Clouds Over Pemberley

by Walter Oleksy

  The Irish were in their rooms at The Royal Inn when they heard a knock on the door. Answering it, Pippa was surprised to see Lydia Wickham. “Forgive the intrusion, Miss O’Reilly,” said Lydia, “but might we have tea downstairs in the café? I have urgent need to converse with you about…” She hesitated, seeing Mr. O’Reilly. “… about a certain matter.”

  “If you wish,” replied Pippa, wondering why the lovely girl looked so distraught.

  The ladies retired to the café and had tea, but Lydia did not immediately say what the urgent matter was. While the ladies were away, Mr. O’Reilly removed his clothes, intending to wash himself from the wash basin. Before he could begin that office, while standing in just his flag shorts that he enjoyed wearing as underpants, he heard another knock at the door. Not having a dressing gown to cover himself, he answered the door by just opening it a crack, to see who was calling now. To his surprise, it was Mr. Wickham. He almost closed the door on him, but Wickham looked distraught.

  “You said you did not wish to see me again,” Wickham pleaded, “but I implore you, let me in, to try to reclaim your favor of me.” Hope springs eternal, he thought, with great expectations that he would succeed in melting Mr. O’Reilly’s cold, cold heart towards him.

  Anything is possible, Lydia thought as she sat having tea with Pippa. She had to express her true sensibilities toward the lass from Ireland. She had been taken by her beauty at first sight. She did not understand the feelings she had been holding, and repressing, but they had surfaced strongly that morning.

  Pippa could not help but wonder what was troubling the girl, but it was something grave, she suspected.

  Was Lydia with child and wanting to tell her about it? Why would she? Did she suspect Sean of being the father? It would be too soon to accuse him, even he had taken her, and she doubted that. She trusted his temperance totally. Lydia became impatient to talk about what she had on her mind. Reluctantly, Mr. O’Reilly admitted Mr. Wickham. Upon seeing Mr. O’Reilly standing in just his shamrock shorts, Mr. Wickham gasped, thinking he is an Irish god.

  But his inner demon reminded him, Sean is one of the Untouchables. How to conquer his demon from the secret world, his beast from the southern world, the dark world? How to hide his maleficent side, the socially taboo of the two faces of his divergent nature?

  Sean felt uncomfortable standing as he was, nearly au natural. “Pardon me, and I shall dress.”

  “Not on my account.”

  “On your account, I think I must.”

  “May I assist you?” Wickham asked, taking a bold step toward him.

  Said Sean, taking a quick cautionary step backwards, “Sir, I have no need of a dresser.”

  Wickham was crestfallen. Said Mr. O’Reilly when he was dressed, remembered his obligation to Mr. Collins. Looking down at himself, he said, “I see there is some road dust on me, from the coach ride with the Darcy’s from Pemberley.”

  “So there is,” said Wickham, although he saw no dust.

  Standing with shoulders back and arms behind him, Sean said, “I have no valet to see after the dust, so would you kindly oblige me by brushing it off?”

  Wickham could hardly believe Mrs. O’Reilly’s request, but eagerly obliged. Sean stood patiently while he was being attended to. He gasped at Mr. Wickham’s thoroughness, then suppressed an urge to chuckle, thinking, I am rather a big tease, aren’t I?

  After some time, Sean said, “You are most obliging. Thank you.” “Any time I may be of service, sir,” Wickham said with a bow.

  Sean decided he would do no further research on Wickham for Mr. Collins, at least that afternoon. Wickham reached his limit. He finally released his most repressed emotion. Dropping to his knees, he clutched Sean's hips and pressed his face against him, declaring, “Sir, this is the real me!”

  Sean pushed him away. “Sir, you are engaging in conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman. Kindly restrain yourself.”

  He said it kindly, Wickham thought. He appreciated that. But, Wickham agonized, how long must I be temperate and suppress my true nature? For a day, a week, a month or year? Or ten years? Must those in the future suppress theirs for a hundred or even two hundred years?

  Sean looked like he had some sympathy, and even empathy, for Mr. Wickham’s dilemma.

