The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2)

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  “Why now?”

  Dr. Middleton stepped over to her. “Because the stubborn old bird wasn’t going to say a word until she ran out of time. She’s near the end, dear.”

  The long afternoons Catie had spent with Annabelle Montague of late had given her a tiny snippet, a brief peek into her mother’s life. Like gathering shells on a beach, she was able to collect delightful, unique pieces of Margaret and store them away, precious and protected. Learning that Annabelle Montague was dying was like having the tide come in and take all the remaining shells back to the depths of the ocean—forever lost. “That’s terrible news indeed.” Sean rolled his chair over, and she mechanically lowered herself into it. “I know it seems silly for me to be so distraught, but I’ve grown especially attached to Annabelle.”

  Dr. Middleton pressed a comforting hand to Catie’s shoulder. “Personally, I’ve never met anyone that could weather that woman’s stormy manners—except for Robbins of course. I’d wager, Catie dear, that you’re probably the only real friend she has in the world. She’s just always been so damned prickly. That being said, the mourners will be lined up for miles; funerals in Savannah are like a who’s who social.”

  “Funeral?” Catie looked up at him and repeated, as if the inevitable had just occurred to her.

  “Let’s give Catie and Sean some privacy, Hugh.” Prissy gave her husband a scornful eye just before leaning down and pressing her cheek to Catie’s. “Honey, you know I’m here if you need me.”

  Catie shook her head, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Prissy, but I’m perfectly fine, really.”

  “What did I do?” They heard Dr. Middleton ask in a whispered voice as he and Prissy left the office.

  “Tact and sensitivity, Hugh Middleton, are a couple of terms you might like to familiarize yourself with.”

  “That man’s always in trouble with that woman,” said Sean, shaking his head as he closed the door behind them and then came promptly back to her side.

  “Yes, they remind me very much of Ben and Sarah,” Catie commented with a slow smile, trying to stave off an increasing need to cry her eyes out, but failed and crumbled into his arms. “Oh, Sean!”

  ***

  After performing all the proper husbandly duties of holding Catie while she cried, soothing her with soft words and caresses, and drying her tear-streaked face, Sean reluctantly drove his wife to Challongate. He bit back the impulse to demand she let Annabelle Montague die in peace, knowing that continuing to visit the sick woman would only give Catie more heartache. Hasn’t she suffered enough heartache, he asked himself or God or whoever might be willing to listen? He glanced over at her. In her profile, Sean saw that her face had narrowed and matured from the rosy-cheeked schoolgirl he’d first fallen in love with. He smiled to himself, grateful that her dimples had remained. She wouldn’t be Catie without them. “Catie,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she breathed softly, deep in her own thoughts.

  “I’m right here.”

  “I know, and I thank you for being right there.” She blew a great deal of air out of her lungs through puffy cheeks and said, “Do you know, in all my visits, Annabelle has never told me about the last time she saw my mother. I only know that Annabelle left England in 1946 in love with my father and believing he loved her too. I also know that, at some point during that year, he and my mother fell in love. I can only assume that Margaret and Annabelle’s last meeting wasn’t a friendly one. It’s selfish of me, but I hate that piece of mother’s life dying with Annabelle Montague. I really want to know what happened.”

  Sean shrugged. “Why not just ask her?”

  “I might.”

  Stopping in front of the house, he asked, “Do you want me to go in with you. I can stay out of sight…just be there if you need me.”

  “No. Go back to work. I shall be fine.”

  Sean glanced up at Challongate. The massive home looked bleak and empty in the chilly, grey afternoon. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes; she must realize that I’ve been told about her illness. It would be indelicate of me not to visit.”

  “Catie,” he said, annoyed, “this isn’t London. No one gives a bleedin’ damn if you practice social protocol or not.”

  “I give a bleedin’ damn.”

  He smiled at that, grasping her chin firmly in his hand and kissing her, meaning it. “Mind yer tongue, woman. I’ll not have me wife speakin’ like a sailor.”

  “Yes, darling,” she answered, returning the smile.

  He held her in his grasp for a moment, disinclined to let her go, but then gestured to the car door. “Away off then.”

