Death Takes a Holiday at Pemberley

by Kelly Miller

  When a second present from herself and her mother was found for Bennet, her earlier conversation on the grounds with Mr. Graham took on a new significance. It must have been his doing; he had mentioned the birthday party, and she had admitted to not having prior knowledge of it. The man’s attention was on the child, who opened the colourful wrapped box to reveal a stuffed dog. When the toddler thanked her for the present, she was gracious and composed as she told the boy he was welcome.

  Soon enough, all the presents had been opened and Elizabeth and Bennet stood together to thank everyone again for their generosity. When she had consumed her champagne and cake, Anne moved to a position next to Mr. Graham. “Am I correct in my belief that I have you to thank for the presents in my name tonight?”

  Graham replied with nonchalance. “As it happened, I had two extra presents. It put me in a troublesome plight. You may not be aware of this, but your cousin Darcy is quite possessive where Elizabeth is concerned. The last thing I need is to give him an excuse for jealousy. I presumed, since you were unaware of the birthdays, that you did not have a present for them.”

  It was an absurd explanation, and she could not help but smile in amusement. “I appreciate your attempt to make it seem as though we did you a service when the truth is the opposite. I thank you, Mr. Graham.”

  “I am pleased to be of assistance. I can also report that Darcy wrote the letter to your uncle this afternoon. It should reach him by tomorrow.”

  “That is wonderful news. Thank you again.” Anne’s smile waned as her mother stalked in her direction.

  Her mother addressed her with narrowed eyes and tight lips. She used a harsh undertone. “When did you manage to obtain presents for Elizabeth and the boy? And why in the world did you put my name on them?”

  “You are welcome, Mother.” Anne exhaled a huff of air and strode away from her.

  ***

  Lady Catherine was the last to enter the music room. Earlier, she had been beset with a confusing and discomfiting emotion when first Elizabeth and then the young boy had thanked her for the gifts—gifts of which she had known nothing! It had been so disconcerting that her usual poise had escaped her. It had been all she could do to nod at them in a stupid manner. It was insupportable to have been taken by surprise in such a way; the least Anne could have done was warn her!

  Georgiana rose to perform first, announcing she had selected several of Elizabeth’s favourite Mozart and Beethoven pieces. Her niece gave an admirable performance. Lady Catherine took a long, slow breath and raised her chin. It was obvious Darcy had passed on to his sister her many admonitions over the years on the importance of practice.

  After Georgiana’s solo performance, Elizabeth and her much prettier blonde sister came forward to stand before the pianoforte. They sang as Georgiana played several familiar and well-loved songs. If Darcy had had to choose a Bennet sister, why had it not been the elder one? She was preferable in every way. Instead, the beauty had thrown herself away on a man who reeked with the stink of trade!

  When they finished to a hearty round of applause, Mr. Graham, carrying a Fabricatore Italian guitar, stepped in front of Elizabeth. “In honour of your birthday celebration, I have selected a special song. The melody is of my own creation. The lyrics I cannot claim as mine. They were written many years ago by a man on the eve of his departure, so his beloved would be assured of his everlasting love. I sing this tonight in tribute to you and Darcy.”

  Elizabeth touched Mr. Graham’s arm. “I look forward to hearing it.” She returned to her seat beside Darcy. She smiled at her husband as he took her hand.

  Lady Catherine shook her head; her lips curled into a sneer. Why did they persist with such vulgar familiarity—and with a room full of guests?

  The room fell silent as Mr. Graham played a few preliminary chords on the guitar. After a few moments, he looked out into his audience and played an unfamiliar, but pleasant tune. After a brief introduction, his rich, melodious voice filled the vast music room.

  From her seat in the back of the room, Lady Catherine cocked her head as Mr. Graham sang. The man was blessed with a superior vocal sound; it stirred the senses.

  In a moment, everything changed.

  Her breathing ceased and her heart lurched. Those lyrics! They were eerily familiar. When had she heard them before? Recognition shattered her equilibrium. Mr. Graham sang the exact same words that had been spoken to her at her parent’s estate almost forty years ago!

  Hearing those words now brought back every long-buried memory of that summer so long ago, when she had been happy and in love. Lady Catherine brought her hand to her heart and closed her eyes as the image of her love’s countenance formed in her mind—his rugged, handsome, face, his ever-present smile, the green eyes that warmed her senses with every loving gaze, and his dark, sinuous hair—it all returned in stunning detail.

  Her dear, sweet James, who had loved her with all of his being, had written these words for her in the form of a poem. He had recited it on their last day together. He had explained that while he was no poet and had never even attempted to write a poem before, the previous evening, in a sudden flood of inspiration, the words had flowed with ease from his mind to his pen in a span of thirty minutes. The poem had expressed his love and devotion when they were soon to be parted. At the time, they had believed the separation would be for a year at most.

