by Jan Hahn
The next morning, I awakened late. I had slept more soundly than I had in over a year. Consequently, I walked into an empty breakfast room. As the servant set steaming coffee and muffins emitting an exquisite aroma before me, he said that Master Darcy had gone out, and the ladies were assembled in the parlour.
Surely, William has not left for Peter Darcy’s cottage without me, I hoped.
“Please ask Mrs. Gardiner to join me,” I directed the servant. Within moments, she walked into the sun-lit room, dressed to go out, but for her pelisse.
“You are up at last, Lizzy.”
“Forgive me. I did not know it was so late.”
She waved her hand to dismiss my apology and then hastened to announce that all of us were to call upon Father Darcy that afternoon. She also explained that Mr. Darcy had gone on some errands but would return within the hour to escort us.
“All of us? What do you mean, Aunt? Has Mr. Darcy informed Georgiana of what transpired yesterday?”
She assured me that he had not but stated that he thought it proper to introduce his sister to his uncle directly. He had arranged with Mrs. Gardiner that, after a suitably short visit, she would suggest that Georgiana and her companion join her for a walk along the river. Mr. Darcy and I would remain behind so that we might talk with the priest alone.
“Will Georgiana not question why I fail to accompany you, for she knows I am fond of walking?”
“You are to say that you are tired from your long sojourn in the rain the day before and that you prefer to wait in the priest’s cottage until we return.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled as though she enjoyed this small attempt at artifice. She also said she longed for Mr. Gardiner to join us so that Mr. Darcy could formally ask his blessings upon our union. In Papá’s absence, he would serve as my guardian.
Perhaps, I thought, William ought to ask my true father for his permission, but I did not give voice to my reflection.
Our scheme for the afternoon succeeded without impediment. I was relieved to find that Father Darcy had survived the night after receiving such a shock. It was distressing, however, to see that he was unable to rise from his bed. Father Rafferty ushered us in and explained that the older priest’s strength had failed him that morning. Father Darcy, however, was pleased to meet his niece, and he was cordial to her companion and my aunt, but I noticed that his eyes rarely wandered from my person.
The younger priest cautioned us not to prolong our visit, which aided in my aunt’s design to remove Georgiana, her companion, and herself after only a brief visit. Father Rafferty also departed at the same time after assuring his friend that he would return later that evening.
Once they had safely withdrawn from the house, Mr. Darcy questioned his uncle as to the true state of his health and whether he wished us to leave also. The priest dismissed his nephew’s concern.
“I must talk to Elizabeth. I must tell her how it all took place. You may stay, Fitzwilliam, for you should hear this also, especially since you have suffered from Catherine’s tale about George.”
Mr. Darcy sat in a chair at the foot of his uncle’s bed while I settled myself on a stool nearest my father. I leaned forward so that I might hear every word he wished to say and gazed into a pair of eyes that matched mine, but for their age.
“Dearest child, you truly are my daughter. Although you are the image of your mother, I can see bits of myself in you as well. What must you think of me, leaving you to be reared by another?”
“Let us not speak of that now, Father. I so long to understand what happened all those years ago.”
He reached out his hand and patted my cheek before closing his eyes. Seeming to travel back in time, my father began his tale.
“I fell in love with Elizabeth Willoughby during the summer of 1790. I had returned home from Cambridge and found myself restless, accepting at last the bitter truth that I could not be an Anglican vicar as my father had planned before his death and as my older brother, George, presumed I would do. After spending countless hours at my ailing mother’s bedside, listening to her urge me to remain true to my Catholic faith, I, at last, tired of the emotional struggle and sought refuge on the back of my favourite horse. Several times a week, we roamed the trails that led us throughout the hills and woods of Derbyshire.
“One day, after a particularly long, hot ride, I dismounted some distance from the grounds at Pemberley and threw myself down in a grassy meadow. I allowed my horse to nibble at the tender, green shoots while I rested. I had almost fallen asleep when I heard a rustling in the trees some distance away and the distinct musical tone of a girl’s laughter. I rose to follow the sound. I crept into the wood, whereupon I heard footsteps retreating through the bush. A twinkling of colour appeared before my eyes, and I darted after it in full pursuit.
