness. Mr Darcy was very pleased as well, of course, and did not seem to feel any anxiety because we had not yet been likewise blessed.

“I am quite happy to have you all to myself for the rest of my days,” he assured me when I quizzed him on the subject again. “Or, it will happen when it happens. It took them three years, when we have not even had one yet.”

I decided never to tell him of the long period of abstinence his friend had endured. His keen conscience would only feel somewhat to blame.

I received the bulky package by express, in the late afternoon approximately two weeks after the Cavendish ball. Since that event, I had been inundated with callers, invitations, and the accompanying duties of a hostess. Almost, I missed the quiet days of my first months at Pemberley, where most of my time was my own. However, I had made some promising friendships during these weeks, of both older and younger matrons of Derbyshire society, so I did not regret it. Still, neither did I regret that most would be following Lord and Lady Cavendish to London this week to finish the Season, for I required time for what I had privately named ‘The Great Project’.

It was, of course, impossible that I proceed without Mr Darcy’s full cooperation and authority, but I wished to at least have drawings done which faithfully represented the pictures in my mind’s eye. This was made easier due to the school building which—thanks to Lady Cavendish—had expanded in size and scope, and, as Lord Cavendish would say, folderol.

Mr Darcy looked up from his desk as I accepted the package. “The final drawings of the school?” he asked.

“Unquestionably,” I replied, walking to his desk. “And something else besides.”

My husband believed that the distinguished architect Mr Jeffry Wyatt had agreed to design the school due to Lady Cavendish’s influence, which was true, insofar as it went. But the allure of devising alterations to Pemberley was the true motive inspiring his charitable impulses, and when meeting with him, Lady Cavendish and I had managed to discreetly bring him through its cliffside wing and explain what was wanted.

Heart pounding, I untied the string and began to remove drawings. The first were of the school, a rather simple but elegant, classical building which would lie halfway between Hopewell and Pemberley and be accessible to both tenants and children from the village. To build such a large one was an almost unheard-of measure, certainly excessive by any standard, and not even entirely wanted, except by myself and Mr Marley. But we were convinced of its usefulness, its rightness even, and had managed to push the concept along. Following the ball, monies for its construction were amply secured.

And then I withdrew from the stack the drawings of Pemberley.

Mr Darcy’s brows raised in surprise.

“I have an idea for the cliffside wing—and new purposes, if you will,” I said, somewhat breathlessly. “I wanted you to see it as I can in my imagination, and Mr Wyatt kindly agreed to sketch out my proposal.”

“Kindness. Sketches. Indeed.” Mr Darcy murmured.

I understood his sarcasm. What lay before us were hardly ‘sketches’ such as I had envisioned, but exquisite renderings, an elegant vision merged with my own and added thereunto. But my heart soared to see them, for they were everything I had hoped for and more.

My proposal was to move the entire wing. Reconstruct it in the opposite direction, so it met up with the rest of the house and formed a more classical rectangular shape—with the end result resting far from the edge of the peak it was currently perched upon. Of course, Mr Wyatt had taken it all a good several steps further than ever I dreamed, with his end result nearly doubling the size of the house—adding an orangery, a theatre, a Turkish bath, a dairy, a new kitchen and numerous servants’ rooms—in addition to my particular project. I saw Mr Darcy comprehend what the drawings meant, saw the surprise on his normally calm mien.

“Mr Wyatt agreed there was sufficient room to build, and it would be possible to do so without tearing down the rest of the house, he said, although of course there might be some disorder and disruption for a time. Yes, it would be expensive, but Mr Martin feels that there is ample skilled labour in the county, and the jobs it would create in the short term might help to further our community goodwill. We would preserve everything possible in the reconstruction. At the same time, we could add some modern amenities—Mr Wyatt spoke of rather alluring-sounding plumbing, improved heating, and even exterior gas lighting.”

Mr Darcy continued to pore over the plans, brow furrowed, before finally coming to a large additional drawing.

“The Great Library of Pemberley,” he read. It showed an interior view, with columns where walls had once stood, added spacious windows and, in between them, massive ebony shelving to house books.

“What is this? Another entrance?” he asked, pointing to a set of exterior doors in what once had been the mistress’s bedchamber.

“That is part of my idea,” I said, talking more quickly in my anxiety. The very private master of Pemberley might not care much for this part of it. “Since, if we adopt these plans, there would be room to add exterior staircases, I thought, what if we were to provide a separate library entrance and enough um, supervision, to allow the public in?”

