Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Four

The following ten days were distinctly odd. The countess was indisposed for two more of them, but no longer required Dawson to remain strictly at her bedside; in fact, she rather seemed to wish for a cavalcade of servants to adjust the curtains, freshen her teacup, plump her pillows, and listen to her complaints. Thankfully, none of them were me.

When she did return to the breakfast room, she favoured me with her considered opinion that her beloved nephew had departed because I was too dull to entertain such an impressive gentleman in her absence. Had I any conversation, wit, or intellect, he would have remained until she could take up her duties as hostess again.

I did not respond, of course, to her foolish allegations, but I pondered them. For all she knew, she was correct—the person I displayed to her was a ghost of myself, a shadow girl who had all the cleverness of wall papers or a piece of furniture adorning her parlour, and who could occasionally be useful in fetching her things and nodding agreement.

Was that who Mr Darcy had seen? As I re-examined our conversations, I had not revealed overmuch. I was too accustomed to hiding everything that was important. Had he proposed marriage to the Maiden Spinster or to the Shadow Girl? Or had he remembered—fondly, perhaps—the girl from Longbourn, and this was an attempt at recapturing his youth? I smiled to myself at that thought, for he had not much cared for the ‘tolerable’ old me, even if he now regretted stating those feelings publicly.

For that matter, who had I agreed to wed? Was I marrying the tall, handsome, wealthy Londoner, the novelty of Hertfordshire? I covered another smile; in those days, I had not much cared for him, either. But how was he changed, really? I barely knew him.

As one day turned into another, the whole interlude seemed ever more fantastic. I wondered, even, whether it had really happened, or if I had finally slipped from sanity beneath the weight of my boredom and loneliness, fabricating the whole proposal in my mind.

And yet, there had been that kiss. I could not have manufactured it, for I had never experienced anything like it. In that moment, I had understood him, and he had understood me. But nothing else was at all clear, and after a week of nearly crippling uncertainty, I managed to thrust most thoughts of him and marriage and the future from my mind.

Which was why I was almost surprised when he was announced on the eleventh day after his departure. And he had brought a guest with him—my brother Tilney.

Mr Tilney was a tall bear of a man, almost Mr Darcy’s height, with a pleasing countenance and intelligent, lively nature. He had chestnut hair—thinning a bit at the top now—and a genuine, kindly smile. I rushed to him and he hugged me, lifting me off the ground. When he set me back upon my feet, he promptly picked me up again. “The first was from Janey, and this is from me,” he exclaimed, as I laughed. “Now, please tell me—what is this I hear about weddings? And to this great oaf—” he smiled at a dour-looking Mr Darcy. “If you are not happy in Kent, come to us, darling girl. We shall stack a couple of children atop each other and clear a path for you. No need for desperate measures, what?”

As his voice was a booming one, there was no question that half the household heard his words. Especially the half containing the countess.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she said, in awful tones. “What is this? This person—” she looked disapprovingly at my brother—“cannot be serious.”

“He is very serious, my lady,” Mr Darcy said immediately. “We are to be wed, and at once. Your son will ensure the quick replacement of your companion. I have his word on it.”

The dowager countess was not pacified. “While a capable female and not utterly stupid, she is overreaching,” she said frostily. And then she added, though it came out in a hiss that I hoped Mr Tilney did not hear, “Make use of her if you will, but there is no need to throw yourself away. Your grief makes you foolish!”

I had done my best to look upon her as a fellow sufferer, though a wealthier one. Of course, I had never allowed her to see me in the same way—but that, too, was her fault. She wanted only the Shadow Girl, or even less. I ceased feeling guilt for abandoning her without notice.

Mr Darcy leant close to her and spoke in a low tone. I could not hear what he said, but two spots of colour flared bright enough to burn through her face powder.

“Are you packed?” he asked, straightening to look directly at me, dismissing the countess as if she had left the room.

“I am not. I did not know when I would be leaving.”

Mr Tilney was looking between the two of us, clearly a little confused. Possibly having missed the slur delivered by the countess, he wondered why we spoke so quickly of departure. Perhaps they had planned upon staying at least overnight.