“She led me on a merry chase before I caught her, but I was well rewarded with what I had snared. For there before me stood a barefoot girl with laughing eyes, a wild tangle of dark curls streaming down her back, and an arch smile upon her lips that proved enchanting.
“When she identified herself as Elizabeth Willoughby, I could not believe the beautiful creature standing before me was our neighbour’s little girl from Bridesgate Manor whom I had seen now and then through the years. When had she grown up? And why had I never before noticed how lovely she was?
“From that moment, we became inseparable. She was as natural as the forest she loved and yet foreign to every woman I had ever known before in my one and twenty years. A freedom possessed her—freedom from drawing rooms, parlour conversation, pretence, and formality. It was as though she and the earth were one, and outdoors, under God’s benevolent eye, hidden deep in the wood that adjoined Pemberley and Bridesgate, she thrived as a healthy rosebud blossoms when given generous servings of rain and golden sunlight.
“I found everything she did and said fascinating, and she, in turn, encouraged my company. She shared her favourite haunts with me while I entertained her with tales of my life at Cambridge and of my family’s plans for me to inherit the living at Kympton.
“‘That means you are to be a vicar,’ she said.
“‘And therein dwells the dilemma.’
“‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘Do you not wish for a career in the church?’
“‘Not the Anglican church.’
“I then explained to her about my mother’s Irish heritage, about her elopement with my father, her subsequent break with her family, and of her living a lie throughout her marriage. I described how she had attended Anglican services all those years with her husband and sons and allowed her children to be baptized in the Protestant religion. All the while, she yearned in her heart for George, Henry, and me to someday become members of the true church. Elizabeth, of course, had no idea of what true church I spoke, but she was as open and innocent as a child when I began to teach her Catholic doctrine.
“At length, we visited the small chapel in the wood at Pemberley that my father had allowed to be built for my mother. There, Elizabeth accepted further instruction in the faith from the priest, Father Ayden. It was not long before she professed a desire to become baptized. After doing so, she received Our Lord in Holy Communion and completed the necessary studies for Confirmation. All this was done in secret, of course, and our growing relationship remained hidden.
“Elizabeth’s younger sister, Eleanor, often accompanied us on our rambles in the wood, but she feared the priest and would not enter the church with us. She did keep watch without, however, to make certain we were not discovered. We made it into a sort of game, which she found highly entertaining, and she was only too pleased to play at what she considered an adventure. Eleanor had no idea of the gravity of her sister’s decision or the growing strength of our feelings for one another.
“My mother’s illness advanced that autumn, and I delayed my return to Cambridge because of it. I had always been particularly close to her, and she sought my presence even more as her health declined. She became
possessed with the idea that I move to Ireland, her homeland, where I might practice my faith without the consequences affecting the futures of my brothers. My father had died some years earlier, and George, who was eight years my senior, had assumed his place as head of the family. He had married Anne, a titled lady, whose connections could assist George in any future ambitions he might entertain.
“‘Once I am dead,’ my mother said, ‘George will be free of what this country considers the Catholic taint. If you go to Ireland, Peter, there will be no one to hold George back. And you might also re-establish contact with my family in County Cork. I trust that my brothers’ hearts have softened and that they will take you in. When you reach the shores, call upon Lord Killaine. He will aid you once he learns you are my son and that you have embraced the church.’
“Of course, my mother knew nothing of my affection for Elizabeth or my horror at the thought of leaving the girl behind. Upon good days, which grew ever less frequent as the months passed, Mother made particular plans for supporting my leave-taking. She urged me to keep it our secret, for she and I both knew that George would not approve.