“Turn Pemberley into a–a lending library?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“Oh, no. No, of course not. We would not lend; any books must be read here. I thought perhaps we could hire a librarian, who could organise the books and help those who needed to find specific information. Such a person would help all of us, for we have so many volumes I cannot identify them all, including very many that will not fit in our current library. I realise there would be expenses besides the librarian—the extra fireplaces to keep the place warm throughout the day and more servants to ensure its security, although I think we should limit public admission to daylight hours, perhaps not even every day. And see here, a private reading room for the family’s use only, very comfortable and cosy.”

The family’s ‘cosy private reading room’—a larger room than the library we currently occupied—also was windowed, adding opportunity for reading or drawing with beautiful views of sky and clouds. It was a softened effect, perhaps, with no four hundred-foot death-defying drops, but what it lacked in drama it added in elegance, several times the original amount of space, and simple human appeal.

The ballroom would have to be rebuilt, of course, but in much the same design, with the addition of a large courtyard extending out onto the majestic cliffs, and a wrought-iron fencing surround, so that those who wished spectacular views of the valley below might have them safely. With the gas lighting, we might even offer out-of-doors dancing within it, when weather cooperated.

He continued to study the renderings carefully, occasionally referring between them. Finally, he spread them out upon the surface of his large desk, as if he were trying to picture each in three dimensions.

“What do you think of it?” I asked hesitantly, after some minutes passed.

He blinked up at me, as if he’d forgotten, momentarily, my presence. “Oh. Why, it is brilliant, of course.”

My eyes widened. “Does that mean you will consider the changes? We could handle the construction in stages, perhaps taking—”

He stepped away from the desk, turning to me fully, his eyes alight. “This…this is everything I never dreamed of, for Pemberley, for others. I have been stuck, for lack of a better word, mired in the past. Not simply my first marriage, but for so long looking backwards only, at the expectations and perceptions of people long dead.” He gently grasped my chin. “You, my darling, can see it so clearly, as you do so much else. The house is in the wrong place. It always has been, has always traded the full use of this land for one dramatic view, beheld by almost no one. Of course it ought to be redone, and, as we have the means to do it, we ought to be the ones responsible.” He held my face within his hands, his dark eyes looking deeply into mine. “Only you. Thank you.”

* * *

One of the unexpected results of our decision to redesign Pemberley was the announcement from Mr Donavan. His patient, he said, reported an improvement in her health. He told us almost reluctantly.

“I am most concerned that it is only her deep grief at seeing the destruction of her daughter’s life’s work at Pemberley, urging her to risk changes at a most unfortunate and fragile time,” he sighed. “She, naturally, wishes to be gone from here and in her own home before she must witness it.”

“I find it highly unlikely her health is connected to remodelling,” Mr Darcy retorted. “After all, Anne expended a great deal of effort refurbishing Throckmorton time and again, and it burnt to the ground. Mrs de Bourgh seems to have accepted its absence, and will surely adapt to this change as well.”

I could see the doctor wished to offer a scathing reply, so I intervened.

“We destroy nothing,” I said more gently. “Her greatest contribution, the ballroom, will be rebuilt in every particular, her design remaining intact. We will preserve the panelling, the flooring, the chandeliers. We only add the glassed doors she wished for at the time, now that it would be safe to do so. It will be as beautiful as it ever was.”

He sniffed. “Perhaps, to you. I have noticed that many of the gentry hereabouts are uninterested in topics of a serious stamp, such as the destruction of great art and architecture, though Mrs Darcy created it for the benefit of generations.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Mr Darcy retorted, and I knew he was about to give the good doctor an earful that, however deserved, would be twisted into something far worse than a reprimand when repeated.

“Certainly we do not wish for Mrs de Bourgh’s health to suffer,” I interpolated. “Like you, we believe that the sea air of her home in Ramsgate will be truly restorative. I am certain you are concerned for her safety on the journey, and naturally we hope to retain your services until she is settled in those familiar surroundings. Unless, of course, your patients here cannot spare you?”

Obviously, he had not expected this sop to his pride, for his startled expression quickly reflected covetous interest, and his next words suggested a new, conciliatory spirit.

“I am in agreement, and I do not think it of light importance that Mrs de Bourgh should have inattentive companionship. And though it is possible that some might suffer in my absence, I cannot acquit myself of that duty, nor could I think well of the physician who should omit any occasion of showing his respect towards one so closely connected to the House of Darcy.” He bowed low. “I shall contact Mr Tilbury, of Buxton, to whom I have lent my own skills in the past. I am certain he shall wish to make himself available to the good citizens of Hopewell.” With that, he hurried away, a new lightness to his step as he contemplated a seaside holiday.

Mr Darcy gave me a look of some exasperation. “Does Donavan truly expect it all to remain unchanged forever? Anne, herself, redecorated her rooms at least three times, and would likely have done it three more, given the opportunity. She would have gone through three fortunes doing it, if permitted.”

