The Cumberland Plateau

by Mary K. Baxley

  David read on. He had smoked the first packet of cigarettes and now he opened the second. Taking a puff, he began the next entry. “My youngest son won’t speak to me or even look at me, but I can’t blame him. David has never liked me. Fitzwilliam is the one who runs to greet me when I come home, followed by his mother. Yes, she always greets me with a hug, as if she really means it. She says she loves me, but I don’t really care. She laughs whilst her eyes plead silently until she finally asks, ‘Can we talk now? I love you, George. I need you.’ It’s always the same. I tell her not now—someday maybe—but not now. This last weekend was particularly bad. I finally told her I’d had enough! So disgusted was I with her pleadings that I packed my things and walked out before the evening meal, returning to London to spend the weekend with my mistress. If Anne truly cares for me, then that is her misfortune. I no longer give a damn. I have gone from hurt to bitterness and finally to nothingness.”

  David threw back his head. He dropped the book and cried out loud, “Why, Father? Why didn’t you give her a chance? Again, I know the answer, it’s because you’re just like me.” He sighed and picked up the book. The next passage was particularly painful because it rekindled David’s memory.

  “There is one event that I’d just as soon forget. Yesterday was my fortieth birthday, and Anne did something she has never done before. She drove into London with my sons. I was still in bed when she arrived, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when she opened the door to my room, for I was not alone. I thought she was going to faint, or worse, lose the baby when she doubled over as if in pain. I quickly got out of bed and ran to her, naked as I was, but she bolted like a startled deer, and then I caught sight of my ten-year-old son staring at me from the corner of the room. Oh God, what have I done? The look on my child’s face shook me to my very core, and to know that I was the person responsible for having put that look there. Will Fitzwilliam every forgive me? Perhaps I should divorce Anne and let her go. Perhaps we’d both be happier.

  “Our daughter was born two weeks later. Anne named her after me. I am extremely touched. She is so beautiful and looks just like her mother, whereas the boys take after me.”

  Reading to the end of the fourth book, David closed it gently and placed it aside. One more volume, and he would be through. He decided he would go out for dinner and buy more cigarettes. Cecilia had called him on and off over the last three months, and he had taken a great delight in their talks, but for once, he hoped she wouldn’t call—not tonight. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone—not even to her—especially not to her.

  Settling back in his bed after dinner, he poured himself another drink and opened the last book. The things recorded there he remembered well. His father had begun the habit of coming home every weekend to spend time with his children. Fitzwilliam was always glad to see him, while David was indifferent, and Georgiana was afraid of him. David read his father’s account of those times with pain. George grieved the loss of his family. Georgiana’s fear of him tugged at his heartstrings so much that he actually took the summer off to spend time with her. It was the last summer their mother was alive.

  For the first time, George seriously attempted a reconciliation with his wife and had even given up his mistress, though not for Anne, but for the sake of his children. There was one stipulation, however, to which Anne agreed. George would share her bed.

  After reading that passage, David lay the book down. It was time for yet another cigarette. Damn! Rummaging through the packet, he discovered there were only two left. Another sip of whiskey and one more cigarette, and he’d get back to reading.

  Stubbing out the cigarette, David picked up the book, reading about the times he remembered well. George had spent a lot of time fishing and riding with them, and they even swam together down in the cove. That Christmas had been an especially good time—the happiest David had ever had, an old-fashioned Victorian Christmas complete with snow and candles and the most beautiful tree he had ever seen. But the best of all was that David remembered his mother had been happy that year for the first time in his memory. However, it was not to last.

  By late spring, Anne had become pregnant again, only this time she was older, and there were complications. A lump had been discovered in her right breast. The diagnosis came back as cancer, and she was advised to terminate her pregnancy immediately to begin treatment. Anne, now in her fourth month, refused. The only doctor in the U.K. at the time who specialized in this type of high-risk pregnancy was Harvey Darcy. Both Harvey and George begged Anne to terminate the pregnancy, but she was resolute, telling them she could not in good conscience take the life of her child. She begged Harvey to save the baby even if it meant losing her. He worked feverishly, along with her oncologist, to save both mother and child, but in the end, both were lost.