  “I love you, Sean Kelly.” She leaned over and kissed him again.

  “A good thing that.” He winked. “Because you’re mine now, me darlin’ girl.”

  Sean watched from the car until Catie disappeared inside the house, heaved a sigh, and pulled off.

  “You have a visitor, Miss Annabelle,” Robbins announced from the parlor door, Catie by his side.

  “Send them away. I don’t wish to see anyone.”

  He looked down at Catie, his small grey eyes showing the toil his mistress’s illness had taken on him. “It’s Mrs. Kelly, ma’am.”

  “I especially don’t want to see her.” Like a spoiled child, Annabelle picked up a teacup and slammed it back onto its saucer.

  “It’s too late, Annabelle. I’m already here.” Catie strode boldly to the woman’s side. “May I stay?”

  “I assume you have been told I’m dying, and that is why you have come?” Not looking at her, Annabelle Montague sat imperiously in a tall, wingback chair and stared into a blazing fire, the room’s only light as the parlor’s heavy burgundy drapes were pulled together.

  “Yes, I have, and if you ask me, it’s a damned bugger of deal. Eh?”

  Cutting her eyes at Catie, Annabelle Montague almost smiled. “Thank you for not saying you’re sorry, Catherine. I hate it when people say they’re sorry. And don’t pity me.”

  “I abhor pity.” Catie sat down in a chair identical to Annabelle’s and adopted the same occupation of staring into the fire. “What good is pity? It accomplishes nothing, I say.”

  “I like you, Catherine. Since I’ve met you, I’ve thought you were more the child William and I might have had than he and Margaret. She was a pleaser and a perfectionist.”

  “Bennet is the perfectionist. Not even Pemberley House is large enough for two of him. I guess it was only natural that I went in the opposite direction. Still, it makes me wonder how I might have been different if Mamma had lived — had she raised me.”

  “You have your father’s spirit, Catherine. Not even Margaret could have taken that from you.”

  Glad the subject had so quickly turned to Margaret, Catie sat eagerly forward in her seat. “There are some things I share with mother though. I realize that now, thanks to you. Like Margaret, I, too, yearned for a doting mother. When I was a girl, I dreamed of nothing else. When I was very young, I would pretend that Rose was my mother.” Catie laughed. “There were nights, after Rose closed my bedroom door, when I would say, ‘Good night, Mummy.’ Then I’d pretend to hear her call back, ‘Good night, my darling daughter.’ I used to imagine that Rose was my real mother and everyone was keeping it from me, like a mysterious and deeply kept family secret.”

  Annabelle stared at Catie for a moment then in a hoarse but sincere voice said, “She wouldn’t have left you had she been given the choice, Catherine. I sense you have found it easier to dislike Margaret, but you would have liked her; you would have loved her very much — everyone did.”

  The words felt as if they hit Catie’s bone. She stood abruptly and, seeming to forget all the years of effort the Davenport School had put in to perfecting her etiquette, blurted, “I fancy a cup of coffee.” Then, just as abruptly, she realized what she had done. “I’m terribly sorry. My manners are quite lacking this afternoon.”

  Robbins, who, like any excellent butler, was able to
anticipate one’s needs before one could think to ask, came into the room with a tray. “I do hope that is coffee instead of tea, Robbins,” Annabelle said, giving Catie a half-smile, “for our young guest fancies coffee.”

  “It is coffee,” Robbins replied as he turned over the cups and began to pour. “The day seemed to call for it.”

  “How can I help you, child?” Annabelle asked her. “What else do you want? I know you want something. You’ve already told me you don’t feel sorry for me, and I’m not a relative, so certainly you have no obligation to be here.”

  Robbins placed the coffee on the small round table between their chairs, giving Catie a moment to look into the fire and gather her thoughts. When he stepped away, she shifted her gaze back to Annabelle. “The summer of ’47, when you returned to England. What happened, Annabelle? Why did you lose my mother’s friendship? Or more like…why did she lose yours?”

