Nameless by Julie Cooper
Chapter Seven
If it had not been for the writing desk debacle, I might have ignored the cliffside wing’s upper floor for years.
My preference for the library was immediate; for reading, the room was perfection. However, for writing letters, it was less so for me. There was a desk, of course, but built for generations of Darcy men; Mr Darcy fit it comfortably and often occupied it. The tables were the wrong height. My mind latched upon the writing desk in the morning parlour as ideal—there was enough room in the library’s spaces to set up my own within it.
But when I gave orders to a sturdy footman to have it moved, the look of unease upon his face was obvious. I imagined him speeding away to Mrs Reynolds to report another blow to Pemberley’s established customs. I did understand; it was an estate which thrived upon tradition. It did not change easily or lightly. However, Mrs Reynolds had been the one to tell me that the morning parlour had been redone by Anne Darcy. Therefore, its desk had not stood in place for a century, but for less than a decade. Mrs Reynolds had also pointed out that much of the furniture she had placed throughout the house had come from the attics; who was to say that some previous Darcy scion had not preferred the writing desk reside in the library?
It was not Mrs Reynolds who appeared before me, however, but the bombazine-clad Mrs de Bourgh. I had not understood, she said. I did not realise that the morning parlour had been flawlessly decorated in a period style, and every stick of furniture, the vases, the wallpapers, each piece of bric-a-brac selected for a cohesive whole. To remove the writing desk from its pride of place was akin to slashing the portraits, sloshing mud upon the carpets, and storing dead bodies in its place.
Well, perhaps she did not use those exact words. But it was clearly what she meant, all delivered with a sort of imperious condescension, as if I were too stupid to have realised my error unless she pointed it out.
“I appreciate that,” I said, with what I hoped was kindness. “I promise you, I do not plan any major redecorations to the house as a whole. I see the work your daughter has done here, and I appreciate it. It is beautiful, and I know you must be proud of her efforts.”
She gave an irksome, regal nod, as if I were finally seeing reason.
“I do, however, require the writing desk to be moved at present. If Mr Darcy wishes, another can be commissioned for me, that the original desk might be restored to its former placement. But for the nonce, it will have a new home in the library.”
I thought it magnanimous of me, really. I had no desire to force Mr Darcy to buy new furniture.
“You will not understand, madam,” the lady repeated herself. “It is a mishmash of style and décor to wreck the morning parlour thus. Pemberley House will be poorer for the change.”
“I noted several other pieces of the same period throughout the house—in the green parlour, the gold parlour, the hall, and even in Mr Darcy’s bedchamber,” I replied evenly. “Perhaps one of those furnishings could be placed in the desk’s current position while it is in use elsewhere.”
She liked even less that I had knowledge enough of style to see the weakness of her argument, and grew less civil in her exchange. “I can see you are the obstinate sort who intends to push herself upon others, to force her decided, uninformed opinions, and ignore the work of generations. I wonder at you. Pemberley will be ruined.”
I sighed. “I believe, of the two of us, there is only one attempting to force an opinion. When your daughter came here as Pemberley’s mistress, she made changes. Some of them were large, some small. Her influence will be felt for decades. I, too, will make changes, beginning with the library. Future mistresses will do the same. We all will leave our mark, and it is hoped that Pemberley will be the richer for it.”
The gleam in her eye should have warned me, but I was more naïve then. I had been most reasonable; I thought that whether or not she conceded my point, she must at least accept my right to make it. I remember wondering whether I would have to have such an argument about every tiny change I wished, and thinking that I would have to proceed slowly so that our home would not become a battlefield. It was fortunate, I thought, that the first Mrs Darcy had had excellent taste. Even if it was not my own, most changes could certainly wait.
Foolishly, I waited in the library so I could direct the desk’s placement. When the door opened, however, it admitted not burly desk-carting footmen, but my husband. He was very upset. He did not, of course, raise his voice or betray it physically, but it was in him nonetheless. Mrs de Bourgh followed him inside, her aspect solemn but her small eyes sharpened, the triumphant vulture circling.
“The library is not to be changed,” he ordered, low-voiced but intent. “Not a stick of it. Am I understood?”
Of course, this command—given as if I were a ridiculous child and without any discussion—put my back up. I had many, many things I wished to say—but I refused to give Mrs de Bourgh the conflict she craved. She wanted me to react poorly, which would only drive Mr Darcy to further entrench his position. I had no idea what she had told him, but I could imagine my plan had been presented in as inciting a way as possible.
I wondered what she would do if I threw my arms around my husband and exclaimed my joy in seeing him in the middle of the day, utterly ignoring his temper. I was too angry to manage the pretence, however, as much as I might have enjoyed the expression upon her face.
