Echoes of Pemberley

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  “Who is Wesley Howell?” she asked.

  “No one, dearest,” Ben replied hastily. Then he smiled and with a more composed tone, said, “We’ll not keep you any longer, Catherine. I’m sure you have more interesting things to do with your afternoon.”

  Catie nodded, disappointed, wishing she could stay and hear what Mr. Worthington had to say.

  Charles Worthington came to his feet as Catie did, bearing a tinge of color due to his obvious lack of discretion. “It was nice to see you again, Catherine.”

  “Yes, cheers, and I shall show myself out. I’m rather used to rambling old houses.”

  “What was that about?” Sarah asked Ben quietly.

  “Always true to form, my dear, my sister is being cheeky.”

  * * *

  Pemberley’s library was filled with an accumulation of efforts from generations of Darcys. Every master and mistress of the house had made considerable contributions to the estate’s collection over the last three hundred years. The room itself was predictable. Aside from an oversized fireplace and a set of French style doors that led to a small terrace, the walls were lined with shelves packed full of volumes old and new. A large fresco adorned the ceiling — fat cherubs holding lambs and chasing chickens — while loosely draped, full-bodied women smiled and looked on at their antics. Of the manor’s many rooms, this was Catie’s favorite. She found escape by a crackling fire here on cold winter days, snuggled in the large leather chair that her father loved. Even now, his reading glasses lay on the side table atop the last book he read. This was at Ben’s insistence, and no one dared move them.

  Her nostrils flared as she entered, attacked by the smell of old books and a pungent fresh application of lemon oil. She closed the large door to the hall.

  “How’d I do?” Aiden Hirst asked, and Catie jumped. He laughed and took her by the shoulders. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” She felt suddenly cold.

  “Ingratiating myself in your brother’s good will, what else?” A crafty grin creased his mouth, and Catie pulled from his grasp.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she whispered, glancing apprehensively at the door.

  “Now, now, don’t play Miss Innocent, I know this isn’t the first time you have deceived your brother. Poor chap had no idea his little sister had attended an unchaperoned party at my house last spring.” Clicking his tongue, Aiden scooted casually upon a shiny library table.

  Catie’s stomach tightened and her eyes grew round. “Did you tell him?” she cried.

  “Give me a little credit, will ya?” He raked his fingers through his hair — a mop of loose, dirty blond curls that always returned to their rightful position each time he nervously ran his fingers through them, which was often, Catie noticed.

  “What was your story?” he asked, grinning still. “No, let me guess . . . the cinema.”

  “How did you know?” She didn’t like this interrogation.

  He laughed again. “It’s always the cinema. You’re quite the little imp, Miss Darcy. I must admit . . . I’m impressed.”

  “Well, don’t be.” Catie was starting to get annoyed. “I didn’t deceive Ben purposefully.”

  “Sure, Cate,” he said slyly. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

  “It’s Catie and I’m not trying to make myself feel better,” she snippily corrected him. “It happens to be the truth. When I told my brother I was going to the cinema, I truly believed I was. I could never lie to him about something like that.”

  “Yet, you never told him the truth afterward.” Aiden leaned close and whispered, “Touché.”

  Catie looked abashed. It was true. She hadn’t confessed to Ben. It wasn’t his punishment she feared but rather his disappointment. That she couldn’t bear.

  Aiden slid off the table and began looking around the library. He picked up and thumbed through a few odd books while she regarded the door with concern. She didn’t know what Ben might say if they were caught alone. He didn’t even know they knew each other. And truthfully they didn’t. She had only met Aiden that one time. He reached for her father’s book, and she tried to stop him. “No!”

  “Some rare first edition?” he asked, knocking the glasses to the side and picking the book up.

  “It was my father’s.” Catie took the book from him and placed it back on the table. “Please don’t touch it.”

  “Sorry,” he said, watching her put the glasses back. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Aiden took an uninterested look around the old room as if he were horribly bored with its quaintness. “Well, I suppose I’ll leave you to your studies. What does the old fellow have you slaving over this summer anyway? Latin?”

