by Jan Hahn
“Indeed? And what more do you see?”
“Mistrust. I believe you consider me faithless because of what occurred between us at Kent last Easter. You fear I cannot look upon you as a sister.”
I caught my breath. Was I that transparent? My lip trembled, and I was afraid to move lest I confess to him more than I should.
Turning to stare out at the snow, he began twirling his hat round and round. “I wrote in my letter that you need have no fear of my renewing those addresses you found so disgusting.”
“Please, do not remind me of that time, Mr. Darcy. I am quite ashamed of how I abused you.”
“I shall never forget the turn of your countenance when you said I could not have acted in a more ungentlemanlike manner.”
“My words were harsh and uncalled for. I pray you do not hold them against me.”
“What did you say that I did not deserve? The manner of my declaration was abominable. When I think back on it, I cannot imagine myself uttering those insults toward your family and yourself. Make no mistake in thinking I still harbour those sentiments.”
My stomach lurched at his declaration, but was it true? I knew him to be a man who abhorred deceit, but was I so in error? Of what sentiments did he speak—his disapproval of my connections or his declaration of love? Had I misunderstood his attentions at Pemberley or his kindness at Lambton when he discovered me grieving over Lydia?
I took a deep breath. “Then, sir, may I ask why Lady Catherine travelled to Longbourn with such haste in fear that you and I were soon to be engaged? What led her to reveal my true parentage if not in dread that an attachment between us loomed imminent?”
The hat twirling in his hand ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
“I cannot speak for my aunt or for her malice. Although directed at you, her anger was meant for me. She had called at my townhouse in London the day before and confronted me once again concerning a proposal for her daughter. I told her for the last time that I was not to marry Anne, and that my affections lay elsewhere. For whatever reason, she presumed you were the object. That is when she produced a copy of the note written by Sir Lewis. As I told you earlier, I went directly to her solicitor’s office and examined the original. Unknown to me, the following day, she travelled to Longbourn. I returned to Netherfield where she found me after her visit with you. She appeared delighted with her Machiavellian efforts but became affronted when I informed her that I would share my inheritance with you.”
His affections lay elsewhere. What does that mean?
“Elizabeth, ours is a peculiar connection, but a connection I will endure. You must not doubt me, for I possess the strongest of wills. When I set my mind to a task, it is accomplished. The moment I learned you were my sister, I determined to think of you in that manner. The past is now dead.”
“As simply as that?” I whispered.
I saw the nerve in his cheek tighten as he pressed his lips together. “Since that day, you have been naught but my sister. You have my highest respect and regard. You need have no fear of me.”
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Within a fortnight, I left for Pemberley with Georgiana and Mr. Darcy. Even though I assured my father I was going for only a short visit, he still clung to my hand until the door closed on Mr. Darcy’s carriage. My mother and sisters were breathless with excitement. Mamá had calculated how many men of fortune I might meet. I stressed that I did not go in quest of a husband, but she would not have it. At last, I gave up my attempts to convince her and left her to indulge her fancies.
One may well ask why I agreed at last to the Darcys’ invitation after I had insisted I would not go. One might think it because of Mr. Darcy’s renunciation of any feeling for me, other than that of a brother. Or one might consider the attraction of solving the mystery of my mother’s identity compelling enough to alter my decision.
In truth, I grew bored and lonely at Longbourn without Jane. She had asked that I accompany her and Charles on their wedding trip, but I declined. I feared that being a daily witness to their devotion would simply reinforce my own loneliness. Within days, I wished with all my heart that I had accepted. Restricted to the house because of inclement weather, I quickly tired of my mother and younger sisters’ company while Papá locked himself in his library with increasing regularity. A spirit of tedium and impatience began to plague me with uncommon consistency. The thought of spending the remainder of the winter in such dull surroundings filled me with annoyance. Since the prize of Pemberley had been paraded before me, I could no longer find contentment in the existence I had always known. It seemed I wished to experience what life with the Darcys might offer after all.