My marriage was not a tool for her manipulation. She was not allowed to create arguments between us for her amusement and pleasure.
Instead, I took three deep breaths—something my aunt used to do when the children were naughty, before she reprimanded them. I looked at my husband, really looked at him. His eyes were a little wild—whatever she had said to him stirred emotions far deeper than this discussion deserved. In that moment, I hated her, not only for what she had done, but to be completely frank, that she knew so well how to do it. I could not imagine what could have caused a resentment so deep at such an innocent provocation.
I stood, went to him, and placed my hand upon his cheek. He stiffened; thus I was happy I had not chosen any deeper expression of affection. “I can see the arrangement of this room means a great deal to you. I understand. I believe it to be my favourite room in the house,” I said. “Please, excuse me.”
Thankfully, he only nodded, allowing me to exit gracefully. I had not missed his quick confusion at my response; it was not one he had expected.
I discovered the maids had chosen this moment to freshen my chambers; they looked at me with veiled annoyance when I entered my sitting room. Well, they should not have expected me to understand their daily schedule so soon. I greeted them, asking their names.
“Nora, ma’am,” said the elder.
“Alice, ma’am,” murmured the younger.
“Have you finished my bedchamber?”
“No ma’am,” Nora answered. “We always start in here.”
“Usually that would be fine, Nora, and now that I know your routine, I shall not disturb it in the future. But for today, the bedchamber will be first. Thank you,” I said, dismissal in my tone.
There is little worse for a servant than a mistress with unclear expectations. With the possible exception of Mrs Hill, who had the patience of Job, Longbourn’s had suffered under my mother’s rule. After she rid the home of anyone loyal to my grandmother, Mama proceeded to constantly change her priorities, issuing criticism when the servants performed in a way that had been requisite only the week before and then forgetting the new demands a week after. While living with my aunt and uncle, I saw how important adherence to routine was in the smooth administration of a household. In my own home, although I intended to respect the maids’ customary schedule, it would not rule me or my decisions. As expected, they retreated apologetically, their annoyance at disruption fading.
I walked to the window overlooking the woods. To another, it might be bleak and forbidding, but I relished it, for it matched my mood.
“Marriage is difficult,” I murmured. I must begin introducing myself to the neighbourhood, creating friendships. I could not rely upon Mr Darcy to be my only one, and if ugly gossip was circulating regarding his first wife’s death, it was doubly important that I establish my place in the community to spread an equally strong and opposite point of view.
It would take much time, however. Mr Darcy had already explained that most of the families were in London for the Season; the Derbyshire weather kept many from the county for the winter months. Of the few remaining, I could expect them to leave cards, after which I would leave mine, before actual visits occurred. Even as I watched, raindrops angrily spattered against the glass, flung there by a stiff wind; as the shadows lengthened, it would turn to sleet, and then snow would overtake the moisture and one would have to be mad to venture out in it, especially along Pemberley’s insanely curving drive. There had been no callers today, and tomorrow was not looking much better.
I sighed, deciding I would walk through the rooms containing furniture I believed would look well in a matching style of the morning parlour. If Mrs de Bourgh thought this subject was closed and her battle won, she would soon learn differently.
* * *
From the largest dining parlour in the cliffside wing, I spotted an inconspicuous door which would lead, I believed, to another route to the kitchens I had visited this morning. I opened it to be certain, and noted a staircase leading to its upper levels. Fully expecting that I would reach some sort of a locked door barring my way, I nevertheless climbed them. When I reached the landing, however, the door opened easily.
I found myself at the head of another marble-floored corridor. I noticed quickly that it did not smell nor resemble a boarded-up place with musty shadows. Rather, every surface gleamed as if it were scrubbed and scoured regularly; empty crystalline vases, sparkling clean, were set in niches along the panelled passageway, awaiting their floral arrangements.
Curious, I strolled along the empty passage until I came to a set of double doors. I am unsure, even now, why I chose to enter these rooms after passing by so many others. It was a sitting room, done in green and gold; a portrait of a hunter, beside another of a spaniel, hung over a bare marble mantel. The masculine style told me this must have been Mr Darcy’s sitting room. I wandered through it, finding it spotless but almost impersonal. Of course, they would have moved everything that meant something to him to the new rooms in the east wing.
I wandered through his dressing room, the wardrobe empty, to his bedchamber. Rather than being cloaked in holland covers, it was made up as if ready for its next occupant. I walked through it, my footsteps hushed upon the thick carpet, and put my hand out to enter the next room, half expecting Mrs de Bourgh to be guarding the entrance on the other side. For of course, I was now trespassing into the previous Mrs Darcy’s lair.
