Nameless by Julie Cooper
Chapter Five
Despite Mr Darcy’s desire to wed quickly, he showed a strange reluctance to return to Pemberley. We had a journey of one hundred-ninety miles, a distance we could have travelled in three or four days, even at a snail’s pace.
He stretched it into two weeks.
I did not argue the delay.
It was a happy journey. Mr Darcy loved the country through which we passed and could point out the many places nature had formed for our amusement and awe. We walked the fields of Dovedale, and he spoke of fishing—a favourite sport he much enjoyed—and seemed to find tramping about the countryside as great a diversion as I. We both hated oysters and loved early mornings. We did not speak of the past nor of the future, only relished the present. The weather cooperated with our ramblings for the most part, although my gown hems suffered. I did not care, and laughed when his man made a great fuss over the state of his boots.
And the nights. The first one was not comfortable, and I am afraid I giggled when the full expectation of what was to happen was explained to me. It was over very quickly—which I realised later must have been on purpose—but he held me close afterward and expressed his gratitude for my sufferings, such as they were. The next two nights were spent in sleep only, but he shared a bed with me, and I began to grow accustomed to his light snore, to expecting his large body beside me when I rolled over in the night. And the fourth night…he took his time. He worshipped every inch of me with reverence and dedication; and though it might be blasphemous to say so, it was a holy experience.
Every day thereafter was tinged with anticipation. A light touch on my elbow or the small of my back was fraught with meaning. We walked aimlessly and laughed at nothing in particular and looked at each other and imagined the night to come. We were aligned, in those heady days. I thought I was falling in love, but of course, love does not come as a result of bed pleasure and novelty. Still, when we woke Christmas morning to the sound of rain beating on the roof of The Ostrich, and Mr Darcy sent word to his coach and man that we would remain until the weather cleared and we stayed two days in our room…I was utterly, blissfully happy for what felt like the first time in years.
But the bridal trip could not last forever, of course. “We will reach Pemberley today,” he announced one morning as I called for the inn’s maid to help me dress. He left me to it, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with an anxiety unusual to my nature. I had the wardrobe of a lady’s impoverished companion, with absolutely nothing to wear that was suitable for presenting myself as mistress of a great estate, especially one which had suffered such a recent loss. I was the replacement mistress, the second choice. I decided upon a walking dress which, although in an ugly shade of brown, was of quality jaconet muslin, richly trimmed, showing my figure to advantage.
My hair was another problem. I was at the mercy of inn servants, and not all of them had experience with hair that had a life of its own. It was necessary to be very firm with its management, to show it just who was in charge. Unfortunately, many inn maids, by nature, were timid creatures, afraid to offend or cause pain.
Sadly, the maid du jour was the worst of the lot, until finally I dismissed her with a sigh, and then undid all her efforts. I re-braided my hair as I did every night, and then pinned it tightly into a severe spinster’s bun, leaving side curls to frame my face; truly, it was the only coiffure I could manage on my own. It was not particularly flattering but it was tidy. I refused to greet Pemberley wearing a lace cap, so I donned the Sunday bonnet, which was growing rather shabby since lately it had been my Monday through Saturday bonnet as well. Wistfully, I imagined a better trimmed affair with ribbons and gauze, a matching silk scarf thrown carelessly over my shoulders complementing the ensemble and softening the dreadful brown into a winsome amber.
I had been brought up to run a house the size of Longbourn, and Jane and I had, in our flights of fancy so long ago, discussed the challenges of being mistress to Netherfield Park, which was easily twice its size, with its twenty-five servants. I had lived at Rosings Park and visited Matlock Court, with their forty. Pemberley was, from Mr Darcy’s description, larger still.
We had not been travelling long before we turned off the main road, driving past high iron gates. Through the carriage window I saw the gatekeeper nodding solemnly, stone-faced, at our coachman, as though he allowed a funeral procession to pass instead of his master of many weeks’ absence.