  Meanwhile, the relationship between Harvey and Anne deepened, and George’s jealousy again took root. The day Anne died, George was in a drunken stupor, unable even to get out of bed, let alone make his way to the hospital. No one, until now, knew why he had not been there. In reality, the pain of knowing he was losing his wife was so acute that he could not bear to see her for the last time in the presence of his brother. Harvey had cast a shadow over their marriage from the very beginning, but with Anne’s death, their tortured love was finally concluded.

  David closed the book and lit his last cigarette. He had been told his mother had died from complications of childbirth. Anger flushed his face. …Why didn’t they tell us the truth?! Finishing his cigarette, he put it out in the ashtray now piled high and picked up the book to resume reading, knowing he had to finish it tonight.

  He learned of the intense pain his father had felt at the loss of his mother—a pain he was forced to keep to himself. The only one George had ever been able to share his feelings with had been his father, and he, too, was dead. George Darcy felt more alone than he’d ever felt in his life. He had three children—one who loved him unconditionally, one who shied away, and one who hated him. David winced when he read that last line. Did he really hate his father? No, not really, but he had not loved him either—not until now, when he finally understood him.

  He continued reading the entries up to a few months before his father’s death. He read how disappointed he had been in his sons and of his perceived failure as a father, yet he had been unwilling to admit weakness in any form, convinced that this would help his sons to become the men they were meant to be. George saw their strengths as well as their weaknesses, and on occasion, chose to give them a swift kick in the trousers when he felt they needed it. David chuckled at that remark because it was true.

  The last pages concerned the will and a personal note addressed to him. His father had written that he had been greatly disappointed in Fitzwilliam’s marriage, but if this was what his son really wanted and it would make him happy, then he would accept it and give his blessing, but first, Mrs. Darcy would have to prove herself. He would meet her in the summer and see for himself. If she proved to be as good as his son claimed and was willing to give him a grandson, then he would love her like a daughter. If she was a fraud, he hoped the will would weed her out, though he knew full well the will would hold no influence over her if she really loved his son and their marriage endured over a lifetime, because Fitzwilliam’s vast estate would provide for her. It was merely his way of testing her.

  Looking up from the text, David rubbed his bleary eyes and brushed away a tear. “It must be all the smoke. Cigarette smoke always gets to me. This mustn’t become a habit.” Glancing back at the written page, he read his father’s final words. “David, this set of journals is for you alone. I am ending them here. The ones for Pemberley will be continued until my death, which my doctor informs me is imminent. I have congestive heart failure.

  “David, you may not believe me, but now, in the twilight of my years, I have many regrets, of which our relationship is but one. In spite of what you must think of me, I love you, and I loved your mother. You’re too mu
ch like me for your own good. Don’t repeat my mistakes. You have an obligation to duty, honor, and responsibility. Be the man you were born to be.”

  David shook his head and once again laid the book in his lap. …Father, now I understand…and I love you…Dad. David smiled. His father signed off as he always did when composing a note to his sons.

  Your father,

  George A. Darcy

  …So the old man did have a heart. David shut the book and then collapsed on his bed. Sleep. He was in desperate need of sleep.

  Chapter Forty-one

  …Pretty words pretty poison…like a snake in the grass…

  Having gone home to Longbourn the previous week, Elizabeth had contemplated her future while spending time at the cabin. She had decided that unless Fitzwilliam’s letter contained something truly remarkable or his aunt could give her an excellent reason to come with her, she would not be traveling to England. Her plans where to take a small vacation, perhaps to a mountain cottage in Cherokee, North Carolina, or maybe to Hawaii.

  She didn’t tell her aunts and uncles her plans, but rather told them she was leaving town, letting them think what they would. All she knew for certain was that she needed time away to think before returning for the fall semester, if she returned at all.

