Postscript from Pemberley

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  It is surely not possible that he, in so short a time after Josie's death, would be ready to feel anything akin to love for someone else. Or is it?

  Lizzie Gardiner was certain that he loved Josie dearly and grieved deeply for her. If this is true, as she believes it is, he would probably be outraged and embarrassed should he learn that I harboured some childish affection for him. It would probably ruin our friendship.

  I must therefore ensure that whatever happens, he does not discover my secret.

  Concluding her note, she had locked her diary away in her case and as she retired to bed, resolved that in everything she did and especially when she wrote to Julian, as he had asked her to do, she would quite deliberately steer well away from personal matters that might lead her to betray her affections, however unwittingly.

  She had determined that her letters would be friendly in style, informative in content, and lighthearted in tone.

  That way, she had decided, she would be in no danger at all of giving herself away.

  Of Julian, she knew only that his present plans, which he had revealed quite candidly, meant he would spend most of the rest of his life abroad, in France or Africa. There had even been some mention of a French Colony in the South Pacific, where the team may venture to study some particular tropical pest. Unlikely then, she thought, that he would ever spend sufficient time in England, much less in Derbyshire, to have any chance of falling in love with her.

  Yet, as she lay sleepless for almost an hour, her mind rehearsed their last conversation: the walk through the park, the manner of his parting from her, that very gentle kiss upon her cheek, and a bewildering array of feelings crowded in upon her. Uniformly pleasurable, they stayed with her until sleep claimed her, recalling just before it did that Julian had given his word that he would attend his niece Lizzie Gardiner's wedding.

  There would be time enough to prepare for that occasion, she thought.

  Jessica knew, no matter how eventful her life might be in future years, she would never forget the events of this day.

  END OF PROLOGUE

  JESSICA'S MEMORIES OF LIZZIE Gardiner's wedding day were filled with myriad impressions that crowded upon one another.

  The happy lovers and their contented families predominated, coming together for a great celebration at Pemberley, where Mr and Mrs Darcy watched with pleasure as their granddaughter was married to Mr Michael Carr, a gentleman they had come to admire and respect. There were other recollections too, not all of which she wished to share with the rest of her family.

  Jessica had dressed with some care for the occasion, in a becoming but simple gown, resisting the temptation to have a new one made. She knew that Julian was expected, although there had been some concern that he may not arrive in time, since he had to travel all the way from France; nevertheless, she was confident he would be there.

  Several months had passed between the time of his departure from Derbyshire and Lizzie's wedding in the Autumn of 1866. To her surprise, not long after he had left Pemberley, a letter had arrived for her from Cambridge and upon her having sent a short reply, she had received another from Paris, whither he had gone to attend an urgent meeting of the medical board.

  Both communications had been completely devoid of any descriptions of experiments, successful or otherwise, or microscopic bacteria, for that matter. Instead they contained references to many matters of mutual interest, including quite a detailed description of the part of Paris in which his lodgings were situated. Jessica had been delighted.

  The first, which had arrived barely a week after his departure, began with the usual courtesies but then went on to speak of the arrangements he was making at the university as well as his attendance at a concert of chamber music, which he had greatly enjoyed. She recalled that he had confessed to a growing interest in music, which, he said apologetically, he had neglected all his life. Jessica, a proficient and keen student of music, had encouraged him.

  “I cannot imagine life without music; I lay no claim to great talent but I have an abiding love of music that sustains me at all times; without it my life would be poor indeed,” she had said and he, inspired by her enthusiasm, had promised faithfully to maintain his interest.

  His letter had concluded with a paragraph of such warmth and sincerity that she returned to read it again and again.

  He wrote:

  Finally, I cannot send this away without telling you of the happy discovery I have made, when packing my things to be sent over to France. There among my personal papers and books was a collection of poems presented to me by your aunt Caroline Fitzwilliam and in it is Keats' “Ode – To a Nightingale,” which instantly brought back delightful memories of your reading it at Pemberley.

  It was a recollection replete with feelings of gratitude for your generosity and kindness to me, during a time that was particularly painful for me and indeed, distressing for us all.

  I shall be happy to take it with me to France and look forward to the day when I may have the pleasure of hearing you read it again.

  In her response, which had taken Jessica quite some time and many sheets of notepaper to compose, she had striven to appear detached though friendly. She had written of their preparations for the start of the school term and the arrival of the new schoolmaster, Mr Hurst, who was to teach the older boys.

  She wrote:

  Mr Hurst is an interesting man, though he must surely be quite old (Mama thinks he could be forty five, but I believe he must be fifty years old at least). He is surprisingly unlike any of the teachers one reads of in Mr Dickens' books. He is soft spoken and considerate and does not appear to have that accessory of all school masters: a cane.

  What is more, he is a veritable treasure house of information on every subject under the sun. For instance, I did not know that Mr Darwin, who wrote the Origin of Species, had married the daughter of Mr Josiah Wedgwood, the owner of the great Staffordshire potteries. Did you? Nor was I familiar with the name of his ship, The Beagle. Is that not an odd name for a ship?

