Nameless by Julie Cooper

Epilogue

Last night I dreamt of Pemberley again.

I woke, sitting up, heart pounding, to the lovely dawn views of Pemberley woods framed by a perfectly placed window in the bedchamber that had become ‘ours’ rather than ‘his’ long ago. Fitzwilliam smiled sleepily at me.

“Awake so early, darling?” he asked, reaching for me.

I snuggled in close beside him, waiting for the wisps of night terrors to utterly subside. I had not had the dream in many years, but it was no real surprise that it had come now. Our youngest son, Bennet, was leaving for school today, and though he was perfectly excited, with two older brothers having eagerly prepared the way, and with Richard’s eldest son—Bennet’s best friend—joining him in the adventure, my mother’s heart would feel all the anxieties of this new season of life. For long minutes, Fitzwilliam and I lay facing each other while he expertly combed his fingers through my hair to ruin the braid restraining it.

“I wish tutors were adequate, and that little boys would remain little for much longer than they do,” I said softly.

“We shall take great care and pay careful attention,” he assured me. “The moment it appears Bennet is not thriving, we will bring him home, or find a different situation for him. I swear it.”

I smiled. “You made the same promise with the other two, and I have yet to have a son returned to me.”

“And you would not have it any other way,” he added. “Nor I.” I saw, then, his own little sorrow, joy, and pride, in perfect alignment with my own.

“Motherhood is difficult, at times,” I whispered. “But you are the rock that strengthens me. I can do anything, bear anything, as long as you are beside me.”

“You are my heart,” he said simply. And when tenderness and affection slipped into something more passionate, I welcomed him eagerly. We would face this, as we had so much else, together.

When my husband’s even breathing told me he had fallen back to sleep, I slipped out of bed and into my sitting room to watch the sun come up over the trees. On those rare occasions when the dream disturbed, I liked to be alone for a few moments to remember the past, to ensure I remained grateful for the present. Unbidden, my mind drifted to the memory of listening in on a tour of Pemberley some two or three weeks ago.

Mrs Reynolds lives on the estate and conducts the public tours on most Wednesdays for her niece, to whom she handed over the reins some years ago. Her knowledge of the place is unmatched, and though she might at times forget the day of the week, she always knows her Pemberley.

We all, of course, avoid the tours, and in a home as large as ours, it is easily done. But I was in a parlour off the gallery, deciding on paint colours for its refurbishment, and so I could hear her peroration on the portraiture, which I always enjoyed. And when she took questions, I heard them, and her answers. The first few were on provenance and worth, as usual. Every now and again, someone asked something more gossipy about the family. These enquiries were not unusual, and Mrs Reynolds had a repertoire of routine answers—all more complimentary than we, perhaps, deserved. But it had been years since Anne de Bourgh had merited one.

“Wasn’t Mr Darcy married once before the current Mrs Darcy? Why isn’t there a picture of her?”

The answer, of course, was that they had burned with her mother; the last time the question arose, I believe Mrs Reynolds had replied that the first Mrs Darcy’s family had claimed all her portraits—truth, if not all of it. But this time there was a long pause…so lengthy, it grew awkward and I heard feet shuffling and throats clearing.

Then Mrs Reynolds said in her gentle, somewhat quavering voice, “I apologise…I am growing old. I do recollect Mr Darcy was married before the current Mrs Darcy. I remember hers was a portrait unfortunately destroyed when the old cliffside wing burned in 1820. According to her family’s wishes, she was reinterred in her family cemetery in Ramsgate, beside her parents in 1821. But for the life of me, I cannot recall her name.”

Another question was posed about an artist and the party moved on, but I was struck by the simplicity of her words. Mrs Reynolds is aging, doubtlessly so, but she remembers still, and in incredible detail, every fact and facet of her one true love—Pemberley. And there is nothing left of Anne de Bourgh at Pemberley. Nothing except the occasional bad dream.

Smiling, I raised the sash so that the scent of woods and dewy morning breezes would freshen the chamber. And there Clara found me a few moments later.

“I knew you would be up early today, mistress,” she murmured quietly, and I observed with appreciation the small tray she carried with a pot of chocolate upon it.

“You are a treasure,” I sighed. “Will you have a cup with me?”

Clara had long since grown to be a dear friend; she was accustomed to my less formal ways, understanding that I would never forget the time I had spent in service to the Dowager Lady Matlock—now long since interred beside her husband at Matlock Court. Mr Darcy had seen to Dawson’s pension. Clara would never be just a ‘servant’ to me.

“Not today, mistress, for I have much to occupy. Windsy is in a taking, bless her. I haven’t seen her in such a state since Edward left for school. As soon as you are dressed, little Jane Elizabeth and I have much packing to do.”

Mrs Lindsey—dubbed ‘Windsy’ many years ago by our oldest son, Fitzwilliam Thomas, until few remembered she had any other name—was the soft-hearted nurse who had charge of all the children. She was bound to be emotional today, even knowing, as she did, of Bennet’s keenness to go and that Fitzwilliam and Edward impatiently awaited him. Fortunately, I had no doubts that cheerful little five-year-old Janey’s disposition would ultimately prevail.

