Postscript from Pemberley

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  “Don't go, Jessica; stay and talk to me. No one else does,” he had pleaded, and she had stayed. It was soon clear that he longed for some company.

  They had spoken variously of her work and the hopes she had for the school, now it was to take in older children too. She was excited and looked forward to the new term.

  “It will be a great opportunity for them,” she had said and he had asked, “Will you teach them to read and understand more than just the Bible?”

  “Oh yes indeed,” she had replied, “we do so already, both at Kympton and at Pemberley, even to the younger children. They learn to read, write, and count at an elementary level.”

  She wanted very much to convince him of the value of their work, “Much as my father wishes them to read the Bible, he insists that while they remain untutored and ignorant, they will grow up unable to improve their lot in life. He is dedicated to the improvement of education for all children as I am and as your father Mr Darcy is. It is his generosity that has enabled us to do this good work.”

  When she stopped to draw breath, Julian smiled and nodded. “I am aware of that, Jessica. I know also that my father values your dedication highly. Do you intend to teach as well?” he asked.

  Jessica was modest, “Only the little ones; I have not the skills nor the experience to teach the older children, but we do intend to employ a school master from Matlock who will. He is well spoken of and seems a good man. The rector knows him and recommends him highly,” she had explained, and Julian had surprised her by saying, “Well, Jessica, it sounds a very good scheme. I shall look forward to hearing about the progress of your school. Indeed, I have long had an interest in public education and wrote a paper on it once, at Cambridge. I hope you will write to me and tell me how you get on.”

  Before she could respond, they were interrupted by the bell that summoned them to dinner.

  They had met again when Jessica was returning from visiting a patient at the hospital in Littleford, and Julian had talked with a marked lack of reserve about his decision to relinquish his inheritance.

  They were both bound for Pemberley and the question came up quite naturally as they crossed the footbridge and took the path leading to the house.

  “And do you, like some members of my family, think me selfish and irresponsible for giving up Pemberley as I have done?” he had asked quite suddenly.

  Taken aback by the directness of his question, Jessica had been unable to answer him immediately, but when she did, having gathered her thoughts, she made it clear that not only was it not her place to make such a harsh judgment, but she did not share the opinion of those who had.

  “It is not a matter upon which I need make a judgment—I am unaffected by your decision,” she had said, adding when he pressed her for an opinion, “But, since you have asked me, I would not condemn you for giving up Pemberley, if you honestly believed you were unable to give it the time and attention it deserved. After all, Pemberley is far too important to be left in the hands of a manager alone.”

  Julian seemed pleased and said, “Indeed, you are right, Jessica, my research work is my highest priority—it can save thousands of lives—and I would not wish to be an absentee landlord. My father appreciates that, but I fear Mama's disappointment in me cannot be assuaged. She feels I have let Pemberley and Papa down. I wish I could persuade her to see my situation as you do, Jessica. It is comforting to know I am not universally condemned.”

  “You are certainly not,” she had protested. “I am well aware that your sister Cassy understands too, and so do Doctor Gardiner and young Lizzie.”

  “Ah yes, Cassy and Richard do understand. They always have. I should have been lost without them throughout last year. And Lizzie has been wonderful with Anthony—I could not have coped without her help,” he said, and Jessica had been flattered by the confidence he placed in her, discussing his situation with her so unreservedly and openly.

  Julian was almost twelve years older than she was, and she had always regarded him with a degree of awe and respect. His learning and erudition, which was far in advance of anyone in her immediate family, had set him apart from them, but more recently, especially since Josie's illness, Jessica had been surprised to find him approachable and genuinely friendly. She had expected that he would be withdrawn and reserved, and would have understood if he had been, but in fact, the reverse had been true. She had found herself feeling some measure of sympathy and understanding for him.

  When they reached Pemberley House, they had learned from the housekeeper that Mr and Mrs Darcy were dining with Sir Thomas Camden, leaving them to dine alone. Afterwards, they had repaired for coffee to the smaller private sitting room rather than the formal drawing room, and there, Julian asked if Jessica would read to him, as she did to his mother.

  “My mother says you are the best reader she has known. Would you read something for me, Jessica?”

  Temporarily surprised by the request, Jessica had hesitated but momentarily, before agreeing, “Of course, what would you wish me to read?” she had asked.

  Selecting an anthology of poems from the collection of books that lay beside the chair in which Elizabeth sat each evening, listening to Jessica read before dinner, he had handed it to her, saying, “I am no connoisseur of poetry, Jessica, I shall let you choose something you would enjoy reading.”

  She was happy to oblige. It was a popular anthology and she loved many of the poems of Keats, Coleridge, and Shelley it contained. Choosing a favourite of hers, she had read John Keats' Ode “To a Nightingale” and as he had listened to the rich, mellifluous words of the poet, it had seemed from his expression as if he was, for the first time in many long months, at peace. Julian listened, his eyes closed, his head thrown back. When she had finished, he thanked her sincerely for the very special pleasure and commended her selection.