Her rooms were enormous, each one easily thrice the size of the current mistress’s chambers. I even snickered, imagining the journey Mr Darcy would have had to make in order to join her in her bedroom. I could not imagine how much money must have gone into the marbled columns, chaise longues, pier glasses, goddesses and gilt, marquetry and damask. Her sitting room could easily accommodate a party of thirty.
It was fascinating. The morning parlour was cloaked in restraint, in comparison.
Another door led to a vast dressing room—filled with wardrobes, clothes presses and mirrors. A huge dressing table with an immense looking-glass took up a good deal of space. I opened a wardrobe door, unsurprised to see it filled floor to ceiling with shelves of shoes and slippers. Another contained hats of every sort and style. An evening dress hung by the mirror, as if newly pressed and only awaiting its owner to slip into it.
It was a stylish round gown, in an exotic shade of plum satin. I was certain there would be matching slippers, coordinating bonnet, and possibly matching underclothing somewhere about. She was shorter than I, and very slender; judging by her clothing, hers was the type of figure that wore all the latest fashions with modish perfection. I was rather fuller at the bust and hips, and had to choose styles more carefully. I replaced the gown with a sigh.
I wondered why her clothing remained; although I understood his remarriage a hasty one, if Mr Darcy was recovered enough from his grief to remarry, he ought to be recovered enough to put away his dead wife’s belongings. Even had I been the same size, style, and shape, I would never have worn any of it.
I hugged myself a little, shivering, my remade gown not warm enough for this exploration. Nevertheless, I entered Anne’s bedchamber.
And I gasped. I had never seen such a sight; it reminded me a little of the ‘state’ bedchamber at Haye-Park, but that had been much smaller, designed to be a fashionable, modern version of an ancient style.
William and Mary could not have been more royally received. Her bed was on a raised dais, with steps leading up to it. The walls were decorated in pink ciselé velvet and gold draperies, with coordinated damask swaths hanging from a gilded dome affixed to the high, lavishly decorated ceiling. The bed coverings were gold satin and fur. A nearly translucent pale pink négligée lay draped across the end of it, again, as if its wearer was expected at any moment. The fireplace was lit, casting its warmth across the immense space. Vases were scattered around the room, each containing delicate, blood-red roses, with extra petals strewn across the bed. Another massive dressing table, identical to the one in the sitting room, displayed a brush set and various pots and jars of cosmetics, some of the lids off, as if the owner had only recently left it during the act of dressing.
Mrs Reynolds had lied to me; Mr Darcy probably had, indeed, ordered these rooms closed, but she kept this one ready for occupancy. Pemberley’s conservatory was supplying its flowers, and Pemberley’s servants were dusting, mopping, and polishing, just as they always had. Just as if someone used the room regularly, just as one person always had.
This was not simply a bedchamber; it was a shrine to a ghost.
* * *
“Well,” I said aloud, just to hear a living voice. “This is something.” I knew nothing of the de Bourgh family lineage, but Anne Darcy had pronouncedly royal taste, akin to pictures I’d seen of the grandiose Brighton pavilion. Had Mr Darcy approached her bed as a supplicant each evening?
“Stop,” I ordered myself. If I began imagining their intimacy, I would grow jealous and perhaps even anxious. I knew he enjoyed what we did together, and…she was dead. Whatever they had shared was gone the way of all the earth.
To clear my head, I walked out onto an extensive terrace-balcony running along nearly the whole of this side of the wing—one could enter through the mistress’s or master’s chambers or sitting rooms—and walked its length. It had been built out far enough beyond the lower level to create a devastating view, looking over peaks and boulders and sky, perched along the cliff’s rim. One had the feeling, almost, of floating alongside the clouds, exactly as Mrs de Bourgh had claimed, and though the wind was freezing, the sensation was incredible. I walked to the edge to enjoy it, noticing that the terrace wall was low, frighteningly so. Perhaps the same Darcy forebear who built the cliff-edged road enjoyed such risks. I understood it, however. The impression of being one with the sky might have been ruined by too large a barrier, although looking down upon the perilous four-hundred-foot cliff, or even the thirty-foot drop-off to the foundation footers spoiled most of it for me regardless.
The nearest door leading back into the sitting room was locked, forcing me to re-enter via the mistress’s chamber with its atmosphere of melancholy anticipation. I must have been in too great a hurry to leave it, however. As I passed a commode on my way out, my hand brushed against a small porcelain figurine. It hit on the furniture’s edge and broke into several sharp pieces.
