Sarah smiled. “All right, let’s find us the perfect frocks now, shall we?”
Sarah Darcy was always a welcomed sight inside the small dress shop that catered to wealthy clients. Mrs. Darcy spent freely and was always offered every convenience to keep her shopping. She was generally an easy fit, but today Sarah was to be a more difficult client than usual.
No less than fifteen failed dresses into the afternoon, Sarah was becoming tired. “Maybe madam would like some tea,” the shop girl suggested.
“Yes, thank you.” Sarah nodded dismally and sat down to wait on the refreshment.
She had just made herself comfortable when Abigail Hirst, Aiden Hirst’s mother, came into the shop.
The Hirst family was nouveaux riche by Darcy standards. They were long-time dairy farmers south of the Peak District, until coal was found in their grazing fields. The greater part of the Hirst fortune was earned during the Industrial Revolution. They were owners and operators of a Derbyshire colliery, and shareholders in the railway company that carried the coal out of the county. During the mid-1800s, the Hirst family built Ardsley Manor, a Victorian Era country house near Matlock in Derbyshire.
Sarah had done as Ben had asked and “dropped the hint” at her luncheon, casually mentioning to her table that Catie would be seventeen in November and would soon be in want of more socializing. Sarah considered it to be enough to tell Ben she had done as he asked, but certainly not enough to bring about a stampede of England’s well-to-do, teenage boys to Pemberley’s garden party.
Although she had a very comfortable upbringing, Sarah was raised much more modestly than her husband and was not as well versed in the gossip pipeline of the rich. Unbeknownst to Sarah Darcy, she had said plenty, and Abigail Hirst was first in line to give young Catherine Darcy the once-over.
Sarah was resting in a dressing gown on a small sofa with her feet up when Abigail approached her. Swelling ankles had been a bothersome side effect from her first pregnancy and not a welcomed return. Sarah was never as unsociable as her husband could be, but she was in no mood for conversation.
“Oh . . . Abigail, how are you?” She pasted on a smile and asked with mock enthusiasm.
“Fine, Sarah, and you’re well I see.” Abigail took an unoffered seat beside her on the sofa.
“Yes, thank you.”
“So . . . that’s William and Margaret’s Catherine. My . . . she is petite,” Abigail said and looked at Sarah quizzically. “How old is she again?”
“Sixteen.”
“Oh, goodness, she’s still young, not yet fully grown I’m sure. She could be much taller in a year or so, and a soundly built girl if I ever saw one. And my, she does have a very pretty face. Very much like her mother, that one.”
Sarah looked at the chattering Abigail Hirst in disbelief, but the woman took no notice. As if she were shopping for a dress or shoes, Mrs. Hirst sized up Catie’s person from head to toe.
“I understand our children have met.” Abigail turned back to Sarah with a proud twinkling smile. “Aiden took a real fancy to Catherine I think. He has spoken of nothing else since he returned from the country.”
“Abigail . . . ” Sarah tried to speak but the woman spoke over her.
“You do know his Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Eleanor have no children, leaving our Aiden in line to inherit Ardsley. Oh, I know it’s not comparable to Pemberley but still a fine house. Will you brunch with us tomorrow?”
Sarah replied shortly, “I’m sorry, Abigail, but Catie and I are leaving town first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, no bother,” Abigail said, waving off Sarah’s less than polite regrets. “We shall see you in a few weeks at the garden party then.” Abigail stood but didn’t leave. Instead, she glanced around the shop and then leaned close and whispered, “We must be vigilant parents in this less formal age, Sarah. One can never be too careful. Well, cheerio.” Mrs. Hirst patted Sarah’s shoulder and paraded out of the dress shop, pleased and confident with their little tête-à-tête.
“The cheek!” Sarah hissed under her breath as she watched the woman leave.
The following morning Sarah was quiet during the train journey home, fuming from her encounter with Abigail Hirst. She couldn’t wait to have her husband’s ear but wait she must. Before she left London, Ben had telephoned her at the townhouse to inform his wife that Charles Worthington was staying on until morning. What Sarah had hoped would be a quiet Sunday family evening was now to be a long drawn-out night of dinner and entertaining. This, of course, did not help the fuming.