  Once back from the farm, she sat and waited. Finally, Hilda arrived at 223 Willow Street. Answering the knock at the door, Elizabeth welcomed her and the two men accompanying her.

  “You must be Elizabeth, my nephew’s wife,” Hilda said, eyeing Elizabeth carefully.

  “Yes, I am, and you must be his aunt, Hilda Vanderburgh.” Elizabeth smiled as she cordially invited them into the house.

  “Yes, I am, and this is Thurman Jones and Herbert Cornwall. They are the advisors Fitzwilliam told you about. We will be closing out his accounts and settling his contract with the university.” Walking around the house, she remarked, “I see you have packed your belongings. Is the computer equipment packed as well?” she asked, glancing around the library and front parlor.

  “Yes, everything is packed as per his directions. All of his things are in this room,” she gestured towards the library with one hand, “while mine are upstairs.”

  “Do you have any questions, Mrs. Darcy, before the men begin loading the truck?”

  “Yes, I have several,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Tell me about Pemberley, PLC. What are my husband’s responsibilities, and what will be expected of me? Also, could you tell me about Fitzwilliam’s father? I would like to understand the late Mr. Darcy. Come with me. I’ll fix some tea, and we can talk.”

  Elizabeth led Hilda into the kitchen where the two women sat and talked while they had refreshments. As the two advisors went about supervising the hired men while they loaded the truck, Hilda detailed for Elizabeth all of the responsibilities expected of the CEO of Pemberley.

  “Mrs. Darcy, your husband will be working late hours and probably spending most of his time at the office. They have three executive penthouse suites there. He and David have been living there for the last three months.” Hilda waved her hand and shrugged as if this were nothing.

  “You will be expected to fulfill your role, too. There will be parties to plan and host for international business colleagues, charity functions to organize, and then there is the Darcy Foundation, which you will be expected to chair. You must become active in London society, behaving as expected for your station. As Mrs. Darcy,” Hilda said, bearing down on Elizabeth, “you will not have time for a career. Promoting your husband is your job, and being your husband’s wife is your career.”

  A sharp knife cut through Elizabeth’s heart as she sipped her tea. Though she felt anything but calm, her expression remained composed and placid. “Somehow, this is not quite what I envisaged. Fitzwilliam never told me about any of this.” Keenly curious, she had to know. “How did the late Mrs. Darcy fare in her role?”

  Hilda sat her teacup down and placed her palms on the table. “Unfortunately, my sister never adjusted to her role as Mrs. Darcy. She preferred to stay at Pemberley Estate House in Derbyshire instead of in London with her husband as duty required, leaving George to shoulder the responsibilities alone. He had to take a mistress who escorted him in society. My sister was often lonely and felt neglected. She died from cancer, but some say it was cancer brought on by a broken heart.”

  A quiver of pain shot through Elizabeth as she struggled not to let her feelings show. Swallowing hard, she asked, “And the children? What about Mrs. Darcy’s children?”

  “Well, of course, my dear.” Hilda paused to sip her tea. “Dear sweet Anne was ever devoted to her children, but you must know that when the children reach a certain age they are to attend boarding school for their formal education. My sister and her husband were at odds on a great many things, the children being one of many. She could have performed her role as George’s wife, but she chose not to do so. Her misery was of her own making.”

  Elizabeth cringed. “And what of Mr. Darcy? How did he interact with the children? Did he spend time with them?”

  “Poppycock! Children! Mr. Darcy did not have time for the children,” Hilda said with cold civility, “but such is often the case with powerful men who shoulder so much responsibility. Important men have no time for children.”

  …Or wives! Elizabeth shuddered, recoiling from what she heard. It all sounded so unfeeling and sterile. Rubbing her stomach, she grimaced. …This was not what I want for my child. Upon hearing all his aunt had to say, Elizabeth made up her mind. She would not be going to London with Ms. Vanderburgh. However, there remained one more thing to consider.

