Nameless by Julie Cooper

Chapter Six

Once she was gone, I breathed a sigh of relief. Some people, I believe, have gifts of darkness, just as some are charming or pretty. Their darkness pervades the rooms they inhabit, the people they associate with, and, even the air they breathe. Mrs de Bourgh had polluted my rooms and, it seemed likely, all of Pemberley. Had it begun with her grief? Or had she always been melancholy?

I went to the nearest window, unlatching it so that the breezes might sweep my chamber, and took a deep breath, drawing in its cleansing chill. This room did, indeed, give one the feeling of living in a forest glade—if a rather gloomy one. Unlike the sitting room, this chamber was decorated in a spare style, very masculine, with dark drapery and heavy furniture, but I did not mind. I was perfectly capable of decorating my own rooms.

I contemplated the problem of Mrs de Bourgh. Mrs Reynolds was afraid of her, and yet clearly respected her as well. I wondered who, truly, had been mistress of Pemberley. Had it been Anne Darcy? Or her mother? Or, perhaps it was as she claimed—they had done it together, a perfect, united front. I heard sounds coming from the next chamber, the murmured voices of Mr Darcy and his man. It had been only an hour or so since we last parted, so his business with the steward had not been lengthy. Or had it only been an excuse? I waited until I was sure Mr Darcy was alone, and then tapped on the connecting door. He opened it immediately, as if he had been standing just beyond it. Waiting.

I opened my mouth to tell him that it would not do—that Mrs de Bourgh and I could never happily share a house, that it was a recipe for disaster and a mistake of monumental proportions to even try. But he dove for my mouth, stopping me, stopping my words, an impatient, greedy kiss that caught me completely unprepared.

I might have ended it as he walked me backwards towards my bed. Though he gave me little chance to take a breath, he never used his greater strength to overpower me, and there was always a choice. But there was something desperate, even reckless about him now. Why was his homecoming not a happy one? What ghosts did he confront here? Were the wounds of his wife’s death gnawing at him? I had no answers, but one thing was certain—this was a man in urgent need of relief from some burden.

He had come to me, to his wife, hoping to find it.

I gave, withholding nothing, while birdsong floated in upon the draughts of weak sunlight. I clutched him to me, feeling the hard muscles of his back and arms, the vitality of his man’s body, the might and potency of his loving, marvelling at his need for me despite his power. It was as mystifying as it was exhilarating. But I wondered at it, too, and at his need. He held all the cards—to use a gambling metaphor which Lady Matlock would have despised—and yet, he could not have all to be as he wished; no amount of command would return his wife to him. How much had he convinced himself that coming back here with me would make a difference?

We lay sprawled in the aftermath in a patch of sunlight while our breath returned to normal. We had not even fully undressed, nor were we beneath the coverlet, and the room was cold. I could almost feel when he came back to himself—and his desire to escape, now that he had his release. But I was not a receptacle for unwanted feelings, to be discarded once they were discharged.

I propped myself up on one elbow, playing with the fabric edge of his ruined cravat. “Dare leave me now, and I shall order Cook to serve us naught but oysters for a month. You shall waste away to nothing.”

He relaxed a little onto the pillows, meeting my eyes. “But you would suffer as well in such a punishment.”

“You forget, I have a detailed knowledge of your aunt’s potions and possets. I am certain there are curatives, even for starvation.”

“I have heard that oysters increase one’s, er, manly stamina,” he pointed out, a slight grin lightening his expression.

“Do they really? Well, you certainly do not miss them in your diet.” I touched his face. “You need not stay long. Just…long enough.”

He pulled me close, loosening the restrictions of clothing that he could reach. And then he held me while the sunlight faded, not talking, both of us taking comfort in the touch.

* * *

After much consideration, I decided not to mention my troubles with Mrs de Bourgh to my husband. At least not as a first step. For one thing, he could—and reasonably so—accuse me of failing to put any effort into a peaceful resolution. Secondly, until I put in such effort, expelling her could make acceptance into the community difficult, giving me a reputation for pettiness and jealousy. I had no idea how popular she was, but I must give the neighbourhood an opportunity to know me without a cloud of hostility preceding my introduction. It was possible that she would try and ruin my standing, but it was equally possible that she would decide further battle ill-considered. Thirdly, my pride protested, as though I required Mr Darcy to conquer all my difficulties for me.