  Putting her head back, Annabelle closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “We were just playing at being adults, Margaret, Willie and me. But I suppose the heart knows no age. I arrived in London shortly after Margaret was presented at Court. To accompany Margaret to all the Season’s balls and soirees, her mother had rented a flat in London. Apparently, her ladyship had developed a sudden keen interest in her daughter—or rather a keen interest in getting Margaret a marriage proposal. Of course seventeen-year-old girls weren’t getting married in those days any more than they are now, but the right connection for Margaret could secure her future and free her ladyship from the baron.”

  Catie’s back straightened. “You make it sound as if my grandmother were auctioning her daughter off to the highest bidder.”

  Annabelle arched an eyebrow at her. “To any bidder might be more the truth. This may be shocking news to you, my dear, but I was there.”

  “I don’t understand. Did grandmother not approve of a match between Mum and Dad?”

  “She didn’t know.” Absently, Annabelle twisted the multitude of gold bangles that always adorned her tiny wrists. “Not even Margaret knew.” She stared into the fire as that distant look came over her. Catie knew the woman was still physically in the room, but her mind had traveled elsewhere. “Because of business obligations, my Daddy couldn’t make the trip to England the summer of ’47. I was devastated. I had to see Willie. He and I had written each other faithfully every week but…after Christmas his letters changed.”

  “Changed?” Catie questioned. “Changed how?”

  “Willie’s words were no longer those of a young man in love. Instead, he wrote to me about school and local happenings—rubbish that meant nothing. Out of the blue, his letters were more the correspondence between a brother and sister. Immediately, I suspected that he and Margaret might have— Margaret had spent her Christmas holiday at Pemberley, you see, but Margaret and I were faithful pen pals as well. I read each one of her letters three—sometimes four times—searching. She mentioned Willie often but never was there the slightest hint of a special attachment for him.”

  “So you thought it was someone else?”

  “Yes.” Annabelle took a long sip of her coffee, cleared her throat, and continued, “I pitched such a fit, my mother beseeched my piano teacher—a Mrs. Mitchell who was a widow—to be my companion for the journey. I knew both Willie and Margaret were in London, so Mrs. Mitchell and I got rooms at the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair. Margaret came to see me once she knew I had arrived. She and I visited in the hotel lounge and caught up. Poor girl was exhausted. Her mother had been forcing her to attend all the balls and accept every luncheon invitation that arrived. Margaret knew all too well what her mother was up to.”

  “Poor Mother,” Catie whispered sorrowfully.

  “Indeed,” Annabelle agreed. “There wasn’t any pressure for a girl to come out of her first Season engaged—quite the opposite. Most of the young women and men were just having a bit of fun, a distraction before starting university. But Margaret felt the weight of her mother’s hopes. She knew what her mother wanted…expected even. As it was, we could only visit for a short while before Margaret had to leave. Her mother had several social calls for them to make that afternoon.”

  Intrigued, Catie asked, “Did Mother mention Daddy at all?”

  “No.” Annabelle shook her head. “And I purposefully didn’t bring Willie up to see if Margaret would. But she didn’t. It wasn’t the cleverest of schemes, for I soon realized that I wasn’t even sure what her not mentioning Willie meant! Remember, I was only seventeen at the time.”

  At that, Catie chuckled. Women…if they weren’t trying to figure out men, they were trying to figure out each other.

  “Anyway, I was glad Margaret had to dash off. All I wanted was to see Willie. I had to know my fate. It was planned that he, Mrs. Mitchell, and I would dine at the hotel that evening, but God help me, I couldn’t wait any longer. The second Mrs. Mitchell went to her room for a siesta, I took off walking to Charles Street, praying your father was at home.” Annabelle laughed softly. “You should have seen the look on the butler’s face when he opened the door and I announced I was there to call on master William. You must understand—a girl of my age calling on a young man without a chaperone was unheard of. I just told him that I was an American, so he’d have to pardon the cheek. Though I didn’t see him roll his eyes, I know he did as he led me to a small reception room to wait.”

  “Was Daddy home?”

  “Yes, he was home. He greeted me all smiles and excitement but something was different between us. I felt it immediately. Your father wasn’t very good at disguising his thoughts.”