  Mr Hurst knows all the details of the ship's amazing voyage to the other side of the world and the excessively weird and wonderful creatures they saw there!

  In answer to a question, he informed Mr Darcy very gravely that he intended to teach the boys more than reading, writing, and numbers—he plans to satisfy their natural curiosity by introducing them to Science and Nature through everyday things in their lives, he says. Mr Darcy seemed rather puzzled by this approach, but I must admit I look forward to seeing the results of Mr Hurst's work.

  Thank you for reminding me of Keats' “Nightingale,” I am glad to learn that you have a copy to take to France; it is a beautiful piece and a favourite of mine, as you know. I am sure you will find time to read it yourself in Paris; it will remind you of home.

  I trust you are well, as we all are.

  God bless you,

  Jessica Courtney

  Then, as if suddenly deciding to abandon the pretence of being cautious and impersonal, she had added a postscript, in which she said she had heard he was arranging to travel from France to attend Lizzie's wedding in the Autumn.

  If this is the case, I expect we shall meet at Pemberley. I did so enjoy our conversations when you were last here and hope there will be time to talk some more, she had said, hoping it would not be considered too forthright.

  To this there had been no response for some weeks, leaving her anxious and concerned lest she had offended him, however unwittingly.

  She had waited daily for the post in a state of anxiety and no letter had been delivered, until a few days before young Lizzie's wedding day, when it had arrived, postmarked from Paris.

  Late, short, but to her exceedingly sweet, it brought an apology for the delay in responding to hers and assured her that he would indeed be seeing her at Lizzie's wedding, adding also that afterwards, he expected to stay a few weeks at least at Pemberley before returning to France, during which time, he supposed, there should be plenty of time for the
happy conversations they had both enjoyed so much.

  It was a prospect that filled her with a confusion of delight and trepidation.

  Julian Darcy's stay at Pemberley, at first set to be a fortnight, was extended to three weeks and more, as he surrendered to the persuasive arguments of his parents and the ambient pleasures of Pemberley in late Autumn. He spent much of the time with Mr and Mrs Darcy and his son Anthony, thereby bringing much happiness to all of them.

  Elizabeth was especially pleased to see how much calmer and more confident her son had become since the previous year, when beset with a plethora of troubles, he had appeared to lose both direction and interest in his life.

  As his sister Cassandra wrote to her cousin Emma Wilson:

  Since Lizzie's wedding, Julian has been at Pemberley and he is a man transformed! He seems far more at peace with himself and at times appears almost happy to be here with us. I can only pray he will remain so…

  As for Jessica, the period of his stay proved to be one of particular pleasure. While her days were spent chiefly at the school, she would frequently return in the afternoon to Pemberley, where Julian would join her for tea in the sitting room. The hours were filled with long, relaxed conversations on every subject available for discussion or readings from books, which they selected at random, mainly to please one another, often continuing until the servants came to light the lamps and it was time to dress for dinner.

  At dinner, when they were joined by Mr and Mrs Darcy and, occasionally, the Bingleys, Fitzwilliams, or Cassy and Richard Gardiner, Julian would be the centre of attention, called upon to satisfy their guests' curiosity and answer questions about his work and the political situation in France, while Jessica listened. Later, however, he would join the ladies in the drawing room, usually leaving the gentlemen to their port and discussions of political and commercial matters, which seemed not to hold his interest at all. Then, his attention was all hers, as she played or read to please the company.

  Jessica had many happy memories of these evenings, of conversations all invariably interesting to her, filled as they were with tales of people and places she had never seen or heard of before. He had told her so much about France, which she had not known before. She was as much enthralled by its recent bloody history as by its ancient culture and current sophistication.

  Julian had detailed to her the idealism as well as the ferocity of the French revolution, yet balanced them with pictures of French music, art, and architecture that were the envy of Europe.

  “It is indeed a place of great contradictions, Jessica, yet one that has an undeniable grasp upon me. I realise that it is not fashionable in some circles to profess admiration for the French—we have had some bitter battles in the past—but the country fascinates me like no other place on earth.”

  “It is well that it does, since you are determined to live and work there,” she had remarked, and asked, “Do you expect to spend much more time in France?”

  He had replied, “No, not unless something untoward occurs to thwart our plans. We expect to leave for Africa in Spring, before the rains begin. Arrangements are already afoot for our journey and I expect to know a firm date for our departure very soon.”

  “And you are looking forward to it, of course?”

  “Yes indeed, it will be the culmination of more than a year's preparation.”

  Jessica had expressed some apprehension. “Will it be a dangerous expedition?” she asked.

  His reply, though calculated to allay her fears, had been honest.

  “All expeditions to places such as Africa or South America, where so little is known of the environment, are fraught with some danger. But I am assured by my French colleagues that the native peoples of the areas we intend to study are generally friendly. They are familiar with foreigners, and unlike some of the coastal tribes, whose experience of Europeans is tainted by the memory of the slave trade, these places are free of that scourge, thank God.”

  Despite these assurances, Jessica remained concerned.