Compassion for her sorrows was in there somewhere; I am too self-sufficient to completely empathise, but I am not cold. I understand grief. I have never lost a child, but I have lost both parents, a sister, my uncle, and everything I have ever known and called home, twice. Especially do I understand the anger that comes with loss, the temptation to shake a fist at God, the contempt for well-meaning platitudes and envy of others whose miracles I was never granted. Oh, yes, I do understand those sentiments. But when one encounters stinging nettles, one does not roll naked amongst them. Relief is seldom found by drowning in bitterness.

In her position, I should not have begun a confrontation on my first day, although I might have privately mocked the new Mrs Darcy’s taste in fabrics—especially since I presented such a perfect target for derision. Of course, in her position, I would have demanded Mr Darcy find me a house elsewhere. And she still might. One could only hope.

I began the very next morning after breakfast by asking Mrs Reynolds to show me the house. Mr Darcy would have done it, and I certainly would have preferred his company. But it was important to begin building a connexion with the housekeeper. Mrs Reynolds, he said, had been with the family since he was a small child. Her deepest loyalties ought to be with my husband. Despite her discomfort at being caught amidst the friction between me and Mrs de Bourgh, and unless the family had treated her ill, she would possess a moral code requiring her first loyalty to be to him and thus, me.

I followed her into a magnificent dining-parlour—we had dined in a much smaller one the night before. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up, with beautiful prospects from every window. “This is the cliffside wing,” she explained.

The house was built in a sort of modified ‘L’ shape, or perhaps a backwards-block style ‘J’. The cliffside wing to the west took up one half of the long, straight edge; the eastern wing, extending nearly to Pemberley Woods, held most of the home’s square footage, the new family apartments being located within the annexe of the ‘J’. I had walked through that section of the house, simply taking its measure—a dizzying number of rooms. But I was eager to see the rest.

From here I could see the cliff’s edge, from which we had ascended yesterday, receiving increased abruptness from the distance. The windows showed a magnificent vista of mountain peaks, rugged boulders, and trees clinging perilously to their serrated edges. As I passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions—but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The ballroom was the pièce de résistance, its windows large and staring out into the vastness of a mountain valley. I think I even gasped, because Mrs Reynolds smiled knowingly.

“It is something, isn’t it?” she said. “Mrs Darcy wished to add a terrace on that side, and change the window sashes so they could be raised from the bottom, creating doors leading onto it. The master refused, because balls are always at night, aren’t they? Not much of a view, and a danger, it being so close to the cliff’s rim—though there is a small hidden door leading out onto its edge, for he let her have the view, at least for herself. He seldom denied her much.” She sighed, obvious sorrow in her tone. “’Tis cool in the evenings up here, even in summer. So, the upper and lower sashes are fixed, but the middle can be raised to allow breezes in by these levers. And of course, there is a full terrace on the other side, more inland and facing the gardens, if not connected directly to the ballroom.”

I could only stare. Besides the immense windows, the ballroom was all whites and golds, with three enormous, magnificent crystal chandeliers. Even though the space was frigid now, I could well imagine it lit brightly, instruments playing, dancing in the arms of Mr Darcy. The one dance we had shared, so many years ago at Netherfield, was spoiled by the memory of my stupid anger. Of course, the next time I would insist upon a waltz, and…

My reverie was spoiled by a sudden blast of wind, so violent that the chandelier directly above me rocked wildly, the pendeloques and prisms crashing against each other in a glassy scream. My sudden harsh intake of breath was covered, however, by Mrs Reynolds’s remarks.

“Goodness me, I wonder who lowered the sash on this one! Well, it’s a good thing we looked in today. It’s a miracle no rain got in.” She walked to a set of levers and set about closing it, while I wondered how we had avoided a drenching. The rain beat against its panes now that it was closed.

The other rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of the Darcys. But I saw, with admiration of its tastefulness, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine—with less of splendour and more real elegance than the décor of Matlock Court. Was this the work of Anne Darcy? Or of prior generations? I asked one who was certain to know the answer.

Mrs Reynolds appeared startled by my easy introduction of the topic of my predecessor. She was cautiously willing to speak.

“Many of the rooms are just as they were in old Mr Darcy’s time, ma’am,” she answered. “The hall, the gallery, and all the rooms we show are just as they have always been. Young Mrs Darcy redecorated the cliffside wing—her rooms, its dining parlours and the ballroom. Much of the furniture she recovered from the attics and had refurbished. She had a wonderful eye, and could tell just how the place would look when she was finished. ‘Reynolds,’ she would say, ‘you do not believe me now, since I have caused such destruction in your realm, but you will see I was right to do it. And you will, at some future date, admit it is so. See if you do not.’ And she always was…I always did.” Mrs Reynolds stopped talking suddenly, as if fearing she had said too much, too enthusiastically. I hastened to reassure her, though the ‘young Mrs Darcy’ was a bit of a sting. Surely we could not be too far apart in age.