And if I were honest, I should admit I craved the excitement of Mr. Darcy’s company. Even if he was but my brother, I felt more alive in his presence. His intelligence and wit matched mine, and I knew I would not tire of sparring with him. I also found Georgiana amiable, and I trusted that the time I spent with her would be agreeable. Besides, I longed to see the great house again, and anticipation of the beauty of Derbyshire’s peaks and dales made my spirit soar.
I generally possess a hopeful outlook, and I soon tired of grieving over the circumstances of my birth and my disappointing prospects. I longed to return to the cheerfulness I had known before, and I determined it to be possible. Once I made the decision to travel to Pemberley, it somehow became easier to keep my resolution.
Mr. Darcy shared the carriage seat with his young sister on the journey while Mrs. Annesley sat beside me. She was an older woman, pleasant and quiet in the presence of her employer. As the miles rolled by, Georgiana chattered about all that awaited us. She made a verbal list of families in the area and urged her brother to plan a dinner or even a ball to welcome me.
“A ball? Surely not,” I said. “For I know with what distaste your brother considers dancing.”
“Ah, Wills,” she said. “Could you not forego your displeasure for the sake of Miss Bennet?”
He raised one eyebrow but said nothing.
“We could ask the Whitbys and the Stones, and perchance Lord Darnley’s nephew has not yet left for the Season in Town. Oh, Wills, could we not have a ball?”
“Let us give Miss Bennet time to settle in before we impose Derbyshire society upon her.”
“That suits me perfectly,” I replied. “Remember, I shall not stay long, Miss Darcy.”
“But you must! It is such a distance from Longbourn. We may not have opportunity to visit for some time. Pray assure me you will stay for several months at least.”
“Georgie, do not inflict your wishes upon her. We will not force Miss Bennet to remain at Pemberley unless she is content to do so.”
Georgiana frowned, and I noted how pretty her countenance, even when pouting. “Oh, I am tired. Shall we never reach Derbyshire?”
Mr. Darcy took her hand. “Rest your head on my shoulder.”
She gladly took advantage of his proposal and, within a short span, fell asleep. I was fascinated by their intimacy. If I were his legitimate sister, would I ever feel that comfortable with him? At ease enough to sleep on his shoulder? I could not imagine it.
Within moments, Mrs. Annesley’s head began to fall forward as she, too, drifted into slumber. Mr. Darcy and I rode in silence for some time before I spoke again. I kept my voice low so that I might not disturb our companions.
“So you are ‘Wills’ to your little sister?”
He nodded. “And you are ‘Lizzy’ to yours, am I correct? To my mind, the diminutive does not suit you.”
“Oh? And what would you have me called?”
“I do not think I could ever think of you by any name other than ‘Elizabeth.’”
“And I cannot fathom calling you by any name other than ‘Mr. Darcy.’”
“Is that not formal? Our close connection does not warrant addressing each other in that manner in private.”
“Pray, sir! Mrs. Annesley might hear you.”
“She is a sound sleeper; do not worry.”
I leaned forward and peered closely at the woman. Assured that she truly was insensible to her surroundings, I felt easier and took up the conversation again. “What should I call you then? ‘Wills’ belongs to Georgiana, and I fear my tongue would trip over ‘Fitzwilliam,’ so what else other than ‘Mr. Darcy’?”
“You are clever enough. I believe you will select a name for me.”
“I suppose there is always ‘Fitz’ or ‘Fitzy.’” I cut my eyes at him to see how he responded to my mockery.
“I call my cousin ‘Fitz,’ and no one shall ever call me ‘Fitzy.’ I forbid it.”
“Forbid? Oh my. Then that leaves but one option. I shall have to call you ‘Willie.’”
“Under no circumstances!” He spoke with such force that Georgiana stirred in her sleep.
“Shush,” I whispered. “You will wake the child.”
“Then soften the provocation.”