  “Uh . . . yes . . . Latin, and I best knuckle down or the old fellow will have my head.”

  Aiden laughed at this. “You shire girls do like to impress Daddy, eh?”

  “Brother — and, yes, I do.”

  “Friday then,” he said, stepping close and lifting her face with his fingertips. “Just don’t slave too hard. I’ll not be happy if I have a dull dinner companion.”

  “Cheerio, Aiden,” Catie said shortly, uncomfortable with his closeness.

  He tilted his head like he might kiss her, causing a sudden panic in Catie’s midsection. Never having been kissed before, she had long dreamed of the moment, but this wasn’t right; Aiden wasn’t right. She turned away, and he chuckled but was not amused. The laugh sounded more like the cat that just lost the mouse but wouldn’t give up his chase.

  Instead of going out of the door that led to the hall, Aiden left by way of the terrace, hopping over the balustrade with youthful ease. Catie turned back to her father’s book and glasses. She knew they had been moved many times over the years for dusting, but she hated that he had touched them.

  There was no searching for the books; their location was precisely where Ben had directed. Catie took them to the leather chair and lounged comfortably to read. The centuries-old Darcy records were in excellent condition for their age, but eighteenth and nineteenth century Darcys were of little interest to Catie. It was the twentieth century Darcys, in particular one Mary Elizabeth Darcy, about whom she was most curious. Reading carefully through the pages, she unwittingly happened upon the entry of her father’s death.

  William Geoffrey Darcy b. 31 December 1929 s. of Geoffrey Fitzwilliam Darcy and Lucille Isaacs Darcy m. The Hon. Margaret Cecil Sumner 1 June 1951 daughter of Lord Byron Sumner c. one son Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy b. 19 January 1956 one daughter Catherine Elizabeth Darcy b. 6 November 1970 d. 10 May 1979

  She ran her fingers across his name several times and took a deep breath to calm the emotion swelling in her chest. Catie and her father had shared a very special bond. He had a partiality for her driven by both the loss of her mother, and Catie’s uncanny resemblance to the woman. Catie had long ago accepted that she would never truly come to terms with his death. Her mother, however, held a different sort of grief as her love and attention were never known. She was a mystery to the girl, an unknown, and what Catie naturally sought next was the name of the woman she never knew.

  The Hon. Margaret Sumner Darcy wife of William Geoffrey Darcy d. 6 November 1970, Complications of childbirth

  Catherine Elizabeth Darcy b. 6 November 1970 daughter of William and Margaret Darcy

  The entry was harder to absorb than Catie had anticipated. Complications of childbirth. Remorse overpowered her thoughts. The information was not new. But somehow, seeing it written down, forever registered alongside the date of her birth, caused a sharp spike to form in her chest. Why had she survived? She closed the book and rested her head against the back of the chair. Catie reached into her shirt and pulled out a locket hanging on a long chain. She hesitated for a second then released the clasp to view a picture of her mother. Margaret Darcy was standing to her side with a swollen belly; it was the only picture of mother and daughter together. She sighed deeply and moved on to Mary Darcy.

  Mary E
lizabeth Darcy b. 17 March 1902 daughter of William Corbin Darcy and Ester Doyle Darcy m. Arthur Thomas Howell 6 September 1919 c. one son Thomas Darcy Howell b. 15 April 1920 d. at Pemberley House 10 October 1968

  Arthur Thomas Howell d. 15 February 1945

  Thomas Darcy Howell d. 2 August 1945, Malaria

  Mary Darcy did in fact marry Arthur Howell. They also had a son, Thomas Darcy Howell. But nowhere could Catie find the name Wesley Howell. Mary had outlived both her husband and son. Thomas died at the early age of twenty-five after contracting malaria while on a religious mission to Africa. According to the family’s own records, Thomas had never married nor had any children. Interestingly, Mary Darcy Howell lived out her life at Pemberley after Catie’s grandfather had taken proprietorship of the estate and sold Rosings Park.