“I shall take care of it quickly,” I said with some urgency, for I would not happily stay another minute. With a quick curtsey, I hurried up the stairs, hearing Mr Darcy’s low-voiced murmurs, probably explaining to Mr Tilney, and the higher pitched ones of the countess, probably protesting.

When I was in my own room, I pulled out my trunk and began hastily tossing things into it. But moments later, Dawson joined me. She did not say a word, only began efficiently folding and rolling my gowns and shawls in far better style than I ever had. I slowed my own pace, checking my wild hurry. Mr Darcy would not leave me here if I took an extra thirty minutes to do the job correctly.

After a few minutes of work, I said, “I am sorry, Dawson, to leave without any notice. If you ever wish a position at Pemberley, in Derbyshire, I hope you will remember me. And I would always give you a character, no matter how long in the future you asked for one.”

She gave me her grim smile. “I’d think you a fool if you spurned an offer from him. I heard what she said, madam, but I do not believe she would have allowed it. She let her temper get the best of her, is all it was. You’re the best of the women she’s had here. I know she hates to lose you.”

Dawson had never called me ‘madam’ before this; my new status had merited something already. “I thank you,” was my only reply, and we returned to packing.

The trunk was almost full when the countess entered, unannounced. She had never entered my room before, and looked fully annoyed at seeing her woman helping me. “My plum-coloured day-dress needs pressing, Dawson,” she ordered frigidly. Dawson departed hastily, not daring another word.

“Well,” she said, in a voice full of disgust and displeasure. “You are a sly one. Play host to a fellow who is grieving, allow you freedom to run about unchecked on my property, and you take full advantage. Clever.”

I found it unnecessary to answer her accusations, remaining silent.

“It was a lucky thing for you I had the grippe, I suppose. I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why you should betray my hospitality with your arts and allurements, even while I lay nearly dying.”

“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer,” I retorted.

Her eyes narrowed. “You ought to know already that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. His grief has disordered his mind! You have drawn him in! How can you be so lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy, giving him no time to mourn?”

She had hit upon my deepest concern, of course. But it was none of hers. I continued to fold the last of my garments.

“I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world. You believe I am unkind. I am not. I wish you no ill. But Pemberley? How do you imagine your father’s tiny country estate prepared you for Pemberley? He is accustomed to the very best—he has already had the best, while you have done nothing more important than fancywork in your entire life! You can scarcely hold a conversation, much less entertain! The Pemberley parties were famous when his wife was alive, but I have told you that. You believe you can step into her place, when she made the place all her own.”

Lady Matlock strode away from me, towards the small window in my chamber. There was no view from there, but she had begun speaking absently, as if looking only at the past. “We went to his wedding, the earl and I. I had never seen Fitzwilliam look so happy. The wedding breakfast was for a hundred-fifty. I know you believe yourself to be an accomplished woman; you have a thorough knowledge, I suppose, of music, singing, drawing, and dancing.” The countess turned back around to face me, angry, still—but it was not all anger. “Yet she was something more. Mrs Darcy found time to speak to each of us on her wedding day—she possessed a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, which enchanted. She was the pinnacle of accomplishment. My husband turned to me after talking to her and said, ‘By Jove, she makes a man feel young again’.”

She pinned me with her stare. “I never saw such capacity and taste, application and elegance, as was united in his first wife—Mrs Anne Darcy. That she should be replaced by an elderly spinster is ridiculous and insupportable. What advantage can it be to you to try it?”

I could not remain silent. “How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell, but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”

“You are resolved to have him, then?”

“I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness and his.”

“You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”

“The world in general would have too much sense to join in such scorn,” I replied, latching my trunk.

She shook her head in disgust. “It only shows,” she said, “how little you know of the world. Unfeeling, selfish girl.”

* * *

It was not until we were in the coach that I took a full breath. I sat beside my betrothed, while Mr Tilney watched me with concern.

“Were you not safe in that house, my sister?”

So he had heard. “I was safe, to the best of my knowledge. We had few visitors, and those, respectable ones.”

Mr Darcy stiffened, and I could only imagine his thoughts, the indignity of being forced to defend his silly aunt’s honour.