Catie was equally lost in her own thoughts that morning. She had missed church, meaning she had missed hearing Sean sing. After his solo he had been unceremoniously put into a choir robe and had riveted the congregation with his voice ever since.
Like the rest of Holy Trinity’s flock, Catie waited with anticipation for those cherished five minutes that Sean stood singing with the choir, though for very different reasons. It was only then that she could watch him, study him without drawing attention — his eyes, his mouth, and the way his face grew somber when a verse especially touched him. Although she hadn’t yet admitted the truth to her innocent, delicate heart, Catie Darcy was falling in love.
Now in the car and only a few miles from Pemberley, Sarah turned to Catie. “Dress nicely for dinner tonight. Mr. Worthington will be joining us.”
“Mr. Worthington?” Catie moaned, “Oh, Sarah, can’t I please just have dinner upstairs with Geoffrey and George?”
“No one more than me would like to have dinner with Geoffrey and George,” Sarah replied without sympathy. “But like you, I have no choice. We have a guest and we must be hospitable to that guest. So when we get home, I want you to go upstairs and get dressed for dinner.”
Catie drew in an annoyed breath and breathed out unenthusiastically. “Yes, Sarah.” She turned to the window and thoughtfully stared out. Wesley Howell. Was he the reason for Charles Worthington’s weekend visit? As the car grew closer to Pemberley, Catie decided to take advantage of the rare opportunity of having Sarah alone. “Sarah,” she said nonchalantly. “Who is Wesley Howell?”
“How do you know about Wesley Howell?”
“I heard Mr. Worthington mention his name.” Catie kept a casual tone.
Sarah gazed at Catie as if contemplating whether she should divulge any information, so Catie thought she would help her along. “Was he related to Arthur Howell or Mary?”
“He was . . . ” Sarah said cautiously. “Wesley is their grandson.”
“But how can that be? Mary only had Thomas, and he never married or had children,” Catie countered, fearing she had said too much.
Sarah’s eyebrows drew close. “How is it you know so much about the Howells?”
Not wanting to share the diary or letters, Catie shrugged.
“Well, I really do not think your brother would want me discussing this with you.” Sarah tapped Catie’s leg affectionately but dismissively. “It is sordid and complicated, and the less you know about it the better. Your brother has the matter under control and you need not worry yourself about any of it.”
Nodding, Catie looked out the window again. Wesley Howell could not possibly be Mary’s grandson, she thought, but said no more.
Chapter 16
Ben felt restless and headed off to the stables for a ride. He had much on his mind and wanted more than anything to push Geronimo and himself, to ride hard and fast until they both were sweating and spent. Since he was old enough to take off alone on horseback, Ben Darcy had found solace in his saddle, galloping over land first settled by his ancestors in the seventeenth century. It humbled him, yet at the same time gave him a sense of power. The land engulfed him with a sense of purpose in a world that so often made no sense.
It was on horseback that he first cried for his mother. He was only fourteen years old and had tried to be a man, to be brave. But once the cold November wind hit him and the repetitive sound of the galloping hooves blocked out all other sound,
he crumbled; he wailed and screamed and pushed the horse until neither of them could go on. But he had gone on. What was started so long ago would continue through Geoffrey and George and the child Sarah carried.
This was what troubled him about Mary Howell or Aunt Mary as he had known her when he was a boy. How could she have given away her grandson, her flesh and blood, Thomas’s child? Penniless or not, how could she have signed over her grandson’s inheritance and relinquished his claim on Pemberley? And why had she kept the child’s existence from his grandfather? How could he make this right again for both himself and his children . . . and for Wesley Howell?
When Ben reached the stable yard, he saw Sean Kelly at work in the paddock with Thunder. And, to his surprise, Catie sat watching from the top of the post and rail fence. Curious, Ben glanced down at his watch and stepped back in the shadow of the stable door, out of sight.
Now secure in his surroundings, Thunder was frisky and nibbled at Sean’s ear. “We’re friends and all, mate, but I don’t fancy you like that,” Sean admonished the horse who whinnied with great satisfaction, and Catie laughed. Not the girlish sisterly giggle Ben was used to but rather a soft, purposeful laugh that flowed slow and smooth like honey. It suddenly trickled into Bennet Darcy’s brain that his little sister wasn’t the awkward girl he had thought.