“Sadly, three weeks after Christmas, she died. It was a bitter, cold day in January, and I felt the loss deeply. I sought refuge at the chapel in the wood, and it was not long before Elizabeth found me weeping there. She shared my grief, not because she knew Mother well, but because she loved me. Any emotion either of us felt ruled the other, for our spirits were bound to each other.
“The day after my brothers and I buried Mother, Elizabeth and I made plans to marry. We engaged the support of the parish priest, and then I travelled to London to secure a special licence, having told my brothers I was calling upon a friend from school. We could tell the truth to neither of our families, for her brother would have forbidden it and never given his consent, especially when he learned that I had influenced his sister to change her religion. I also knew that George and Lady Anne would not understand. After all, I had not completed my education nor did I possess much of a future, for now that I was Catholic, I could never accept the living at Kympton.
“Elizabeth’s brother, Sir Linton Willoughby, was an ambitious but indolent scoundrel.”
Mr. Darcy gave a disgusted grunt of agreement and rose from his chair.
“I see you have discovered that for yourself, Fitzwilliam.” Father Darcy asked for water, which I quickly brought to his bedside. “Thank you, my dear.” He sipped from the glass before returning it to me.
“Having assumed leadership of his family after his father’s death, Willoughby had already wasted much of his fortune. He was his mother’s favourite, however, and she would deny him nothing. Together, they had determined to marry Elizabeth to Lord Dudley Haversham, a balding, stout, old widower twice Elizabeth’s age. Plans to secure the alliance during the approaching Season in Town were already underway, for Sir Dudley’s appetite for young women was well known. Thus, it was essential that I married Elizabeth before she was forced to depart Derbyshire.
“To comply with the legalities of the Crown, we married on the first of March 1791 in the Anglican Church in which the vicar had baptised us and in the faith he assumed we yet professed. I secured his pledge and that of the witnesses, his wife and daughter, to keep the union secret until we informed our families.
“Afterwards, we proceeded to the Catholic chapel where Father Ayden married us before God. Two Irish labourers working temporarily in the country, whom Father Ayden had given shelter for the night, witnessed our vows. They made their marks, and on the morrow, they went on their way. We planned to announce our marriage to both of our families a fortnight later just before the Willoughbys were to leave for Town. That gave me sufficient time to confirm our passage to Ireland from the funds my mother had quietly hidden away for me in a distant county with a banker unknown to George.
“I shall not share with you how and where Elizabeth and I managed to be together during those two weeks, but be assured that I was as resourceful as any man violently in love. We determined to tell our news to Elizabeth’s family before we confessed the marriage to George and Lady Anne. Our plans, however, went astray at Bridesgate, and I never told George that I had married.
“Sir Linton erupted into a rage the likes of which I had never witnessed before. He vowed that he would annul the marriage! He declared that our wedding was invalid because Elizabeth was not of age when she married and when she converted to what he called the Papist religion. He said he would see me in hell before he ever allowed me near his sister again. He announced that Elizabeth would marry Lord Haversham and that, if I made any attempt to change his plans, he would discredit my family’s reputation. After ordering Elizabeth confined to her room, he drove me from Bridesgate.”
By that time in his uncle’s narrative, Mr. Darcy had risen from his chair and begun to pace back and forth.
“My first thought was to employ George’s aid, but he and Lady Anne had not yet returned from Town. They had travelled there with Henry to commence plans for his enlistment in His Majesty’s service. I was wild with anger, fear, and frustration. I had no one at Pemberley to call upon for help, and I knew that the Willoughbys planned to leave Derbyshire the following day.
“At last, I raced through the wood to the chapel and sought Father Ayden’s counsel. We reviewed my options at length, and he advised me to return to Bridesgate that night after Sir Linton’s temper had cooled. He could not believe the man would not listen to reason once he settled down, and the priest assured me that Elizabeth’s brother would not annul our marriage.
“That night, I hastened to see Sir Linton. A frightful storm broke just as I climbed the stone steps to the entrance of the house. I recall how the butler refused me entry, evidently upon his master’s orders, and I stood out in the rain, waiting. At length, Sir Linton appeared and that is when…the inconceivable happened.”