Mr Tilney took my hand, and in his usual kind way, sought to lighten the mood. “I taught her how to throw a punch, Darcy, and no mere flourishing—she can defend herself.”

I grinned at him. I had indeed asked him questions on the science of pugilism, which he expertly demonstrated in a most un-vicar-like manner, and much to Jane’s chagrin. But then he surprised me.

“I ask you to come home to us,” Mr Tilney continued. “If you wish to marry Darcy, surely there is no hurry. He can visit you from our home.” He fixed a stern gaze upon my betrothed. “Darcy, what is thirty miles of good road? You have had a bad year. Time to come to know each other would surely give this marriage a better foundation.”

“I do not wish to wait,” he said, his voice low and even. He turned to me. “Do you wish it?”

I noticed that he did not phrase his question, ‘Unless you wish it?’ A picture entered my mind of him pulling from his pocket a list titled ‘Female Acquaintances Previous to Marrying Anne Darcy’, crossing off my name, and moving on to the next woman who still had only one chin and all her teeth. I smiled reassuringly at Mr Tilney.

I had stayed with the Tilneys on many occasions, and I loved them dearly. After my uncle’s death, when Aunt Gardiner determined she must live with her mother, I planned to live with them permanently. I simply did not want to. It was not only that their home was rather full; I did not mind the lack of privacy so very much. When I had first asked Mr Tilney whether a position as companion or governess might be found for me, he and Jane had protested, and, I think, were rather hurt. I was sorry for it. But I hated the thought of being a burden, a charge on their income when they needed it for their own brood. I suppose, if I were being brutally honest, it was easier living with the critical countess, who had no power to touch my feelings, than to watch everything Jane had—love, children, family—and know I had no opportunities for the same. My accursed pride!

“You have, evidently, known Mr Darcy for many years. Do you know of any reason why, beyond the brevity of our courtship, I should not marry him?”

Mr Tilney furrowed his brow. “No, of course not. He is all that is respectable. But we would have you happy, my sister. I feel as though the home the countess provided for you was not as good a home as you deserved, and you might have made this decision in haste to escape it. It is not your only recourse.”

Mr Darcy appeared to take no notice, as though our conversation could not have meant less to him; and why should it, really? If I did not marry him, he would have no trouble finding another. The carriage slowed as we entered the town of Hunsford, the sounds of other vehicles and people calling to one another floating on the dusty air. I had been here several times, to Madame Marchand’s shop and a few other places when the countess was in a mood for commerce. To my surprise, however, the carriage drew to a halt before a church of red sandstone. I looked at Mr Darcy, who withdrew his pocket watch.

“Now?” I asked, almost incredulously.

“We are here somewhat earlier than I arranged,” he said brusquely. “What shall it be? I am to take the carriage on to Pemberley. Your brother was to return to Matlock on the post. You are, of course, free to accompany him. Or we may wed today, and you may accompany me to Pemberley. The choice is yours.”

I suppose I had assumed that Mr Tilney had come to travel with me to Pemberley. But of course, if we were married, there was no reason for it, and I was certain he hated being away from Jane at any time, much less while she was increasing. Mr Darcy’s terseness was off-putting, I admit. But this was my chance, one I had longed for on lonely nights and long, tedious days. I knew I would regret losing it.

I took a deep breath. “I suppose we should see whether there is someone available to marry us, though we are early. You will witness?” I asked Mr Tilney.

I thought I felt Mr Darcy’s body beside me easing just a bit—as if he had truly cared more for the answer than he had let on—but it was likely my imagination.

“Darcy,” Mr Tilney tried, seeing he was having no success in convincing me, “come to Matlock, and let us host a grand wedding breakfast, with all your family. Do not you wish to present your bride to the world with proper ceremony?”

“I did that once,” he replied—coldly, I thought.

Mr Tilney evidently heard the warning as well, and gave it up with a sigh. He went into the church to see what authority he could summon while Mr Darcy helped me out of the carriage. I looked up at him—while he looked at anything except me. He hardly appeared the eager groom.