Playfully swinging her legs, she waited until she had Sean’s attention and artfully gathered a few windblown tresses and tucked them behind her ear. Her dimples and smiling, half-moon eyes twinkled like gold in water. Ben stood stock-still, shocked to say the least. Surely his sister must know better.
He felt his jaw tighten as he moved toward the two and rested his arms over the fence. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben noticed Catie’s teasing expression fade and the playful feet settle firmly on the rail.
She did know better.
“How is Thunder doing, Sean?”
“Feeling his oats today, Mr. Darcy.” Sean rubbed the animal’s nose. “A bit coltish still but he’ll carry a rider soon enough. Some lads take a little longer to learn their manners. Eh, buachaill?” he crooned at the horse.
“Excellent, you’ve done a fine job with him.” Ben gave him an approving nod. “I appreciate the hard work.”
Seeming flattered by the compliment, Sean smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
“Well, we’ll leave you to it then, lad; wouldn’t want to stand in the way of progress.” Ben stepped away from the fence and held out an upturned palm to his sister. “Come along, Catie,” he said with a beckoning flick of his wrist.
Looking down, Catie saw Ben’s expression, purposefully blank. She hated that look. Reluctantly, she climbed down, glancing uneasily at Sean as she did. He instinctively glanced back, as if offering her some silent encouragement.
Side by side and without speaking, she and Ben walked in the direction of the lake, passing through the long, maple walk where the air was lush and cool under the broad, summer leaves. Ben stopped at the top of the slope and looked out at the scene before him for several minutes. Two ducks waddled into the water in search of an afternoon meal, sending tiny waves to lap against the bulrush.
“It appears as though you have an abundant amount of free time during this part of the afternoon,” he said finally, his eyes still cast out over the lake.
“We were only talking, Ben,” she quietly clarified.
“With school starting back in a month, I believe this time of day would be much better employed in the music room at your instruments,” he replied. Catie exhaled a rush of annoyed air and turned to leave. “Catherine!” Ben stopped her, turning from the water to look at her now. “Dad wouldn’t like it. Sean’s a nice lad but he works for me. Surely you must see how — ”
“Daddy wasn’t like that!” she argued back, interrupting him. “He wouldn’t care.”
“I care!” His eyes darkened with a familiar grief, one Catie knew all too well. “I have an obligation to him. And because of that . . . I care!”
She stared at him, silent, wondering whatever happened to the carefree, little boy who threw cowpats at cars on the highroad. Maybe he died with their mother, she thought, forever replaced by this man who did everything expected of him, and more.
Ben turned back to the lake, as if unable to bear his sister’s gaze.
Catie watched him for another moment, then turned and walked away towards the house.
* * *
Sarah had yet to speak with Ben about Abigail Hirst. She was waiting for the right opportunity when she would have his undivided attention. Her fuming had given way to concern, and it was her plan to send the children to their rooms early that evening.
The timing was bad, however, as Ben was on edge and preoccupied. He had made a second, substantially larger, offer to Wesley Howell in hopes of settling Mary Howell’s debt to the man and was now waiting to hear back from Charles Worthington. But Sarah couldn’t keep this to herself any longer, and her husband did seem somewhat relaxed reading his newspaper.
The twins and Catie were stretched out over the carpet as Geoffrey and George listened to their aunt tell the story of when a dragon lived at Pemberley House. Catie loved making up stories — a gift from her father, Rose had once told her. Sarah studied Catie for some time as Abigail’s words, “William and Margaret’s Catherine,” played in her thoughts. She meant no disrespect to Ben’s parents, but Sarah just didn’t think of Catie as William and Margaret’s but rather hers and Ben’s. And why shouldn’t she? They had brought Catie up, nurtured and loved her, seen to her education, everything a parent is supposed to do.
Sarah had always been Catie’s ally, but she had never interfered with her husband’s decisions concerning his sister. But this was different. Catie’s happiness in life was important to Sarah, and she was resolved to make sure her sister was happy, even if she did have to step on a few of her husband’s toes to do so.