  About to burst from anticipation, Catie asked, “Did you ask him?”

  “I did. I’ve always been a straightforward woman…even when I was a young woman. I asked him not to toy with me—that if his feelings for me had changed, I must know at once. He looked down at his feet, and I knew the truth immediately. Half of me wanted to stand there—until the end of time if that’s what it took—and convince him he was making a terrible mistake, while the other half wanted to run out of that room and never see William Darcy again. I asked him was it someone else, and he at least had the grace to look at me then. With those damnable steel blue eyes of his, he looked right at me and said, ‘Annabelle, I’m sorry. My heart has changed, but I couldn’t tell you in a letter. We’re friends, Annabelle, and I couldn’t do that to a friend.’”

  A shallow, raspy sigh left Annabelle Montague’s lungs. “Although I had imagined him saying those very words for months, I marched right over and slapped his face. I told him I wasn’t his friend, that I had stopped being his friend when he kissed me on that balcony last summer. Devastated, I told him I hated him. Then I began to cry and hated myself for letting him see me do that. When he tried to comfort me, I pushed him away, and so he just stood quietly by until I pulled myself together. When I did, my sadness had been replaced by a fierce anger. Being an only child, I wasn’t accustomed to rejection or not getting my way. That may sound childish to you, but I was still a child in many ways. My desires may have been womanly, but my temper most certainly was not.” Annabelle coughed, and Catie noticed it wasn’t the deep, all-consuming cough the woman had experienced in the past. Her sick eyes closed tightly, and Catie realized then how much pain Annabelle was in. It was time to end their visit.

  “I should leave. I’m sure you could use some sleep.”

  Habitually dabbing her mouth with her ever-present handkerchief, Annabelle replied, “I’ve eternity to sleep, dear girl. Let me finish. The truth is I may not have another chance.”

  Catie nodded. “All right.”

  “Your father tried to explain. He said that rebuilding the nation was up to his generation — the lads who had been too young to go to war. He began some long spiel about God and Country, and that’s when I knew his mother had gotten to him. And by God I told him as much. We argued loudly until Willie turned suddenly and knocked over a vase. It slammed to the floor, breaking into thousands of pieces. I fell silent…the w
hole bloody world fell silent. Then, almost sobbing, Willie told me, ‘I love Margaret, Annabelle. I love the way her eyes squint when she laughs, the way her fingers travel up and down the piano keys, and the kindness of her heart. She’s so much better than you or I. Deep down we’ve both always know that. Margaret’s hard-knock life has given her the gift of seeing the world and the people in it differently than you or I ever could. Annabelle, I’m so damned sorry, but I love Margaret Sumner so much it hurts.’ He did cry then. He slumped down in a chair and began to weep like a child.”

  “What happened next?” Catie asked, quietly, reverently.

  “Your mother asked him why…why he had not said it before.”

  “Mother!” Catie gasped. “Mother was there?”

  “Yes.” Annabelle nodded. “In the commotion, neither of us heard her come into the room. Margaret and her mother had called on Mrs. Darcy, and when she learned I was there, she came in search of Willie and me.”

  “So…why hadn’t Daddy told her?”

  “Because he was a better man than he gave himself credit for,” Annabelle said, her words more acerbic than complimentary. “He was caught in a tangled web of friendships and promises, and he didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Catie reached out and placed her hand over Annabelle’s petite, cold one. “But you got hurt—dreadfully so—didn’t you, Annabelle?”

  As if Catie’s touch burned, the hand jerked quickly away. “I told you not to pity me, young lady. I wouldn’t be pitied then, and I won’t be pitied now! Willie talked on, unburdening his soul and trying in vain to save what was left of the friendship that had started among three foolish children. But I didn’t want his explanations or apologies. And I certainly no longer wanted their friendship. I went over to your mother and told her that I never wanted to see her again. Margaret looked like a kicked puppy, and I smiled, thrilled that I had pained her so. I told them both to go to hell and stormed out.” Annabelle Montague’s small almond-shaped eyes then met Catie’s directly. “I never saw your mother again.”