Father Darcy’s voice broke, and I watched tears fill his eyes. He clutched at his chest and inhaled sharply. I rose and ran to fetch the powder Father Rafferty had shown me earlier. I stirred it into another glass of water. Mr. Darcy assisted him in sitting up, and the priest sipped the draught for some time before resuming his account. As I turned to sit once more on the stool, he caught my hand.
“Stay close beside me, lass. Sit on the bed, pray, for my strength falters.”
I eased myself down beside him, for I, too, had noticed the weakness of his voice. “Perchance you have said enough for today, Father.”
He made a feeble gesture in protest. “No…no, I must tell you before I am no longer able to do so. You, of all people, have the right to know.”
He swallowed visibly and then fixed his eyes on some unseen object in the distance. He remained silent for so long that I feared he was lapsing into some sort of vision, but just as I despaired of his return to the story, he rallied and began again.
“That night, at the commencement of that terrible storm, Willoughby told me that my Elizabeth was dead. Dead…even after all these years, I still find it difficult to say the word.”
“A bold-faced lie!” Mr. Darcy exclaimed, balling his hands into fists.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam,” Father Darcy agreed, “but I did not know it until yesterday. Willoughby said Elizabeth had fallen down the stairs from the second floor and broken her neck. Shock and outrage coursed through me. I wanted to throttle him, but he slammed the door in my face with a hatred I shall never forget. I cannot recall much of what happened after that. I must have wandered through the wood like a madman all night, for at dawn, I came to myself on the steps of the chapel, soaked and chilled from the rain.
“Inside, I threw myself before the altar and cried out my despair. The next thing I remember was Father Ayden’s endless questions as to the cause of my sorrow. I grasped little of what he said, other than something about allowing God to work in my life.
“Out of my mind with grief, I fell into a raging fever. Father Ayden put me to bed in his quarters and tended to my needs. I remember
begging him to return to Bridesgate and give Elizabeth the last rites before her brother had her buried. When he suggested returning me to Pemberley or at least going there to inform George, I insisted that he do as I ask and go to Bridesgate instead. I assured him that all my family was in London, so a visit to Pemberley would be useless.
“I remained with him for several days, eventually growing stronger. Upon my recovery, Father Ayden told me of what had transpired at Bridesgate. Armed men hired by Willoughby met him at the entrance to the grounds. The steward informed the priest he was not welcome and that neither he nor Peter Darcy would be admitted under any circumstances. Father Ayden asked to see Elizabeth’s body, but he was told that she had already been buried in an unmarked grave in a secluded place unknown to anyone but Sir Linton. Not even buried in consecrated ground!
“A burly footman made a menacing gesture with his weapon, lending force to the words of Willoughby’s steward. ‘Sir Linton says to tell Mr. Peter Darcy he is not welcome at Bridesgate. If he or anyone from that Papist church trespasses, our orders are to treat him as any common intruder.’
“I did not return to Pemberley. I did not write to George or Henry in Town. Within the week, I recovered enough to depart for Holyhead, where I booked passage on a ship sailing for Dublin and made my way to my mother’s home county. The banker my mother had trusted gave me his pledge of secrecy. I also secured Father Ayden’s vow of silence about the matter before leaving, for I now feared for his safety as well as that of my family. To my way of thinking, Willoughby had become insane.”
“But why?” Mr. Darcy cried. “Why did you not go to Father and ask for his aid?”
The old priest closed his eyes. “To this day, my boy, I do not know why I failed to inform my family of my whereabouts. Perhaps I was simply too undone with my own misery to think clearly. When Henry found me fourteen years later, that, too, was his first question, but I did not have an answer, and I still do not. By that time, I wore the cassock I wear today. Perhaps I knew George would never approve my decision to join the priesthood, and I did not wish to endure the aggravation of his censure. I freely admit that is not an adequate reason, and I regret having caused Lady Anne and George, as well as Henry, anguish over my disappearance.