As soon as the story was over, Sarah kissed the boys goodnight and gave them over to Mrs. Newell. To Sarah’s great relief, Catie claimed to be overly tired and followed, unwittingly completing Sarah’s plan.
“Catie was awfully quiet tonight,” Sarah observed as soon as she and Ben were alone.
He laid the newspaper on his lap. “She’s just sulking. She’ll be over it soon enough.”
“Sulking? Why?”
He sighed heavily and looked over at her. “My guess would be because her brother refuses to allow her to behave the ridiculous flirt like her friend Audrey Tillman.”
“What makes you think Audrey Tillman is a ridiculous flirt?”
With complete confidence, Ben replied, “I have my sources.”
“Would this have anything to do with Catie’s sudden interest in practicing her piano this afternoon?”
He nodded. “It would.”
“Sean Kelly?” Sarah asked with a tone of apprehension in her voice. She had been afraid of this.
“Yes,” he answered shortly, his jaw tightening just thinking about it.
“Ben, please tell me you didn’t embarrass her?”
“Of course not.”
Relieved, Sarah assured him, “It is nothing more than a harmless fancy, very normal and very innocent.”
“Sean Kelly works for me, Sarah. She shouldn’t be so familiar with him. It isn’t proper.”
“He is Rose’s nephew and Catie’s friend,” Sarah stated firmly.
“That does not make it appropriate for her to behave in such a manner, and I shan’t allow it.” Ben opened up his paper again and tucked himself behind it, his way of saying that he was finished with the discussion.
Sighing, Sarah didn’t press him further. She had more important matters to pursue. “I ran into Abigail Hirst in London.”
“Mm-hmm,” he uttered, not attempting to hide his lack of interest.
“She seemed to be very interested in your sister.”
Ben lowered the newspaper. “Interested . . . in Catie?”
“Yes, she thought she had a very pretty face, but w
as a little concerned about her small stature.” Legs crossed, Sarah’s foot was bouncing to the beat of her apparent resentment towards the woman. “I didn’t offer to show her Catie’s teeth, as we were in a dress shop.”
A grin curled up one side of Ben’s mouth. Sarah looked like a mother bear ready to fight to the death for her cub. Purely for the sport of it, he bantered back, “Humph . . . now that is a shame, our Catie has good teeth. It is after all one of her best selling points.”
“I do not like that humor, Bennet Darcy.” Sarah sat up and glowered at him. “And I did not like that old biddy sizing up Catie like she did. Do you know what she said to me? ‘You do know our Aiden is in line to inherit Ardsley Manor.’ Oh, the cheek of that woman!”
“Take care, Sarah.” Ben tried to calm her, barely suppressing what he was sure would be an unwelcomed chuckle. “Abigail Hirst is just a little . . . you know, old school. She and my mother were presented into society the same year. In those days a young person’s mother nudged them a little. And it wasn’t always a bad outcome. My parents were nudged toward each other, and they had a happy, loving marriage.”
“I’m sorry, Bennet! But I do not see nudging any differently than those barbaric, over-the-cradle betrothals of your ancestors,” Sarah argued, sitting back in a silent huff. She had accomplished nothing, and worst of all, Ben didn’t seem at all bothered by Abigail’s actions.
Wisely avoiding the “barbaric” remark, Ben tried to return to his reading, but his wife’s humor didn’t improve. Putting the paper aside, he patted the spot beside him on the sofa. “Come here,” he said apologetically.
She turned her head. Childish, she knew, but effective nonetheless.
“Come here, Mrs. Darcy, or you shall discover just how barbaric we Darcys can be.” His voice was throaty but playful.
Against her better judgment Sarah moved over and snuggled under his arm, secretly apologizing to her fellow feminists for caving to such rudimental, masculine persuasion. It wasn’t completely without design though. She needed leveraged conversation and knew the closer her soft skin and lightly perfumed scent were to her husband, the better — her own rudimental persuasion. “Oh, Bennet, promise me you’ll never nudge Catie in anyone’s direction. Maybe she doesn’t even want to get married. Maybe she’ll run a major corporation or be prime minister. If Margaret Thatcher can — ”
Echoes of Pemberley Page 18