  “You said you wanted to tell me something…”

  Wickham said, “Not so much tell as to request something.” Having tea with Miss O'Reilly, Miss Bennet was struggling with her own inner demon, although not as hard as Mr. Wickham was. She had felt lost and delirious with Mr. Wickham. Unable to think straight. But since first seeing Miss O’Reilly, she thought she had chosen the world she wanted to live in.

  She thought she would tell Miss O’Reilly the truth about herself and her feelings, that she had truly and completely fallen in love with her and wanted them to be together always. She came right out with it.

  “I love you,” said Lydia, softly so as not to be overheard by two other ladies at a close-by table. Then, a little louder, so the world would know, “I not only love you, I am in love with you!”

  Pippa, shocked, pushed back her chair and stood up. “Miss, do control yourself. And by-the-by, who are you? Have we ever met before?”

  “I am Lydia, the youngest of the Bennet sisters. I believe you know most of the others.”

  Pippa hastened out of the café,

  Lydia remained seated and reached for a crumpet to munch on. The disappointing encounter had left her famished. Well, I tried, she decided. I thought she knew me. She is just not yet willing to accept her true nature. I shall try again. Never give up, as in tennis, no matter what the score is.

  Pippa returned to her rooms with Sean, but hesitated outside the door. She heard voices within and paused to overhear. She was not an eavesdropper, generally, but the discourse inside sounded interesting. She recognized the voice of Mr. Wickham, speaking to her husband.

  “I only wish to ask if you would play me a final game of craps, for your beautiful shirt. You know I have admired it. I could try to find a duplicate, if I went to Dublin, but the original holds special meaning to me.”

  “I do not wish to gamble it to you, especially because of that meaning. I assure you again, Mr. Wickham, although you appear to be inclined toward me, I am not similarly inclined toward you. I am of a different nature.

  Wickham then again persisted in trying to play craps with Mr. O’Reilly, hoping his would not be a mission impossible. He took a pair of dice out of his trouser pocket and began shaking them in a clenched hand. Sean watched with considerable trepidation.

  “Your shirt for an hour with my beautiful wife.”

  Sean looked surprised. “I’m afraid not. And not again for the shirt.”

  Wickham became emboldened to ask about a perhaps higher wagering stake.

  “A full night with my beautiful wife for the shirt.”

  Sean was somewhat amused. “No, thank you, sir.”

  Wickham finally gave up struggling with the demon inside him.

  “An hour with me for an hour with you.” Sean frowned. “I dare say, sir, you are in bad form.”

  Wickham backed off, trying to save himself from disgrace.

  “I was merely jesting. You did not take me seriously?”

  Not replying, Sean showed Wickham to the door.

  I’ve gone too far again, Mr. Wickham lamented. Sean ushered Wickham out into the hall. As the door was closed behind him, Wickham bumped into Pippa. He did not stop, but went past her to the stairs. She noticed that he was tearful.

  Pippa thought, the Wickham's have it all wrong. Yet, she had to admit she felt a little attracted to young and lovely Lydia. Perhaps even more than just a little.

  Pippa rejoined Sean in their rooms and said, “He likes you.”

  Her husband shuddered.

  The Irish then disrobed, climbed into bed, and made passionate love, their fingers crossed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four The following morning, The Darcy’s took breakfast i
n their dining-parlor at Pemberley and mainly discussed their increasing anticipation of the arrival of their child. After breakfast, Elizabeth retired to her sewing room upstairs. After doing some needlepoint on a “God Bless Our Home” pattern, she decided to go back downstairs to her piano-forte in the music room.

  At the top of the stairs, starting to descend, she felt some morning sickness, then fainted. Falling down the long flight of stairs, she screamed and landed painfully on her stomach.

  Mr. Darcy was not at home, having left after breakfast by coach to go to the library in Meryton. Elizabeth’s maid, Paula, heard her mistress cry out as she fell and, finding her unconscious, had another member of the household staff ride by horse to fetch the doctor.

  Doctor Martin was about to leave for a morning of golf, but delayed that pleasure to take a carriage hastily from his office to attend to the trouble at Pemberley. Meanwhile, Paula dispatched another coachman to hasten to Meryton and notify Mr. Darcy of Mrs. Darcy’s accident. It would take some hours before the mission could be accomplished and more hours before Mr. Darcy could return to Pemberley.