“Blast it,” I swore, completely annoyed. I fumbled for my handkerchief and scraped the fragments into it. One of them cut my hand, and it bled rather badly. In the end, I had to use one of Anne’s handkerchiefs to bind the wound.
All told, my explorations of the afternoon were rather too eventful. I did not mind leaving that floor, and retiring instead to my plainer, smaller chambers with their living forest views.
* * *
Dinner was at eight o’clock; I had not seen Mr Darcy since leaving him in the library, and I wondered if he would avoid me all evening. I had tried to find him, had even asked Mrs Reynolds whether he was in the house. No, she said, he was with his steward, Mr Williams. I could just imagine him sending over a note, something polite and formal. I have business to attend, it would say. I shall dine with Mr Williams tonight.
So when we met in the green parlour just before dinner, I greeted him with some relief, rather than my earlier displeasure. After a moment of what I thought might be surprise, he smiled and spoke of the gruesome weather. I was not finished with our argument, of course; still, it could wait until other appetites were sated.
I had just taken his arm when Mrs Reynolds entered, a worried frown upon her face. “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “Mrs de Bourgh is too upset to come down. She has had a small altercation with Nora. Mrs de Bourgh has accused her of stealing something, a figurine, or else breaking it and disposing of or hiding the evidence. Nora swears she did not and is very distressed.”
“Doubtless she did not, then. Nora has been with us an age. We must look for another perpetrator.”
Mrs Reynolds bit her lip, her cheeks flushing. “That is just it, sir. Mrs de Bourgh sent her to fetch some possession of hers from the old mistress’s chambers. She is the only one who has been in it, excepting Mrs de Bourgh herself.”
Mr Darcy’s expression grew thunderous, and although he spoke very calmly, we both heard the disapproval in his voice. “I remember giving orders for that floor to be shut up. I believe I asked you for the keys.”
To her credit, Mrs Reynolds did not flinch, though she was very red-faced. “Yes, sir. Mrs de Bourgh refused to give me her keys, sir. She said my orders did not include hers. I ought to have told you, but she was so very distressed about Mrs Darcy’s death. She wished to spend time in her old rooms. I thought it was the grief, sir. I do apologise.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but I interrupted. “As to the figurine, Mrs Reynolds, it was I who broke it.” I held up my hand; I had removed the bandage for dinner, but an angry red scratch remained. “I entered via the stairs from the dining parlour. The door off the landing was unlocked, and I looked around. As I was leaving, I brushed against a porcelain and it fell and broke. I put the pieces in a box on Mr Darcy’s bureau, along with a note to him explaining the accident and its cause, as he was not at home and thus, I could not explain. I had no idea another would be accused, and so quickly. You will please convey my apologies to Nora?”
Mrs Reynolds opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her expression lightened, and I knew she would not tell Mr Darcy that she had warned me against entering the upper floor of the cliffside wing. It was very good of her, though I had already admitted that she had in my note. I did not much care for secrets.
“I will, madam. I will tell her, and inform Mrs de Bourgh the truth of the matter. I am certain she will be relieved that it was not a case of theft. Thank you, madam.”
Mr Darcy’s jaw remained clenched after she hurried away.
“Will you ask Mrs de Bourgh for her keys?”
He did not answer me but stiffly held out his arm. I placed my hand upon his sleeve; I could feel his tension. I began walking with him towards the dining parlour.
“She knew Nora had done nothing wrong,” I said, conversationally. “Perhaps she did not realise I would tell you of the accident. I have seen her twice in passing this afternoon. I am certain she saw the bandage on my hand. I am also certain that she spends most of her time on that closed floor, maintaining the rooms just as they were in Mrs Darcy’s lifetime, and noticed the figurine’s absence immediately. Doubtlessly she checked the dustbins for the shards. The vases in her daughter’s former bedchamber are filled with fresh flowers, and she has a négligée laid out upon the bed. That was the most alarming touch, at least to me. It is as if she expects Anne to return.”
If he could have grown stiffer, he would have. I know he would have recoiled from my words, from me, had politeness not been ingrained. “Her grief is exacerbated by my presence, and I wonder that she would not like to live elsewhere,” I finished.
I said nothing more. I was not sorry that I had made my feelings on the situation clear. Mrs de Bourgh was actively trying to cause dissension between us. And whether it was grief or a jealous hatred or both, I could not stand by as her victim.
Mr Darcy said nothing the entire meal. I, conscious of the footmen listening, had nothing to say either. As soon as I could, I excused myself. I was nearly to the door when he spoke; I turned to face him.
“Your hand,” he said. “Is it painful? Should I call someone to look at it?”
“No,” I replied. “I barely notice it now. Just a scratch.”
And that was all.
For the first time since our marriage, he did not come to me that night.