Neither was it the drive I had imagined, with wide lawns, raked and brushed, fields and gardens and manicured perfections. Instead, Pemberley Woods barricaded its master’s home, the tree branches meeting overhead like clenched fists in the twisting, turning drive, barely wide enough, in places, for the horses to pass. And then, the trees gave way to boulders on one side, the road following a rocky cliff’s edge; if I peered out the window, I felt I would be looking over its rim. Each bend revealed only endless curves and frightening periphery.
“Inefficient,” I murmured, finally leaning back in my seat, my voice sounding loud within the quiet coach, and only then did I realise that my husband had not spoken more than a word or two in our entire morning. Mr Darcy was not, and never would be a talkative man, but I had become accustomed to his murmured asides, his occasional remark upon some passing carriage, town, or vista. I had been too caught up in my own nerves to notice his silence.
He glanced sharply at me, as though he had forgotten I sat beside him. “The road,” I said. “Have you never considered simply tunnelling a hole through the mountainside?”
He gave a half-smile, and that, too, was the first of the day. “It was cut by my great-grandfather who wished to preserve as many trees as possible, and, I suppose, begrudged the road the removal of any. He was a bit stingy with its width.”
I nodded in agreement, for I love trees and nature’s beauties more than man’s in most cases. “But how much longer until the house?”
He nodded, gesturing out my window, at the same time sunlight flooded the carriage.
It was exquisite, more beautiful than anything he could have described, or I could have imagined. “Oh,” I murmured, and for the first time that day, he took my hand, touching me.
I already knew he wanted no one’s pity, but one could not help but feel sympathy. I had only been married for two weeks, but if I lost him now, I would surely mourn. This homecoming must be difficult. Sure enough, even as we lurched forward, I noticed his expression growing distant. His hand grew limp around mine, as if his mind and spirit resided elsewhere.
The road widened, a sea of lawn swelling from the house and rolling out towards the woods, reclaiming space from them in civilised carpeted surfaces. The horses sped up, sensing their stables were near. As we drew closer, the broad face of Pemberley, in all its sky-backed majesty, filled my view. One woman, alone, all clad in black, stood waiting.
“Devil take it,” he snarled. “I told Mrs de Bourgh to have the household waiting to greet you. And there she stands alone, as if no one expected us—” He broke off, seeming to recall himself then, adding, “I do beg your pardon.”
“De Bourgh?” I questioned. “Is that our housekeeper?”
“No, no,” he said, impatiently, still obviously annoyed. “Mrs Reynolds is the housekeeper. Mrs de Bourgh is Anne’s mother. Do not mind if she does not seem over-warm in the beginning. She will grow accustomed, eventually.”
And with those words, we drew to a halt, a footman let down the steps, and he leapt out of the carriage. He held out his hand, and for a moment, I simply stared at it. I was to be mistress of Pemberley, of this country house larger than Rosings Park and Netherfield combined, while his dead wife’s mother looked on. Oh, and she would hate me.
Perfect.
* * *
I can still remember her, if I try; she was a tall, large woman, with strongly marked features which could never have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving me such as to make me forget my inferior rank. It seemed impossible that she be parent to the woman in Lady Matlock’s miniature. Even supposing Mrs Anne Darcy’s portrait to be a flattering pose, she had been…sparkling. Golden. Vivacious. A woman who knew her own worth and felt it a high one, while dispensing charm and a certain fascination to us lesser mortals. I tried to imagine Mrs de Bourgh as her mother and failed utterly. And yet I knew, without being told, that this grave creature with the claw-like hands stretched towards Mr Darcy must be she. Her scorn for me in my made-over dress was transparent, to me at least; and I knew that somehow, in some way, my humble personal circumstances were public knowledge.
It was not uncommon for servants to make a display of greeting a new mistress, especially of a home as grand as Pemberley, but I took her meaning—I was not worthy of attention, even from the upper servants, much less the notice of the whole household.
“Mrs Darcy, Mrs de Bourgh. Mrs de Bourgh, Mrs Darcy,” my husband said, performing the barest of introductions. One might suppose he did not much care for either of us.
It did not matter. I was Mrs Darcy now; I could sympathise with this woman, but Pemberley was to be my home. She gave the shallowest of curtseys, barely polite. I returned her a curtsey perfectly appropriate to a guest of no particular moment—not disrespectful by any means, but definitely not above me in rank. I saw the flash of surprise in her eyes as she recognised it.