I struggled to subdue my laughter. Silence ensued, and I turned my attention to the passing landscape. The farther north we travelled, the whiter the countryside appeared. I had rarely seen so great an amount of snow, and I loved the artistic purity of it. It was as though the woods and meadows had been washed clean, scrubbed with a generous helping of soapsuds.
“I have it!” I whispered at last. “The perfect name for you, sir—ʻFitzwilly’!”
His left eyebrow shot up like a bullet. “Then I shall call you ‘Bessie.’ Shall that please you?”
“My father’s cow is called ‘Bessie.’”
A satisfied smirk settled about his mouth. “Then I suggest a compromise: I shall be ‘William,’ and you shall be ‘Elizabeth.’ Agreed?”
“Oh, very well…although I do think ‘Fitzwilly’ possesses a certain distinction.”
“As does ‘Bessie.’”
I could not help but laugh, and I was pleased to see the hint of a reluctant smile emerge upon his face at last.
Chapter Four
Although I imagined it to be impossible, Pemberley was as striking in mid-winter as in summer. The snow-draped grounds made a magnificent setting for the huge mansion. With the roof wrapped in white, icicles sparkled and glittered all along the eaves like jewelled pendants hang from a woman’s ears. I caught my breath in wonder. Our journey had been long and tiring. The inns at which we had stopped on the way proved adequate but not memorable. Now, anticipation revived my spirit, and I looked forward with eagerness to entering the Darcys’ beautiful house once again.
Mr. Darcy had written the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, to expect us. He told her we had discovered that I was a distant relation, and thus, he and Georgiana invited me to spend some time with them. I was relieved to find a warm smile upon her face.
“Miss Bennet, I am most pleased to see you again,” she said. Evidently, she believed our story; however, she was but a servant and asked no questions, of course. The test would come when I was introduced to Derbyshire society. Surely, some of them had lived in the county all those years ago and heard the rumours of my birth.
We entered the drawing room to be warmed by a roaring fire and steaming cups of tea. Later, I was established in a lovely bedchamber decorated in delicate shades of rose and green. The prospect from the windows took my breath away; slivers of the evening sunset’s brilliant hues peeked through the parting snow clouds and danced upon the surface of the lake.
After dinner that night, while Georgiana played for us on the pianoforte with Mrs. Annesley nearby to turn the pages, I felt Mr. Darcy’s eyes upon me. He sat in a large overstuffed chair, his head reclining against the back. I thought him asleep once or twice, for he closed his eyes during several refrains, but I was mistaken, for at the close of the song, he remarked upon his favourite movements in the music. He appeared truly at ease in his home. If ever a man belonged to a house, Mr. Darcy belonged to Pemberley. It fit him like a well-tailored coat. I wondered whether I would ever feel at home in such a great house. Even though we shared the same father, I knew I would never share his sense of birthright.
“Has the evening’s refreshment relieved the strain of travel, Elizabeth?” He spoke softly so that he would not interrupt Georgiana’s concert.
“The meal was delicious, and one could not ask for more pleasing entertainment.”
“But you are weary, are you not? I see fatigue in your eyes. After she finishes this song, you must retire.”
“I would not shorten Georgiana’s enjoyment. Pray, do not ask her to stop on my behalf.”
“There is always the morrow when she may play as long as she wishes while I show you the house in detail. I know Mrs. Reynolds gave you and the Gardiners a tour last summer, but I wish for you to see the house through my eyes. Shall we say after breakfast, around one o’clock?”
“If you wish.” I was more than eager to explore the great house once again and especially with one who knew it intimately. Georgiana and I soon retired to our chambers, and I fell into the luxurious, soft bed with grateful surrender.
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The next day, we began our tour in the kitchen, a curious choice in my mind, but one I soon understood. Mr. Darcy knew each of the downstairs staff by name along with their responsibilities, including Mrs. Soffel, the cook, who ruled her domain with a sharp tongue. She barked orders to the lower servants like the best sergeant-at-arms before she realized the master had invaded her kitchen.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a curtsy. “I didn’t see you there, sir.”