“How wonderful,” I said, truthfully enough. “And Mr Darcy’s parents? Were you here when they were alive?”

And in this question, Mrs Reynolds unbent fully as she spoke of what, to her, were glorious years with old Mr Darcy and his wife at Pemberley’s helm. We walked through the gallery and she showed me their portraits, talking of her early days as a younger servant and her rise through the ranks to her current exalted position.

“Mr Darcy looks much like his father,” I commented. “They are both very handsome.”

“Yes,” she said, almost wistfully. We walked a bit further, and there was a portrait of Mr Darcy himself, looking very much as I remembered him from those days in Meryton. But his hung alone on the wall.

“Is there a portrait of Anne de Bourgh Darcy?”

“There are, three of them. But Mr Darcy had them moved to one of the closed rooms after her death—he was distraught, and said he was having difficulties bearing the memories. It was so unexpected, you understand.” And then she added something very odd, speaking fast, as if needing to get the words out before prevented. “Mr Darcy is a good man. I say no more than the truth. I would not listen to the gossip, nor will I let anyone repeat it in my hearing. I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”

“Repeat what in your hearing?” I asked.

But she stiffened, clearly regretting her phrasing. “Just…gossip, ma’am. Of folks with nothing better to do.”

Her confidences were ended, and I knew better than to push. Another portrait caught my eye. “Oh, there is Mr Bingley.”

“Do you know him?” she said, her voice lightening. “Yes, that was painted upon the occasion of his betrothal to Miss Darcy.”

I stared at the picture for a moment. Mr Bingley looked much the same as I remembered, perhaps a bit less ebullient. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Jane, her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there was intelligence and sweetness in her face. I recalled what Mr Wickham had said of her arrogance, but of course, if he was speaking, he was lying. “I knew him many years ago. I will look forward to renewing our acquaintance, and meeting Mrs Bingley.”

“They always visit in the summer months, but perhaps they will come sooner,” she replied.

I made one or two remarks upon other pictures—there were many, very grand, our footsteps echoing upon the marble floors as we walked, and since she gave tours nearly every week that included this room, she was very knowledgeable regarding its contents, naming great artists and the staggering sums paid for most. It was a gallery worthy of kings; I was dutifully impressed. She showed me to a ‘morning parlour’ where the first Mrs Darcy had attended to her daily correspondence. It was a pretty, graceful, almost fragile room, the furniture delicate, perfectly matched. I admired especially a writing desk that was the envy of all writing desks, placed at an angle to catch the morning sun for which the room was named. As for the rest, Anne Darcy had carefully selected every piece, and I could applaud her taste—but it was not mine. It was a showpiece of a room; I would spend no time here. It could be added to the tour, for all I cared.

And then, she brought me to the library.

I recalled Miss Bingley speaking of Mr Darcy’s library in terms of respect, but she had accorded the same adulation to his penmanship. This…this was a dream. Shelves crept up the sides of every wall, all the way to lofty ceilings. There were wheeled ladders built in, running along a brass railing, so one could access even the most distant shelf. The furniture was leather and designed for comfort rather than for show. A few paintings hung within the limited wall space available, although they all seemed to memorialise favoured hunting dogs.

And the books! I had never seen so many in one place—they overflowed even the abundant shelving, and were stacked in piles beside the desk and tables. Surely there was more knowledge in this one room than could be absorbed by an entire university. The answers to a million questions, the accumulated wisdom of generations assembled in one place—and at my fingertips.

I moved aside a curtain to peer out the window; this room, evidently was the point at which the rest of the house met the cliffside wing, and from this view, Pemberley was a different place than appeared from the dining parlour. Every disposition of the ground was mild and idyllic; I looked on the whole scene—the lawns, the trees scattered upon its surfaces and winding into the forest like an enchanted path—with delight. A smell permeated the thick draperies, a secret, dark scent of leather, musty books, heavy velvet and soft carpets too worn to show the neighbourhood and too thick and serviceable to toss. The large fireplace was cold, the room icy, but the kindling was set and ready to light, the whole atmosphere calling, “Enter and welcome! Come and stay!”

“Oh, my,” I murmured. “I have never seen anything so wonderful in all my life.”