So, she knew my recent circumstances, but not my roots.
“Where is Reynolds? Morton?” Mr Darcy asked.
How she would have answered, I could not say, for at that moment a respectable-looking woman in her late fifties hurried from the house and proceeded quickly towards us; a man, obviously another upper servant, was at her side. He was likely the butler, and she could be no one but the missing housekeeper. “You must be Mrs Reynolds,” I said, holding out my hand. “So good of you to come out to greet us, and on such a cold winter day.”
It was my acknowledgement of her slight, with an offer of an olive branch in one gesture. Mrs Reynolds was more adept at hiding her astonishment, in the way of the best servants, but nevertheless, her eyes flitted to Mrs de Bourgh, however briefly. She took my hand, though, which was the recognition I required.
“Of course, madam. Please forgive us, as we did not know exactly when you would arrive. I will, of course, bring the household out for inspection any time you wish.”
Mrs de Bourgh’s eyes narrowed. She did not like this acceptance of my role, so easily won.
Mr Darcy said a few words to Morton so quietly I could not hear, but the tips of the butler’s ears reddened and not, I think, with the chill. “Mrs Darcy, this is our butler, Morton. Thank you both for your attendance upon us. Let us go in out of the weather,” he finished, offering me his arm.
I did not truly blame Mrs Reynolds or Morton. They were accustomed to taking their tone and their orders from the first Mrs Darcy, and, plainly, her mother. I knew that two mistresses in a house was a recipe for disaster. Mama had spoken often about the trouble she had when Papa’s mother was alive and living at Longbourn; I could only imagine how that must have been and was certain Mama had made the situation worse, if she possibly could. But while Mama would never have stood for open insult, neither would she recognise subtle or even obvious disrespect in so many aspects of mannerly behaviours. In fact, she might have handed Mrs de Bourgh her cloak and parasol, as if she were a footman. The thought made me smile. I took my husband’s arm, and followed the servants into the house.
* * *
A few moments later, we entered a majestic drawing room, lined floor to ceiling with windows. Plush sofas flanked two fireplaces, one at either end of the long room. A globe stood on a nearby table, and I gently set it spinning. Mr Darcy went directly to a desk piled high with letters and began sorting through them. I realised how little I knew about him, about what kind of a landowner he was and his daily concerns and routine. It would not, certainly, include lying about in bedchambers and paying passionate attentions to his wife, even had he been wildly in love with me.
Mrs de Bourgh entered, followed by Mrs Reynolds and a maid with a tray. I approached Mrs Reynolds, stopping her from following Mrs de Bourgh to the fireplace nearest Mr Darcy. “Mrs Reynolds, so good of you to know how much in need of refreshments we would be after our long drive,” I said.
It was almost comical; she froze in place, uncertain. “Mrs de Bourgh said Mr Darcy would want his tea,” she said in a gentle attempt to manoeuvre the situation back towards the woman she was so accustomed to obeying.
“I would prefer to have the tea over here, if you would be so kind.” I walked towards the opposite side of the room, knowing that it was best if I asserted authority early. There was no way for Mrs de Bourgh to outstrip me, and gain the table before I could; likewise, I doubted Mrs Reynolds had any wish to present defiance. I was taking my place as mistress, as was proper. Difficulties between two mistresses were hardest on those who served them both.
Mrs de Bourgh had no choice but to follow us to the opposite side of the room, with no opportunity to take control of the chessboard—er, the tea tray. I directed Mrs Reynolds to set it before me, and went about preparing to serve it as she made her escape. “Would you care for weak tea, or strong?” I politely asked Mrs de Bourgh.
“Strong,” she replied, a pinched expression upon her face. At that moment Mr Darcy looked up, mild annoyance crossing his features as he saw this collapse of Pemberley tradition in progress, with a tea tray so far from its accustomed placement.
“Mr Darcy, she did not understand that we never have our tea on this side of the room in the afternoon,” Mrs de Bourgh explained. “The windows face full west.”
“I am certain Mr Darcy has more important worries, after his long absence from Pemberley,” I said smilingly. “Milk? Sugar?”