  “It is a most sonorous and memorable piece,” he had said. “I shall read it again myself and remember it always. You read very well, Jessica. I am not surprised that Mama delights in having you read to her.”

  Jessica thanked him and assured him she had enjoyed reading to him, but as he helped himself to more coffee and port, she had begged to be excused on account of an early appointment at the school and retired to her apartments upstairs.

  She had been convinced more than ever that Julian's present melancholy was the result of loneliness and want of companionship, rather than excessive grief.

  Before leaving Pemberley for Cambridge, Julian had sought out Jessica, whom he found at the schoolhouse, busy making preparations for the new term. He had brought her some books, which he hoped she would find useful. “They are old schoolbooks of mine, which I have preserved for many years, and I thought they may interest you,” he had said, handing over a large canvas satchel, which Jessica opened with gratitude, exclaiming at the treasures it held.

  She was eager to build a collection for the school's library, she told him.

  “I have already begged for books from Pemberley and Camden House; these will do very nicely, it was kind of you to think of us at such a time,” she said, pleased when he added, “Well, if you need more, you must ask my father. He has agreed to have the rest of my books placed in storage at Pemberley. You are very welcome to have them; I shall not have much use for them myself and there will be very little room in my luggage for books, apart from those I require for my research. Besides, they would deteriorate very quickly in the humid heat of Africa.”

  It was the first time he had mentioned Africa since the funeral, and Jessica asked if he still intended to go and if a date had been agreed.

  “Yes indeed, I do, but we have no fixed date for our departure because there is as yet some work that must be finished before the medical board will release the funds for our project. I wish we could go sooner, but we have to await their approval,” he had replied in the most matter-of-fact manner, as though he were merely leaving for the next county.

  “Shall we see you again before you leave England?” she ha
d asked, and when he had smiled and said, “You certainly shall, if young Lizzie's wedding date is settled. Cassy tells me she expects her to be engaged to Mr Carr very soon and their marriage may follow not long afterwards. Should that be the case, I have promised to return for the wedding,” she had detected real pleasure in his voice. Changing the direction of their conversation, he had asked, “But you will write to me, Jessica, will you not? I look forward to hearing how you get on with the school and if the children are as eager to learn as you are to teach them. I hope, amidst your many important duties, you will find the time to pen an occasional letter with news of home?”

  “Of course,” said Jessica, more than a little surprised at his request, to which he replied, with a smile, “Good, I shall look forward to that,” and taking a card from his pocketbook, he gave it to her. “That direction will always find me. It is a poste restante order.”

  She put it away and was preparing to close the schoolroom.

  He had assumed that she would be returning with him to dine at Pemberley and had seemed disappointed when she had said, “It's Friday, I always return to the rectory at Kympton on Fridays. Mama and Papa will be expecting me to dine at home.”

  “May I walk with you then?” he asked, and she was pleased to agree.

  “Thank you, that would be nice; it is such a mild evening, we could walk through the park. When I am alone, I use the road—it's a shorter route but much less pretty,” she said as they set out.

  The setting sun had caused the woods around Pemberley to glow in its golden light, and the lake below gleamed like a jewel. The beauty that surrounded them had made Jessica catch her breath, and for a moment they were both silent.

  “I can see you love Pemberley,” he had said, to which she responded without hesitation, “I do indeed. I cannot imagine that anyone could not.”

  They walked on, and as they did so, they had spoken not of his work or hers but of their hopes. Julian, now seemingly more at ease than before, had asked, “And what do you do with your time, that is when you do have time for yourself, when you are not teaching the children or reading to my mother or training the choir—with all these duties, you must have very little time for leisure.”

  Jessica had assured him that she had plenty of time to herself, explaining that she enjoyed her own company.

  “I read a great deal and play the recorder and practice on the piano-forte, which I must confess I do not do as often as I should… but that is a matter of application, not lack of time. I have never found it difficult to entertain myself, even as a child.”

  When he looked a little perplexed, she added, “Perhaps because my sister and brother were a good deal older than I was, I was frequently alone, left to my own devices.”

  “It is a singular blessing to be happy in one's own company. I wish I could make the same claim for myself. I too was a solitary child, but I must admit that now, without my work to occupy me, I should have become a very dull fellow.” He had sounded quite envious, and Jessica had looked askance at him.

  “That cannot be true,” she had protested, and he'd quizzed her, playfully, “Do you think not?”

  “No indeed, I should never have said you were dull; reserved perhaps, but not dull. Why, you know so much about things that are hidden from the rest of us, you have studied and opened up whole worlds of knowledge that have been closed to us all these years, how could that be dull?”

  Even as he laughed at her enthusiasm, he seemed quite delighted.

  “Jessica, my dear, you must be the first young lady I have met who has thought so. Most women I know would rather not know that microbes and bacteria exist, much less desire to have a conversation about them! I cannot think of anyone, apart from another scientist, who would have expressed such an interest. Creatures who only come to life under the microscope are difficult to describe and not a lot of fun!”