  Upon his arrival at Pemberley, Doctor Martin found her to be still unconscious, so he had a domestic assist him in getting her into his carriage and hurried to the hospital in Lampton. It was late morning before Mr. Darcy was located at the library in Meryton and early afternoon before he arrived by coach at the hospital.

  He found his wife to be awake but in shock from her accidental fall and the news that followed from the doctor. Outside her room in the hospital hall, said Doctor Martin to Mr. Darcy, “I regret to inform you that Mrs. Darcy has miscarried and lost the stillborn child within her.”

  No wonder she is in shock, Darcy thought. All the way riding back to Pemberley he had felt guilt for not having been home when his wife fell. Now he upbraided himself.

  “I am afraid there is further bad news,” the doctor said. “Mrs. Darcy has not been told, but it is most unlikely that she will be able to give birth again.”

  Mr. Darcy anguished even more at hearing that, and hurried back to his wife’s bedside. She welcomed his kiss and felt comfort from his hand holding hers, but could see the pain he tried to suppress in his eyes.

  “We can have another,” she told him, confidently.

  He hesitated, then was unable to keep his grief to himself.

  “Dearest, I am afraid the doctor believes that is now unlikely.” Darcy then lowered his head and sobbed on Elizabeth’s bosom. She took the news bravely and held his head to comfort him. They said nothing further but he remained by her bedside almost constantly the next several days before she recovered enough to be returned to Pemberley.

  While his wife rested, Darcy took frequent walks, and after one of them, thinking about Elizabeth, the child they had lost and any other they might never have, he decided to find a dog. As if God-sent, a black Labrador Retriever puppy came out of the woods as he walked at Pemberley Park and hurried up to him, its tail wagging happily.

  Darcy, overjoyed at the sight of the puppy, lifted him up into his arms. It was instant mutual love. He took the dog home and named him Max, after an elderly homeless man he had met in Meryton.

  The puppy helped to fill some of the void its master felt since losing what he had considered to be his son and heir. When Elizabeth recovered sufficiently to sit with Mr. Darcy, they spent hours together before the fire in the parlor fireplace, she reading a book and he holding Max who frequently napped as his master held him close in his arms. She looked up from her book on occasion, seeing him and his new companion so peacefully together.

  In the days that followed Elizabeth’s recovery, Darcy went to the constable’s office in Lampton and inquired about whether stray dogs and cats were ever recovered and were taken to a place of shelter so they might find new masters.

  “I have long wished there was such a place in Lampton,” said the constable. “I have heard there is such a place in London. Perhaps some day we may be able to afford to have a shelter for stray animals here.”

  The thought reached Mr. Darcy’s sensibilities and then his heart. He would provide funds for the establishment of a shelter for stray dogs and cats. The project became his obsession and, within a few weeks, his vision was realized and he showed the shelter to Max. Max wagged his tail and barked happily at the sight of two stray dogs and three stray cats already in residence in the shelter, awaiting new masters.

  The shelter, which Mr. Darcy named Animal House, was adjacent to the police station, and the constable said to Mr. Darcy, commenting on Max, “He is a talker.”

  So that was what Max was constantly vocalizing, Mr. Darcy realized. He puts his lips together and forms a small hole out of which he speaks, saying only “Woo woo woo!” but the words might mean other things to the puppy. Or, perhaps, they only conveyed the message.

  “Woo woo woo to you,” Mr. Darcy told his faithful new friend. Wickham, fearful of being sent to prison for the rest of his life for shooting Sean, or being beheaded, decided to roll the dice with him one final time, if the Irish allowed it. He would try to win the silk shirt at last.

  They played craps at his rooms at The Arms while Pippa was away. Sean’s luck was with him and he kept his shirt. Wickham, however, lost his entire Hussar’s uniform. He had not worn it to the craps game, but brought it with him. He lamented its loss, but doubted he could take it with him to prison or the gallows.

  After Wickham left him, Sean put on the uniform and decided to parade himself in the streets of Meryton, curious as to whether it would attract any beautiful young women. He would test Mr. Collins’ sermon research on himself.