“It does not matter where we drink it,” Mr Darcy said, bringing his mail with him so as to retain ample ammunition for ignoring the battle in progress.
Mrs de Bourgh haughtily accepted the proffered cup, drinking it in silent indignation.
I already knew how Mr Darcy took his, from our brief honeymoon, and served him as well. He muttered his thanks. After a few moments something occurred to him. “Are the new accommodations ready?”
“They are ready for you, Mr Darcy,” Mrs de Bourgh said. “Though the views are nothing to the cliffside chambers.”
“Have you been making alterations?” I asked him politely.
“I thought we would be more comfortable in the other wing,” he said in an impassive voice I had not heard from him since the dowager countess’s teas. “I prefer the views of the woods.”
“Pemberley’s family wing was built upon the cliffside. The view from the mistress’s chamber makes one feel as though one were enthroned in the clouds. The eastern side of the house has only lodged guests, up until now,” Mrs de Bourgh said, with an emphasis on the word guests.
I forbore pointing out that of the two of us, she was more guest than I. And why was it that Mr Darcy had failed to mention her presence? It was awkward, of course, but I deserved more notice than a quick word as we were arriving, and I was deeply irritated with him.
On the other hand, most men were oblivious to subtleties. And while I did not consider her manoeuvrings particularly subtle, perhaps he, like my father, only saw what he wished—although at least my father had noticed enough to laugh. Even if he likely would have laughed at Mrs de Bourgh and embarrassed me.
She was to be pitied; she had lost her daughter and now, clearly, the authority of her place in the household, far sooner than she should have had to lose it. It was not my fault and yet I was to blame. Like the countess, Mrs de Bourgh could not hurt me, but I had very much wished for peace, and it might be some time before it could be established.
“I have to meet with Mr Williams—my steward,” Mr Darcy said, still absorbed in his letters. “I shall ask Mrs Reynolds to show you to your rooms.”
“Oh, no need,” Mrs de Bourgh announced. “I shall be happy to show her the way.”
And that is how I found myself viewing my bedchamber for the first time with my husband’s first wife’s mother. Awkward, thy name is Darcy, I thought.
I had followed her up the impressive staircase, her feet somehow making no noise on the marble floors. She flung the doors open to a cosy sitting room, beautifully furnished, and from thence to a bedchamber, its wide windows overlooking a carpet of lawn edged by the forests we’d driven through to get here.
“’Tis a beautiful view,” I assured her, although she had not asked how I liked it.
“It will have to do, I suppose,” she replied grimly. She walked to a door that was nearly hidden by the panelling. “Mr Darcy’s rooms are through here. You can lock it if you wish.” She pointed this out with little inflection, yet somehow, I knew she relished saying it. Perhaps she did not simply hate me, but Mr Darcy as well?
I noticed my things had been unpacked and my brushes laid out. “I shall need to see Mrs Reynolds about a maid,” I commented, wishing the older woman would go away instead of standing about like a great beady-eyed vulture, staring at me.
“I have lived here since the day my dear Anne came as his bride,” she announced, as if I had asked her a question regarding her length of residence. “She did not call me ‘Mama’, for she always said we were more like sisters than mother and daughter. We were ever celebrated for our entertainments. Anne always said that no one could match me for organising the best affairs.”
Idly, I wondered how Mr Darcy had looked upon the news that not only had he wed a diamond of the first water, but the diamond’s mother as well. Perhaps that was my main attraction—my orphan status. And she stood there and stood and stood, long past the point of awkwardness, for I had ceased speaking.
I probably ought not to have asked, but Mrs de Bourgh was waiting, her arms folded, the minutes ticking by. It seems silly now, to believe that I knew she wanted me to ask her, but somehow, I did, or thought I did. At the time, it simply seemed she would never go away unless I asked her the stupidly obvious question.
“How did your daughter die, Mrs de Bourgh?”
She glared at me sombrely, those narrowed eyes staring and staring, her querulous expression filled with malice, scorn, and pity. “As to that, madam, you will have to ask Mr Darcy. He is the only one who knows the answer.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left the room at last.