  Wesley Howell was not mentioned. His connection with the Darcys or the Howells of Pemberley, if any, was not to be found in the Darcy library. “Wesley Howell,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

  Chapter 9

  The Davenport School, established in the mid-nineteenth century by its founder Evelyn Davenport, was no ordinary school for girls. A small remote institute created for the daughters of Britain’s aristocracy, admittance was for the selected few. Over the last hundred some odd years, very little had changed at Davenport, in effect, making Catherine Elizabeth Darcy of Pemberley Estate in Derbyshire one of those selected few. Her mother had attended Davenport and Catie’s placement at the school was arranged well before her father died.

  There was much public interest after her father’s tragic accident, which caused Ben to close Pemberley House to visiting tourists. He also had Catie removed from the village school and privately tutored at home for the two years prior to her admittance into Davenport, making the initial separation difficult for Catie. She clung to him, wailed, and begged him not to leave her. Ben, however, was resolved and sternly scolded his sister for acting like a baby. In an embarrassing initial separation, he had to forcibly pry her arms from his waist before handing her over to the housemother, leaving his sister screaming after him. When Ben reached the car, he heard a noise and looked up to see her blotchy, tear-stained face staring down at him as she banged desperately on the window. It took everything Bennet Darcy had in him to put his little black sports car into gear and pull away from the school that day.

  During the rainy drive back to Pemberley, Ben fought back his own emotions and reminded himself that this was what his mother and father would have wanted. She was a Darcy; she must stand strong. A family riddled with tragedies notwithstanding, Catie would have a proper English education.

  Although his convictions were solid, they didn’t ease the throbbing ache in his heart. The memory of his little sister in that window haunted Ben and made him sick with worry. To ease his conscience, he called the headmistress’s office twice a day for the next two weeks to check on her. He never knew it, but Ben Darcy had been dubbed the fussiest mother hen Davenport’s administrators had ever encountered.

  Catie remained at Davenport and soon made friends, many friends in fact, a pleasant and welcomed change from the isolation of Pemberley. By the beginning of Catie’s second term, her brother barely received a kiss before she hurried off to join her schoolmates, and, like a father, he suffered a slight pang of regret that she no longer cried for him.

  Davenport was noted for its excellence in academics, its dedication to the arts, and the development of proper moral character through the teachings of scripture. But within the circle of the privileged, it was also well known that Davenport prided itself on a record of virtue, in particular the virtue of the eleven- to eighteen-year-old girls in its charge.

  Socialization with boys was strictly supervised and dating completely forbidden. On the rare occasion when there was a social gathering with a neighboring boy’s school, the watchful eyes were so keenly observant, hardly any of the adolescents even ventured conversation. As minimal as this was, it was all the experience Catie Darcy had with the opposite sex thus far.

  She might have been a tad unsophisticated but Catie knew her own heart. She was flattered by Aiden Hirst’s sudden attention, but it was Sean Kelly who had begun to occupy her thoughts. He stirred her emotions — all of them. He challenged her until her insides boiled. He humbled her, brought her to tears, and yet he made her feel — really feel. He also made her giggle like the little girl she remembered. He didn’t pity her. He was like no one she had ever met before.

  When the rain finally ended, so had Catie’s tolerance for being indoors any longer. Wearing her hair down due to Sean’s compliment, she set out for the stables.

  Finding him with the chestnut thoroughbred, she slowly approached but didn’t dare touch the fence. The horse was not only bridled but saddled as well, and his demeanor was much more relaxed. At the sight of someone unfamiliar however, he neighed anxiously and thrashed his head. Taking a step back Catie said, “I don’t think he likes me.”

  Sean couldn’t help but smile at her cautiousness. “It has naught to do with like, Catie. Our friend Thunder here has an issue with trust.”

  “Thunder?”

  “Aye, Geoffrey named him that because it was thundering when Mr. Darcy brought him and George down here to see the horse yesterday.” Sean rubbed Thunder’s nose then came out of the paddock and leaned against the gate, his arms crossed. “Which reminds me: you and I need to have a talk.”