Mrs Reynolds smiled fondly. “I believe those to be the master’s sentiments. He never allows this room to be redecorated, unless it is to add more books—and even more volumes are stored in two smaller book rooms. Many were the times I heard Mrs Darcy complain of the shabby furniture, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

Shabby! The sofas were abnormally large and of the softest leather, made for curling up within. Perhaps one or two cushions required restuffing and a bit of stitching, but they were still impressive and obviously designed for the space.

“Oh, how my father would have adored this room,” I said, the sudden emotion so surprising me with its power that I had to fumble for a handkerchief.

“When did you lose him?” she asked gently, kindly.

“It has been almost eight years now,” I replied, quickly composing myself. “A carriage accident. I apologise. He was a great reader, and I love books as well. This library is a dream to me, and I anticipate many happy hours. In fact, I must have the fire lit now and begin it warming.”

“’Tis early in the day for the library fire. Would you not prefer the morning parlour?”

But I insisted, smiling to myself at her efforts to control her alarm at this new evidence of irreverence for tradition. Heedless of draughts, I threw open the drapes cloaking the other large floor-to-ceiling windows, delighted to have the green and mysterious views of Pemberley Woods brought within.

“Shall I leave you here, then?”

I looked at her curiously. “But we have yet to see the upper floor of this wing, I believe. We have only explored the lower.”

Stiffening, her face assumed an impassive mien. “No, ma’am. It was closed up after the mistress’s death. I am sorry he did not explain—Mr Darcy keeps the keys to that floor himself.”

She left me alone, then, with my thoughts churning. Still, there were only simple conclusions to draw. Mrs de Bourgh had not accused my husband of having anything to do with her daughter’s death, and yet she had said that ‘only he knew how Anne died’, while Mrs Reynolds urged me to disbelieve gossip surrounding him. Had whatever happened to her, occurred upstairs?

What gossip? Gossip having to do with his wife’s death? As if he were responsible for it?

I tried to imagine Mr Darcy having anything to do with murder and malice aforethought. I failed. What of an accident? An argument, perhaps…an angry shove, a head colliding with hearthstone. And then I laughed at myself. Mr Darcy did not lose control of his temper; in fact, I would wager that it was a point of pride with him. George Wickham—a name I hated recalling—had spread vitriol about him everywhere in Hertfordshire. I would never forget the first time they met in Meryton—Wickham had gone very white in the face. He was afraid, I knew he was afraid—but at the time, I did not realise what I knew, and it seemed so impossible that such a charming man had anything to fear. Mr Darcy had turned red with anger and, of course, I had thought him a naturally unpleasant man who dwelt in pessimism and vexation. He had made a terrible first impression upon me; I smiled to recall it now.

Mr Darcy had remembered that little insult towards me from that Meryton assembly, all these years later. I even knew why he remembered it—because it had been so out of character. Day in and day out, my husband was every bit the gentleman. He was polite, even kindly, to the bootblack, stablemen, inn servants, and his housekeeper, just as he was to his crass, boring relations. Knowing what I know of him now, I realise that only the most intense provocation could have incited his unpleasant response to George Wickham.

And what had he done in response? Acknowledged the greeting with…unfriendliness. And that was all. Since I full well knew Wickham’s capacity to cause suffering, I could only imagine what offenses he might have offered my husband. I was certain they were awful, and that Mr Darcy had not murdered him or even punched him in the nose in retribution. I, personally, would support either of those actions. I would help him bury the body.

His wife’s death had affected him deeply, deeply enough that he hated hearing her name mentioned and had shut up the rooms they had shared together. I could not imagine Pemberley’s Mr Darcy being subjected to a coroner’s inquest. But why did her own mother not know how she died? Or did she know more than she said, only wishing to cause me distress? Distressing me would never bring her daughter back, but people were often irrational in grief.

Mr Darcy and I must discuss this. It was ridiculous to shut up an entire floor, in effect, throwing away the key, thus causing talk for the rest of his life about it. Why carry such a burden? Pemberley was huge; he could live in the rest of the house without ever entering those rooms again—why not let it rest in peace quietly? I was selfish enough to not desire, particularly, to hear him sing praises to his lost love; he had certainly never said he loved me, and I doubt such effusions came easily to him regardless. But if he was hurting, or troubled, or upset, I was here to be hurt, troubled, and upset with him. For him. The only thing worse than suffering, was suffering alone.

And yet, I, too, disliked putting my grief on public display. If it were possible, I might have preferred Longbourn shut up, covered in sheets and packed away rather than so abruptly having a new master chortling over his good fortune, making changes that seemed stupid to me while calling them improvements. I must have more patience with Mrs de Bourgh and my husband, both. I had resided at Pemberley all of two days. Perhaps I ought to wait a few more before deciding I knew best.