  “I believe my husband has given you a letter for me. May I see it, please?”

  Hilda reached into her purse and produced an envelope, which Elizabeth eagerly took. After carefully removed the letter, she looked it over twice. The first half outlined all that he had done since his father’s death. Most of this she already knew from his emails and the times they had actually talked about his struggles, but it was the second half that grabbed her attention—and sunk her hopes.

  Elizabeth, you know how much I love you, but I have to be truthful with you. It will not be easy when you come. For that, I must prepare you. It’ll be many months before things settle down into a somewhat normal routine. I will be spending sixteen to eighteen hours a day at work, probably every day, except Sunday, when we will attend church services at my family parish. As my wife, you will be expected to take an active role in the church, especially with the benevolent endeavors and acts of charity, but that will be explained when you meet the vicar and his wife.

  Whilst I am working such long hours, I will stay at my executive flat. You may stay there with me if you choose, or you may prefer Darcy House, which, I’m sure, you will find much more comfortable. I’m sorry to inform you, but there will be little time for me to entertain you or even spend with you. I hate that, but that’s how things must be now that I have assumed my place within the family business.

  As for your teaching career, I’m afraid we will have to set that aside for the time being. I need you to take over some of the responsibilities at the Darcy Foundation. I will give you the details when you come, but basically, it is our charity and benevolence organization, specifically the AIDS Research Institution and Hospital. It’s a massive undertaking and will monopolize much of your time, leaving little for a teaching career. When you arrive, I will give you a tour of Pemberley, and then we can talk more about your new responsibilities.

  Elizabeth, I love you. I’ve told you so many times, but things have changed. I am no longer able to be carefree as I once was. Nor will I be able to take you on holiday as we had planned. I know this is not what you expected, nor is it what I wanted, but it is the reality of my life now. Therefore, it is with great pain that I must say this, but, if for any reason, you choose not to join me, I’ve left instructions with my aunt. She will explain everything to you. It is my deepest hope and desire that you will join me, soon. I need you
and I love you.

  With all my love,

  Fitzwilliam A. Darcy

  Fitzwilliam A. Darcy

  CEO Pemberley, PLC

  Elizabeth flushed. Her blood ran cold as she folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. Her eyes narrowed. “Hilda, what does he mean by saying he’s left instructions with you should I choose not to accompany you back to England?”

  Hilda glanced down at her cup, gently stirring her tea. Returning her gaze to Elizabeth, she asked, “First, I must ask you what your plans are. Do you intend to return with me?”

  “When you came, I still had an open mind about it, but after our frank discussion and reading this, I’m not so sure. Frankly, I can’t live with his stipulations, and I won’t, so you had better tell me what he’s referring to in this letter.” Elizabeth leaned back in her chair while she held Hilda’s gaze.

  “Mrs. Darcy, I must be honest with you. I was present for some of your conversations with my nephew, and we discussed this dilemma. If you cannot live with him, then you must set him free so that he can find someone who will be willing to take on the role of Mrs. Darcy and all that it entails. If you will not come with me, then I have come prepared to dissolve the marriage, setting you free to find someone who can meet your expectations.” Reaching into her purse one more time, she pulled another envelope out. “I have a contract with me that will allow Fitzwilliam to obtain a quick divorce. He is prepared to offer you £7 million, but you must agree not to pursue him for any more money.”

  For a split second, she almost fainted as she sat there shocked speechless. Elizabeth inhaled sharply, feeling overwhelmed as she struggled to suppress her hurt and humiliation. She was devastated. Had he been living a lie with her, a daydream outside of Pemberley? Had he been truthful to himself or her about their relationship? Who was the REAL Fitzwilliam Darcy? Was it all about sex? Would he marry her simply to conquer her innocence? She had heard of foreign men marring American wives only to dump them when they returned to their own country. Or worse yet, to take them abroad to a life of misery. Was that what he was doing to her? This cold, sterile delivery was not what she had expected, but somehow it didn’t surprise her, either.