I went to him, putting my hand upon his cheek. “I fear the new Mrs Darcy is spending more than the old one ever did on builders’ schemes.”

He turned his face to my palm, kissing it, and pulling me in closer. “The new Mrs Darcy thinks only of her husband and the future with her scheming. And now you and your arts and allurements are distracting me from my frustration with that gudgeon—and doing a splendid job of it, I might add.”

“Arts and allurements!” I protested hotly. “I only—” but he stopped all words with a kiss having nothing to do with schemes or builders or doctors or ballrooms, unfairly winning his point.

Hence, the first week in June, a carriage—carrying only a veiled Mrs de Bourgh, her maid, and her solicitous physician—clattered down the Pemberley drive. Mr Darcy and I, along with Nurse Rook—who Mrs de Bourgh, unsurprisingly, hated and had not wished to bring—Morton, and Mrs Reynolds alone stood at the top of the curving steps to bid her farewell. She had looked at none of us, and though I wished her a pleasant journey, she ignored me. Mr Darcy said nothing at all, remaining stoic.

“And there departs one excessively disagreeable woman,” Nurse Rook muttered.

“She has had a great loss,” I offered aloud, though inwardly agreeing wholeheartedly.

But the nurse snorted. “Loss! I have seen loss! My last place, four children stricken with fever and three of them died. The grieving father hired me to help the mother convalesce, her who’d nearly died herself, and she bore up better than that woman! Putting herself through a window and losing an eye! And for what? Does she think the master will lose sleep at night over it?” She seemed to remember herself then, and flushed. “Beg pardon, sir, ma’am.”

Mr Darcy only nodded, and the nurse and the other two servants departed, leaving us alone in the crisp, cool air. The sky was grey with clouds, but it did not feel, particularly, like rain, and I thought they would have an unremarkable, though lengthy journey.

“She refused to take Anne’s portraits,” I said into the silence. “Not even the one of her as a girl.”

He turned to me. “I heard all about that tantrum, though not from you.” He tapped my nose. “Which is why the carts of Anne’s belongings left beforehand by a few days, and the portraits are in them regardless of her ill-delivered opinions. I sent word to her new housekeeper there and all should be stowed safely inside her Ramsgate home well before she arrives. Perhaps, one day, she will be able to remember the past only as it gives her pleasure and perception. A wise woman taught me that, once.”

I looked up at him; I was heartened and relieved at how peaceful his expression.

“And perhaps we ought to add something to Nurse Rook’s wages before she departs,” he added.

I smiled. “’Tis already done.”

* * *

Despite the massive disruption to routine and the noise and confusion of so many workmen, the mood of the house was a cheerful one when construction began the very next day.

They would not begin on the house itself, of course, but digging foundations for the new wing. Mrs Reynolds’s workers busily toiled at clearing, storing, and packing away all the remaining furnishings in the cliffside wing. Other workmen would be occupied removing all that could be removed, including panelling, marble tiles, carvings, and other woodwork. Mr Wyatt had arrived this morning and hopped between crews of men and Mr Williams, who directed them.

I welcomed the disarray, for it kept my mind from dwelling on inquests and a future beyond my control, in favour of events I could. Ten days or so previous, Miss Bickford had offered a remark about the planned-for renovations, which led to a discussion, which led, somehow, to my agreement to lead a contingent of the villagers on a tour through the cliffside wing before it was utterly dismantled—a surprising number of them having heard of the majestic view from the upper floor and strongly desiring to see it.

Mr Darcy was not enthusiastic about the idea, as it was difficult for him to forgive the slights I had received in the past; he had no desire to share the part of the house he hated with people he resented. But he was also more than willing that I should do as seemed to me best, and to support me in whatsoever way he could, and so he welcomed them all to our home and spoke a word or two to each of the seven villagers, six women and one man—the dogmatic Mr Davis. It was all a bit stiff and awkward, but I sensed no hostility, only the discomfiture of people from different stations interacting. I thought it was good for all of us; we were neighbours, and ought to treat each other with courtesy and kindness, no matter our differences.

As Mrs Reynolds shepherded them from the parlour where they had gathered, Mr Davis turned back to Mr Darcy. He cleared his throat, reddened, and spoke. “Sir, a word, if you will—my brother, him as owns The Ox and Mouse—he says Wickham be back in town. I just thought as you ought to know.” With that, he followed the rest of the ladies out before another word could be spoken.

We looked at each other in shared wonderment. Of course, the news of Wickham’s return was disagreeable. But the fact that a citizen of Hopewell disclosed it directly was a clear sign, I thought. The public had taken sides on the rumours and gossip of the past. They sided with us.

I smiled at Mr Darcy, and followed the villagers and Mrs Reynolds.