  One afternoon, when they had met as she had walked home through the park to Pemberley, she asked, “I cannot help wondering if you will be safe in Africa—I know your mama worries, too. Will you write, if only to reassure us that you are well?”

  He had smiled and replied, “Of course, it is kind of you to be concerned; but be aware there is no penny post and letters must be carried to the ports and be shipped out to England. I mention this because I should not wish you to think, if there were to be a long delay in the arrival of a letter, that I had not kept my word.”

  She had protested strenuously, “I should never think that—but I am glad to be forewarned of the difficulties, else I may have thought that the letters had gone astray and been anxious. Now, I know I shall just have to be patient.”

  “Are you always so patient, Jessica?” he had asked, with some degree of amusement, to which she replied candidly, “Indeed, I am not. Not always, at any rate. I am patient when circumstances are so fixed, there is no help for it and nothing will change the situation. But I have to confess I am impatient when unnecessary obstacles arise; I am eager to learn and discover new ideas and long to see and experience what I have read. Yet it is often impossible. I am far from being patient about such matters.”

  “Such as?” he persisted.

  “All sorts of things—things that excite my imagination, I suppose. I should love to feel the salt spray of the sea in a storm or the bustle of London streets, perhaps to walk those beautiful boulevardes of Paris with their elegant buildings and see the great works of art in their galleries. You and others have spoken of these things—I long to know how it feels to be there. Men are so very fortunate, to be able to travel and work where you please. I do envy you and I am impatient that we have not the same freedom.”

  Julian had seemed fascinated as he watched her eyes shine and heard her voice rise gently as she spoke. Clearly, Jessica was growing a little restless with the sheltered existence she led in Derbyshire, and he sensed a desire for something new and perhaps a little more exotic than her present life afforded her.

  He understood her inclinations but was conscious of the need to be cautious in encouraging such yearnings. Remembering another young woman, whose desire to break out of the narrow confines that had circumscribed her life had led not to satisfaction and happiness as she had hoped, but disappointment and disaster, he had paused awhile before speaking.

  His memories of Josie, still too fresh and painful, had made him somewhat more circumspect in his response. Reminding Jessica that she was young enough to look forward to all of those things she had mentioned, and many more experiences besides, in the years that lay ahead, he had said, “There will be time enough for you to enjoy all these experiences and more; I do not doubt that you will find time in your life to do so. Remember only, dear Jessica, that life is best enjoyed at leisure, without undue haste or desperation, with time for judgment and discrimination as well as enjoyment. We are not all blessed with the capacity of John Keats to drain life's cup to the lees in a single draught.”

  Surprised by his words and the quiet intensity with which they were spoken, Jessica had asked, “Do you merely advise me in a general sense against haste, or do your apprehensions arise from a perception that I am too bold in dreaming of discovering and experiencing what is new? Is it because you think I would act rashly in attempting to grasp what is outside my reach?” and her voice trembled a little, as though she had felt chastised.

  He responded directly, “Certainly not. Your dreams are not too bold, far from it. What would we be if we did not dream, however impossible the goal? Much of my own work is built upon a dream that we may find something that is hidden from us; something that might change the lives of millions of people. I merely wished to remind you of the great gifts of youth and enthusiasm, which are yours, which I pray you will hold on to for many years, expending them sparingly and with care as you enjoy all that life will offer you in the future.”

 
; She looked unconvinced. “And do you really believe that my life lived here, in Derbyshire, is likely to hold such promise in the future?” she asked, with an astonishing degree of frankness that compelled his own reply to be equally honest.

  “It could, but if it did not, it does not follow that you should remain all your life in Derbyshire. Jessica, our lives are circumscribed not by geographical boundaries, but by the limits of our minds and our capacity to persevere in pursuit of an ambition. There is no obligation that we should continue to live out our lives only in the place of our birth, is there?

  “Nor is there any reason to suppose that your life will be so constrained— after all, mine was not. I was born and bred here and rarely left the county except to accompany my parents to London or Scarborough or some such place, until I went to Cambridge. Well, you see me now…”

  “I do indeed, on the verge of a great adventure in the unknown depths of the African continent! A considerable transformation by any measure! Would that we might all aspire to such an exciting achievement,” she declared, making him laugh and breaking the tension of the moment.

  Postponing any further argument that she might have mounted, as they approached the entrance to Pemberley House, Jessica threw one last pebble into the pool of their discussion and waited for the ripples.

  “If it had been at all possible, I should have wished very much to go to Africa with you,” she said in a teasing kind of voice and was surprised when he said, quietly but very seriously, “If it had been possible, Jessica, I should have liked it too, very much.”

  When she turned to search his face, she saw not a trace of equivocation upon it. She had then to accept that he had meant every word.

  That night Jessica recorded her thoughts in her diary, admitting to herself for the first time that she was falling in love with Julian Darcy.

  There can be no other explanation for the way I feel—feelings of panic alternate with delight on each occasion that we meet, and I struggle to appear disengaged and untouched, when I am often filled with the strongest possible feelings of affection and pleasure, such as I have not known before.