  Catie’s brows knitted. “About?”

  “You never told me that you’ve had a bad experience on a horse. How am I to teach you if you’re not honest with me?”

  Catie felt more than a little disbelief. She had never told anyone about getting thrown from that pony when she was younger, and no one had seen her. Hoping her expression wasn’t betraying her, she replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Come now, Catie, I saw your face Sunday when that horse spooked. You were terrified.”

  “Yes, I was! He charged at me. Who wouldn’t have been terrified?”

  “Then what about your gallop? As soon as Chloe picks up a good speed, you pull out of position to slow her down. And . . . ” he wavered.

  “And?”

  “And I saw you . . . walking back to the stable that first day.” Sean stopped short of telling her he also saw her crying.

  “You were watching me?”

  “I doubled back to make sure you got back to the stables safely.”

  Catie stared at him. She didn’t want to talk about it. It was in the past, over and gone like her father. “As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Catie’s mouth fell open. “How dare you say such — ”

  “I may not know everything, Catie Darcy,” he interrupted her, his accent growing suddenly heavy. “But I know horses and I know people around horses. I also know fear and reluctance when I see it. Problem is . . . I don’t know whether you are afraid or holding back for some other reason. Only you can answer that.”

  She glared at him. “This may come as a shock to you being a wee bit pigheaded and all, but you’re wrong. I’m holding nothing back, and I am certainly not afraid!”

  “Pigheaded?”

  “You said it, not me!”

  They stared at each other for a moment, he looking down at her with folded arms, and she with her mouth pursed. Finally Sean walked away, cutting his eyes at her as he did.

  “Saddle your horse and meet me in the schooling ring, lass,” he said over his shoulder.

  A bit befuddled, she watched him strut away. She hadn’t expected to meet with the same bossy and unbearable riding instructor after their trip to the Peak District. Hadn’t they shared a moment? “Insufferable ass,” she uttered spitefully under her breath and went to saddle her horse.

  An afternoon of trotting for a girl whose concentration was most assuredly not on the task at hand proved to be long and frustrating. Catie’s posting rhythm was so off that Sean had resorted to calling out
her rise and fall, which only distracted her more.

  Afterwards, Catie was in the stable with Chloe. She removed the bridle and turned to get Chloe’s halter only to find it dangling from Sean’s fingers.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Well?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  Catie Darcy may have been the perfect image of her mother, but she definitely had her father’s blood running through her veins — blood that at times ran hot, even when she didn’t particularly want it to.

  “I am not!” she sharply replied and, taking the saddle, walked off to put it away. When she returned, he was gone. Catie looked down the long cobblestone floor to the large stable doorway but he was nowhere in sight. She would have liked to think herself happy she had sent him away. But in truth, his leaving tugged at her in a way she had not felt before. “Insufferable ass,” she whispered again.

  * * *

  Guests for dinner meant the house was brightly lit. The hall and dining room glowed with anticipation as it had when the house was first opened to visitors so many centuries ago. Day maids stayed on past their shift to help and bustled to and fro at Rose’s direction, dodging Catie who remained underfoot.

  “Catherine Darcy, can you not see we’re busy?” Rose fussed for the fourth or fifth time. “Run along, child, and get ready before your guests arrive.”

  Although Catie did try and stay out of the way, she didn’t leave. She wanted to be close to Rose, even if the woman was a bit ill-tempered that evening. It was stupid, she knew, but Catie was a little nervous and being near her Nan always made her feel better. Though Ben and Sarah weren’t aware of Aiden’s true intentions, Catie fully understood his purpose. She didn’t necessarily dislike Aiden, but neither was she completely sure that she wanted him ingratiating himself with her brother.

  When Rose noticed her scolding fell on deaf ears, her keen motherly senses brought her to Catie’s side. She gave a few last directives then put an affectionate arm over Catie’s shoulder. “Come, dear, I’ll help you dress.”