Jane Elizabeth, our surprise addition to the family, apple of her father’s eye, and the beloved little ray of sunshine to everyone she met, adored ‘helping’, especially bestowing the favour of her talents upon Clara and Cook.

“Clara, you have the patience of Job. I will come and help you repack everything she arranges.”

“No need, no need. I like to listen to her dear little thoughts—it’s as good as a play, it is.”

I had to smile at this. Janey had both my inquisitive nature and her father’s introspective one. She noticed what few would notice, read like a child much older than her years, and had the vocabulary of one as well. My father would have adored her.

And so I dressed early, and by the time Janey stole into my sitting room—she was adept at evading nursemaids—I was ready for the day and at my desk making lists.

“Mummy!” she cried, running to me. “What are you doing?”

I lifted her onto my lap—she was my baby, after all—and cuddled her for a few precious moments. “Did you tell Susannah you were coming to visit Mummy?”

“Oh, but I don’t need to! She always knows where to look first!”

I squeezed her. “And what is the rule, my sweetest lamb?”

She looked up at me with eyes identical to my own. “But Mummy, what if she says ‘No’? And then I would have to be obedient, and I might miss you! Early mornings are the bestest times, before everyone begins asking you one million questions. And today will be worst of all because Bennet is leaving and I will miss him and Windsy was pretending to sneeze but she was crying, I know, and who will give me riding lessons and play hide and seek and pretend to let me win at chess? And everything just seems so, so terr’ble.”

Janey’s grief was genuine, but she was clever enough to point it out so that I would not immediately return her to the ever patient and longsuffering Susannah. Still, I snuggled her a bit more tightly.

“Do you remember what we are doing tomorrow?”

She immediately began bouncing on my lap with excitement. “Going to Auntie Tilney’s!” she squealed. “And Uncle Tilney’s! Oh, oh, and I can ride with you and Auntie Bingley and Catherine Caroline sometimes!”

The Bingleys had never been close to the earl and his wife—primarily, I believe, due to Georgiana’s dislike of travel and company. But once I had determined that my husband must reconnect with all his family, I dragged her and Bingley along as well. It was a tiny bit awkward, the first time that Jane and Bingley met at Matlock Court, but Tilney—obviously in the know—and Georgiana—obviously not—both contrived to put everyone at ease. And of course, the delight of the children—the Bingleys had three, two boys and a girl, with Catherine Caroline being Janey’s favourite—smoothed over any little embarrassment in the beginning. It had never occurred to me, before that meeting, how much Georgiana and Jane had in common, and they quickly became the best of friends, all the scars of the past fully healed.

But little Janey was not finished with her enthusiasm. “Papa will be on Thunder and Uncle Bingley will be on Gallant and they will want me to ride with them sometimes, and Windsy and Susannah will want me with them sometimes and Auntie and Uncle Martin will miss me if I don’t ride with them, too!”

I had never become entirely accustomed to calling my aunt by her surname of Martin, rather than Gardiner, although I never stumbled over it aloud any longer. But just before Edward was born, Mrs Spengler had died, and in an action surprising everyone, Robert Martin and Margaret Gardiner wed. They sold the Lambton property and built another house on the Martin leasehold, Mr Martin having no interest in resuming the running of the farm. Mr Darcy arranged for another profitable lease for his nephew, as Mr Martin’s son and new wife returned home to farm the Martin property. Mrs Martin the younger had a pretty sister, with whom Richard Williams grew smitten, and in less time than I could ever have expected, the shy steward was married and beginning a family of his own. His eldest son and my Bennet were fast friends, and I was delighted they would have each other in this new adventure.

Watching Bennet and young Richard happily playing, I had often reflected on history repeating itself. Once again, the steward of Pemberley had a son who was godson to its master. But Emma Williams, Richard’s wife, was nothing like old Mrs Wickham; an excellent and capable manager, she was a good mother and kept a happy home. Bennet had been as much a son to her, almost, as her own; Fitzwilliam and I felt likewise about young Richard. And of course, the boys had all grown up on stories of how a different Pemberley boy almost the same age as their papas had made all the wrong, mean, and selfish choices he could make, instead of helpful and kind ones, ultimately coming to a bad end, dying on a transport ship bound for Australia.

Pemberley, of course, was flourishing. Perhaps England had its troubles, but our little corner of it was idyllic. Our library was rather famous—nothing like the Bodleian in Oxford, certainly, but scholars from all over northern England took advantage of its vast wealth of knowledge.

Life was not perfect, of course, for no life ever was. The death of my sister, Mary, of a fever in ’31, had struck me rather hard. I had never been close to her, but she was my sister, a part of my youth, and my only real connexion to Longbourn, which she had loved more than any of us. I do not believe that Charlotte, for all she had given Mary a home these many years, truly understood her either. But she had written to me very sweetly, of all the kindnesses Mary had extended in devoted service to her family, and of the sorrow of her children at her loss. And then she’d added a startling observation: “Mr Collins is devastated. He loved her, you know, as she did him. Oh, neither of them ever admitted it, to themselves even, I am certain. And I have long been convinced I was put on this earth to keep them both sensible, for I seldom heard a practical thought from either. But with Mary gone, I suppose I shall have to listen to him much more than is my custom. I shall miss her every day for the rest of my life.”