  At this, she had laughed too and admitted that perhaps they were not much fun, in the way that dogs and horses were, but surely they would be fascinating to study and understand.

  “I should have thought there would be a special fascination in the very fact that we cannot see them, but we know they are there, mysterious and strange…”

  Before he could respond, Jessica, who had looked up at him as she spoke, had stumbled, catching the heel of her shoe on the root of a spreading oak that jutted into their path, and her companion had hastened to catch her before she fell, holding her until she had regained her composure and ascertaining that she had not suffered any injury to her foot.

  Flustered and shaken, she thanked him and they walked on; this time he took from her the case she had been carrying and offered her his arm for support, which she took gladly.

  The light had been fading fast as they approached a stile, which separated the park from a narrow lane leading to the Kympton rectory. He had helped her over it before climbing over himself.

  “We are almost there; I think I will not come in with you, Jessica; I have some work to complete at Pemberley.”

  She was disappointed. “Mama and Papa will be happy to see you,” she'd said, but he had pleaded to be excused.

  “I did call on your parents after church on Sunday and said my farewells; besides, there are matters to be settled before I leave early tomorrow. I hope to take the morning train to London.”

  This time it was she who had said, “If I write to you in France, will you write too?”

  “Certainly, though I must warn you I am not an interesting correspondent, as my mother and sister will surely tell you. My letters will probably bore you with accounts of failed experiments and unidentified bacteria.”

  Jessica protested, “I promise I shall not be bored. I should like very much to learn something of France—I have never been outside of England and have heard much of the beauty and elegance of France. It has long been an obsession of mine.”

  “Then you shall receive letters full of the delights of Paris and the French countryside, which, though it is very different to ours, has a rustic charm all its own; it has grown on me each time I have visited there,” he had said, and Jessica had made no attempt to hide her pleasure at the prospect.

  “I shall look forward to reading them. My mother had a small farm in France once, left to her by Monsieur Antoine, but I believe she sold it and used the proceeds for the extension to the hospital at Littleford. I think I should have loved to have travelled to France and spent some part of my life there. But, as it is not to be, I shall have to console myself with your accounts of it.”

  With the rectory in sight, they had stopped, and as she had moved to reclaim her case, he had taken her hand in his and said, “Dear Jessica, let me thank you for your kindness to me these past days. For being so open, honest, and friendly, as few others have been. I am truly grateful. I had wondered, after all that has happened, how I should endure staying at Pemberley, but your companionship as well as the kindness of my family has rendered it more enjoyable than I had ever expected it to be. I shall not forget your generous heart.”

  “Not even if you go to Africa?” she had quipped softly, hoping to sound lighthearted.

  “Especially not if I go to Africa, it will be my happiest memory of home,” he had said, and as she remained silent, unable to think of anything to say, he had bent and kissed her very gently on the cheek, saying good-bye, not once but twice

  Then reminding her once more of her promise to write, he had retraced his steps along the lane to the stile and entered the park.

  As Jessica had stood watching him, he had turned once and waved; then he was gone, hidden from her sight by the gathering darkness and the trees.

  Jessica had felt her cheeks burning. Nothing like this had ever happened in her life before. As she had walked quietly into the garden of the rectory, she had hoped no one would notice anything unusual about her appearance or demeanour.

  Her mother certainly had not, as she greeted her affectionately, and later her father, returning from visiting a parishioner, had w
elcomed her with just as much enthusiasm, but had seemed not to notice anything different about her.

  Jessica alone had been acutely conscious of the change in herself, the warmth that had flushed her cheeks and the racing of her heart which made her breathless were so obvious to her, that she had thought they would surely be as conspicuous to her family. Would they not wonder at the reason for them?

  After dinner, her youngest brother Jude had monopolised everybody's attention with his clever recitation of a song he had learned by rote, and Jessica, glad of the distraction, commented upon how he had grown.

  “He seems taller each time I see him” she had said and both their parents agreed.

  “Jude is going to learn to be an altar boy soon,” said her mother.

  “And help me with distributing the prayer sheets and hymn books, aren't you, Jude?” said his father, and to Jessica's great relief no one had asked about Julian's plans. She had been especially pleased at not having to reveal her meeting with him that afternoon.

  Later that night, back in her own small bedroom, the one she had occupied all her life until moving this year to Pemberley, Jessica had wondered at her own feelings, trying to comprehend them.

  Unused to dealing with such situations, she had found it a difficult exercise, to explain even to her diary. How is it that I feel this way? she had written, struggling to understand.

  It cannot be that I am suddenly in love with Julian Darcy. I have known him all my life and never felt a particular partiality towards him before. He has been a friend of my childhood, a cousin, and chiefly a rather remote, learned person who engendered feelings of esteem and even awe, but never love.

  When he married Josie, I was probably not old enough to experience jealousy, but I felt no loss. So how do I feel this way now? What has changed between us? Why am I all a-tremble because of a single, chaste farewell kiss, and why do I want to hug this feeling to myself and tell no one?

  And what of his feelings? She could not help wanting to discover what they might have been.