“Is this difficult for you?” I asked. “Marrying again? You insist you do not wish to wait, but if this is some sort of debt to your honour, because you asked me on impulse and you are determined to follow through with it no matter what concerns have since occurred to you, I beg—”

“Foolish woman,” he interrupted, stopping further speech with a hard kiss that, I supposed, was his answer. It was only later that I wondered if the kiss was more defence than passion, designed to prevent me from further questioning.

If so, his technique was flawless.

* * *

Less than half an hour later, I was Mrs Darcy. Signing the register one last time with the name I had carried since birth, I was struck by a sudden pang. For a moment, my fingers froze, unable to form the necessary curves and strokes. It felt like the end of who I was, who I had always been.

No, I thought. I am adding to, not subtracting. I signed with a flourish, the largest signature on the page.

We accompanied Mr Tilney to arrange his return journey to Matlock Court. I heard my husband offer to rent a coach, but the affable Mr Tilney insisted that the post, leaving within the hour, would be quick and comfortable.

“You will write to us soon, and reassure your sister you are well?” he implored me. “She will be angry with me for not convincing you to delay this madness. Ah, well, I was a would-be groom once, and remember the impatience, even if she cannot.”

“My sister’s anger is very easily tolerated, since it never lasts beyond the posy you will bring her from her own garden,” I replied, grinning.

“I may have to raid the earl’s garden for this one,” he said, grinning back. He turned to Mr Darcy, holding out his hand. “I owe you much, my friend, but you have called in a great favour. You must bring your bride to Matlock, if you care for me at all,” he said, as Mr Darcy shook it. “After the babe arrives. In the summer.”

Mr Darcy made a noncommittal sound, and moved to withdraw his hand, but Mr Tilney gripped it more tightly. “Come summer,” he repeated, with more gravity than I had ever before heard from him.

Mr Darcy nodded curtly. The men separated.

I hugged my brother, treasuring the simplicity of his concern, his connexion to Jane, his offer of family. Like my sister, he was all that was good.

And then we entered our carriage and left him, standing alone in the street watching after us until he was only a tiny speck.

* * *

We had driven but a few hours when we stopped at the Green Dragon to change horses. Needless to say, we were not overwhelming each other with brilliant conversation. I was, to put it mildly, a bit nervous, frantically trying to dredge forth information I had heard over the years regarding the intimate details of wifehood. It was difficult to come up with much, because shortly after Jane’s marriage, I made a conscientious effort to not dwell upon love, lovers, or anything in between. There had been fancies, though, over the years, and longings and secret wishes. Perhaps the turmoil showed upon my face, because he took my hand—the first time he had touched me since our wedding.

“I am dashed sick of travelling,” he said. “I feel as though I am wearing more road dust than the road. I wish to stop here for the day. And night.”

I nodded, inhaling deeply, trying for a calm appearance.

“Would you prefer I take one room or two?” he asked, as if questioning how much sugar I preferred in my tea.

My face flamed. But I wanted…a connexion. A good memory.

“May I see where they will put us before I decide?”

He looked at me curiously and perhaps with a bit of wariness. “I abandoned the idea of a wedding breakfast easily enough,” I confided, “because I have never particularly dreamt of having one. It does not mean I have no preferences, and that I shall look to you to decide what they are. I realise you probably care little for romance. Nevertheless.” His brow furrowed, as if he might protest—but whether it was my independence or his lack of romantic intention, I could not tell, and hurried on.

“I have no mother to explain what will happen between us, but I have a husband who has, presumably, managed the business before. I want you to explain it to me, but not if the room is ugly, fusty, with noisy neighbours rattling the walls with their snores. I want you to be kind, and careful with me.”

I expelled this speech all in one breath, almost, and felt nearly dizzy at the end of saying it.

He stared at me—and my bright red cheeks—for what felt like a solid minute.

“I have stayed here before,” he said, his voice so low, it shivered up my spine. “The owners are fastidious, they know the Darcy name, and will give us the best of what accommodation is available. The walls are thick. I shall take one room, but if it is not to your liking, nothing will happen between us except sleep. I give you my word—I will always be careful with you. For as long as we both shall live.”

It was a promise made as solemnly as our wedding vows. He only mentioned care, not kindness. I tried not to think about what the difference might be.