“Mummy, will I meet my Auntie Philips? I don’t remember her.”

Since Janey sounded a bit worried, I hastened to reassure her. “You will, my darling, but you are not to be anxious. She is very kind. She met you at your christening and thought you were the most beautiful baby girl in the world. And Auntie Duncan will be there too, of course. You know her.”

Ellen Gardiner Duncan was her cousin, of course, but in Ellen’s several visits to us accompanied by her husband and children, it had been easier for Janey to think of and address her as ‘aunt’.

“Yes!” Janey said proudly. “And she will bring the twins! And she will paint us a big, beautiful picture!”

Ellen had married the son of her old drawing master, a Mr Ethan Duncan, himself an already-established portrait artist, and they worked together brilliantly. He and Ellen were meeting us at Matlock Court to begin work on my birthday gift from my husband—a portrait of Jane, Kitty, and I together, something I had grieved over not having done sooner, after losing Mary. Many examples of their exquisite work already hung in the Pemberley portrait gallery, as the Duncans had produced all of our family portraits for the last several years.

“Will Auntie Bingley be in the picture?”

“Not this one, darling. She is a Darcy sister, and this picture will have only Bennet sisters in it, and she says she needs all her attention to keep little Charles out of trouble. But your Uncle Bingley will have another commission for Ellen soon.”

“Of Catherine Caroline! She told me when she is twelve years old, she will go up on the wall by Auntie Bingley’s portrait when she was twelve! Yes! And we’re going to send a small Bennet sister picture to Auntie Bracket in ’merica,” Janey added.

I had written often to Lydia over the years, without any reply. For all I’d known, she had consigned them to flames, unread. But, since she gave no specific instruction for me to cease writing, I continued to do so, care of Mr Darcy’s man of business in America. My first letter was full of apologies, I think, but as the years passed, I wrote to her of simple, family things, such as I often shared with my other sisters. I ensured that she would know each of her nieces and nephews, if she cared to, and of all the doings of the Gardiner offspring.

But it was my grieving letter regarding Mary’s death to which she finally responded. My missive was one long letter of ‘Do you remember?’ anecdotes of Mary’s life—a few shared by Charlotte over the years, but most of them from when we were young and silly girls at Longbourn. I had recorded some of Papa’s sly witticisms at her expense—which she’d never understood—and Mama’s hysteria the time when, at the tender age of six years, Mary gave her bonnet to the goat because it was too ‘ostentatious’ for Sundays, she felt.

Three months later, I received a letter from Lydia in a package which included a miniature likeness of herself with her husband.

She looks exactly like Mama. I had laughed and wept to see it.

“Mama, are you sad?” Janey said, her sensitive little heart immediately perceiving my feelings.

“I was just a little lost in memories,” I replied. “But I am not at all sad. How could I be, when I have you, your brothers, your papa, your aunts and uncles and cousins and all of Pemberley, all to love, and a wonderful trip to Matlock Court to look forward to?”

“But why does Auntie Bracket have to live all the way to ’merica?”

“That is rather a long, sometimes sad and often happy story, in which there are several heroes and several fools,” I replied. “And some are both, at the same time. Someday, when you are a quite a bit older, I shall tell it to you.”

“Like Hans in ‘The Poor Miller’s Boy and The Cat’?” she asked, naming one of her favourite tales. “He was foolish, but it did not hurt him. Mummy, why do boys have to go to school? I will read every book in our library, and be smarter than them all!”

“And then you shall be cleverer than your old Papa, and he shall read while you take care of Pemberley,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

“Papa!” Janey cried, running to him with her arms outstretched. He swung her high in the air, as she loved, his laughter and her squeals of delight filling Pemberley with joy, before finally bestowing the kisses she demanded.

He was the handsomest man of my acquaintance, still. Moments like these, watching his real and obvious affection for the child we had created together, my heart swelled with love for them both. We did not, either of us, take our happiness for granted.

“I believe Susannah is searching for you, young lady,” he said, with mock severity. “How would it be if you allow her to help you dress and do your hair? The day is wasting.”

“Bennet is leaving today,” she said mournfully, in case this would delay morning ablutions. “Mama is sad, and I am helping her be happy.”

“As I understand, Clara is in great need of assistance with packing for our journey. I will shoulder the burden of cheering Mama.” Slyly, he winked at me.

I smiled at them both. “And I thank you for your kind help, sweetling. But let Papa take you to Susannah now, so that you do not disappoint Clara.”

“Very well,” she sighed, laying her head upon her father’s shoulder.

He bent to kiss me before turning to leave, but Janey called out to me, and he paused in the doorway.

“Mama, you should write down your story of fools and heroes, so you do not forget it before I am old enough to hear. What is it called?”

“Oh, it does not have a name,” I replied. “But I will not forget.”

The End