“Quite acceptable,” he responded. “I recall as a lad you ordered me about in that same tone of voice.”
She blushed bright red. “I never, sir. Well, perchance…but only when you snatched cookies before they cooled.”
“And burnt my tongue as a result. They were well worth it, however.”
“Aw, go on with you, sir.”
As we walked from room to room, I could see in what esteem his servants held him. It was evident their deference was heartfelt and not prompted by duty alone. I recalled Mrs. Reynolds’s words from last summer: “He is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived.”
We worked our way up the floors, and I wondered anew at the splendour therein. Its understated elegance extended from the architecture to the perfectly selected furnishings. I could not find a single item I would change if I were mistress.
You shall never be mistress of Pemberley, I reminded myself.
“And I suppose Mrs. Reynolds showed you the gallery, did she not?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“She did, but I would welcome a closer view.”
He led me up the grand staircase, pointing out paintings by Italian and Dutch artists that lined the wall. In the great hall, my eyes travelled immediately to his large portrait. I thought it exceptionally fine. The artist caught his face in a benign expression, and he smiled in a manner I had sometimes observed before when he looked at me. Mr. Darcy began naming various relations, but I confess I only half listened, for I could not tear my eyes from the only face whose features were known to me.
“I believe you will find this likeness of interest.” He had walked a number of paces ahead while I lingered behind. “Elizabeth?”
I coloured, hoping he had not caught me out and hurriedly joined him. “And who did you say this gentleman is?”
“My…our father.” He drew near and spoke softly, even though it appeared we were alone.
I raised my eyes to observe the subject of the painting. Mr. Darcy resembled him in many ways. They possessed the same chin and turn of countenance. Although the man’s hair in the portrait had turned silver, it fell across his forehead in curls much like that of his son. My father—I searched his eyes attempting to recognize some part of me therein.
“I can see you, but I fail to find myself in his image,” I murmured.
“His hair was dark like yours when he was younger.”
“Dark hair is common enough. I confess I cannot see any connection.” I cast my eyes on the full-length portrait of a woman ha
nging next to that of Mr. Darcy Sr. “Is that your mother?”
He nodded.
“She was a beautiful woman, much like Georgiana.”
“Yes, my sister inherited her blue eyes and fair colouring.”
“And you have her dimples.”
“Do I?”
“When you smile. ’Tis one of your best features you might exhibit more often.”
We walked on down the hall while he named grandparents and various relations on his mother’s side of the family. Then he stopped in front of a portrait of a young man and woman.
“These were our father’s parents—your grandparents, Elizabeth—James and Siobhan Darcy.”
“Siobhan? Was she Irish?”
“To the core. As a young man, my grandfather sailed to County Cork and spent the summer there with friends from Cambridge. He fell in love with Siobhan MacAnally, the daughter of a landed family that harked back for generations. Her father forbade the marriage, but they eloped anyway. She gave up her entire family to marry my grandfather and return to Derbyshire with him.”
I frowned. “Gave up her family? Did they never reconcile?”
Mr. Darcy shook his head. “It could not be done. Her choice was entirely insupportable.”
“But surely, one would not disinherit a daughter simply because she loved an Englishman.”
“It was not just nation but religion that separated them. Our grandmother was Catholic, and our grandfather, of course, was not. She was required to renounce her religion and rear her children as Protestant. In truth, Father said his parents attempted to hide all traces of her former faith once they settled in England.”
“Of course. Her husband would have endured persecution if she did not. How difficult it must have been for her.”
Mr. Darcy walked on a few paces, stared at the floor, and lowered his voice even more. “Few know this, but Grandmother continued to practice her faith in secret.”
“In secret?”
“In public, she attended services with her husband and children at the village church, but whenever possible, she stole away to visit a priest who maintained a small Catholic church just past the edge of the wood. He tended a small flock that clung to the Papist belief. The church remains to this day.”