  The night was dark, yet Sean drew some interest from ladies passing by, but they were with their lovers or husbands, so none stopped so he could speak with them.

  After a while, a carriage pulled to a stop behind him. When he turned to look, he saw who was its single occupant. Lydia Bennet rushed from the carriage. “Is it you, Mr. O’Reilly, in my former husband’s Hussar’s uniform?” “I just won it from him in a craps game,” said Sean as Miss Bennet shoved him inside her carriage.

  “Take a walk!” Lydia instructed the coachman. The coachman dutifully left to find a close-by pub where he could drink an ale or two. He had been used to the situation from driving Lydia on previous evenings. He could take his time, he was certain.

  Lydia proceeded to smother Sean with passionate kisses. “If I can’t have the sister,” she told him, “the brother will more than do!” Not that he wanted to, but Sean did not protest. He was, after all, a gentleman, and a gentleman’s duty was always to oblige a lady. To do otherwise would be bad form. And, too, this was all in the service of researching for Mr. Collins.

  Lydia left off on smothering Sean with kisses, then ran her fingers through his golden locks. She then went swiftly over him and tore off his uniform. When he was down to just his flag shorts, Mr. O’Reilly had a decision to make. Should he give in to temptation and enter her, or exercise temperance? He felt aroused, but was not a rake, so he decided on the latter. Then he could honestly deny it if Miss Bennet ever claimed he was the father of a child she might have.

  As Sean left her, Lydia was content. She wondered whatever she had seen in his sister.

  She laughed as she tossed the torn Hussar's uniform into the street. She thought it served Wickham right.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the morning, Sean felt he had enough of sermon researching. Lydia said she felt the same. He called on Mr. Collins at the parsonage and said,

  “Things have turned out badly, so my wife and I want out of the research. We intend to return immediately to Ireland.”

  Disappointed, Mr. Collins could see Mr. O’Reilly was in earnest. He asked him to give a report on the research thus far, but Sean refused.

  Mr. Collins felt betrayed. “Then I shall expect you to make full restitution for the money owed me. Or…”

  Mr. Collins did not finish what he had on his mind, and Sean could not guess what the clerg
yman's implied threat could be. Seeing Darcy at the library in Meryton a short time later, Sean confided in him about the subject of his and Pippa’s research for Mr. Collins. He concluded saying,

  “Mr. Collins wanted me to find someone to play my sister, and I thought who better to play my sister than my wife?” He then apologized for the deception, and Darcy forgave him, saying they were innocent pawns in Mr. Collins’ ill-conceived marital infidelity chess game for which his aunt played at least some part, wanting to encourage the parson in disgracing the Bennet family. He wondered how the sermon research had affected Wickham, but did not expect he should ever learn that. He would not confront Lady Catherine about the research, but would deal with Mr. Collins.

  Sean told Darcy about the veiled threat he had received from Mr. Collins. Said Darcy, “He could only sue you, but it would cause a scandal that would reflect back on himself. Leave it to me. I will pay Mr. Collins to free you and Pippa of your obligation to him.”

  Sean was relieved. “That is most kind, and we shall repay you when we are back in Dublin and working again.”

  “There is no need for that,” Darcy replied.

  Later that day, Darcy told Elizabeth about it and they discoursed about how to deal with Mr. Collins. Enjoying a bit of mischief, together they devised what they called “the poor box” scandal. Its result was widespread, beginning with newspaper reports that Mr. Collins was in deep trouble.

  The Meryton Weekly Gazette ran a front page headline in big black boldface type reporting:

  PARSON COLLINS UNDER INVESTIGATION! The Reverend Judas Collins, pastor of the Fourth Reformed Anglican Church at Hunsford in this village, is under investigation for allegedly using church funds for personal use. He has been accused of using poor box money for his personal use, purchasing red silk long underwear.

  The garments, perhaps twenty of them, reportedly bear a gold crown emblem and the initials J.C. Investigators first suspected the initials represent his given name as Our Lord’s, but he claims it is Judas.

  A review of the church’s books including poor box donations is underway by district auditors. Pastor Collins denies all allegations but has become so distraught he is in hospital.