  Lady Catherine’s eyes opened wide as she was startled out of her reverie. This was inconceivable! James had written that poem for her and her alone. The words had come from his own heart and mind. How could Mr. Graham know what he had written all those years ago word for word? The poem remained locked away in her desk at Rosings, and she had never shown it to another living soul. She had not looked at it herself in many years, but the words were etched in her memory.

  She held her forehead in her hands as an overwhelming flush of heat spread through her. A quick perusal of the room assured her that no one paid her any attention. Thank goodness she had chosen a seat behind the others; she could not allow herself to be observed in such a state. Making as little noise as she could manage, she rose and left the room. Incapable of climbing the stairs to her room, she sought the peaceful solitude of the library.

  Chapter 11: Lady Catherine’s Story

  After he concluded his song and bowed to the applause, Graham left the music room. He took quiet, unhurried steps towards the library where Lady Catherine sat alone next to the dying fire. He waited in the doorway until she had dried her eyes and her shoulders ceased shuddering. By the time he entered the room and took the seat opposite her a few minutes later, Lady Catherine stared, motionless, at the handkerchief in her hands, and her breathing was tranquil.

  ***

  Lady Catherine did not question who had penetrated her solitude; it had to be him. “How? How is it possible you knew those words? I had been led to believe they were written for me almost forty years ago. Was that a lie?”

  His voice was melodious, low, and soft, like a lullaby. “The words I selected as lyrics for my song are very beautiful. They are a testament to a man’s undying love for a woman. No, Lady Catherine, Captain Weston did not lie. He wrote them for you. I decided to sing them in celebration of another mutual love that is no less deep and enduring—that of Darcy and Elizabeth.”

  She raised her head in a gradual motion to meet his steady gaze.

  “How I came to know of this poem is not the material point. I have a gift; you might call me a seer. I had another compelling reason for singing the words from that particular poem. I wished to remind you of who you once were and what you believed in before you turned your back on love.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flared and her hands curled into fists. “How dare you? I did not turn my back on love!” After several ragged breaths, she continued in a lower tone. “My love was taken from me, and I was left b
roken and abandoned.” New tears formed at the corners of her eyes. With trembling hands, she dabbed them away with her handkerchief. “James and I met and fell in love the summer when I was nineteen years old. We wished to marry, but my father forbade it. James was the son of an insignificant gentleman of modest means and no important connections. He was in the Royal Navy and had already earned five thousand pounds in prize money. Between that and my thirty thousand pound fortune, we had more than enough funds to purchase an estate and to lead a prosperous life together. However, it was not enough to satisfy my father. He insisted we wait until James earned an additional ten thousand pounds. My father allowed us to have an understanding and write to each other, but he insisted we had no official engagement.”

  Setting her crumpled, soiled handkerchief on her lap, she smoothed it with her hands. Mr. Graham offered her a clean one of his own, and she accepted it with a nod of thanks. “My father hoped I would change my mind in time. James was confident he would get the additional prize money within a year or so. Before James left, we pledged our love and eternal commitment to each other; that was when he read the poem to me. He had written it for me the night before. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I believed then I would see him again. He had hoped to return the following year. However, six months later, his brother informed me that James and his entire crew had perished in a storm off the coast of Lisbon. All I had left of him were several letters, his beautiful poem, and the memories of our time together that summer.”

  “When your Captain Weston died, you forsook everything he stood for, everything you both agreed was important in life. You consented to a marriage of convenience to a man of your father’s choosing.”

  She took a heaving breath. “And why not? James was dead, so why not marry whomever my father chose for me? If I could not have the man I loved, what difference did it make?”

  “Sir Lewis de Bourgh married you in good faith. He spent years trying his best to make you happy and gain your love. But your heart was as untouchable as if it had been frozen in ice. It could be that, in your own misguided way, you thought you were remaining true to Captain Weston by denying any feelings of affection for your husband. You went so far as to attempt to hold yourself back from loving your own daughter.”

  Every muscle in her face tensed as she struck her walking stick upon the floor. “You are speaking of things of which you can know nothing! How can you have any conception of how it felt for me to marry another man after having pledged my love to another? You cannot know what it was like to have had all the hopes and dreams of a life with the man you love shattered. It was all so unfair!”

  Mr. Graham leaned towards her. “Yes, life is often unfair. I cannot think it equitable that Sir Lewis de Bourgh was made to suffer through his loveless marriage because his wife refused to even attempt to care for him. It seems unjust that your daughter was raised with more loving care from her governesses and companion than she had ever received from her mother. And what of Darcy and Elizabeth? Why should they continue to be punished by you when their lone crime was that they fell in love? You have demonstrated a peculiar obstinacy in clinging to your resentment of Elizabeth. What is the explanation for this? Could it be because you are blinded by jealousy? Are you not envious of Elizabeth and Darcy for sharing a love reminiscent of the one you had for a fleeting time with Captain Weston?”

  Her eyes riveted upon Mr. Graham. Her mouth hung open, vacant and useless. She was in an unfamiliar position—that of not knowing what to say.

  He leaned forward a bit more and extended his arm then placed his hand atop hers. “If Captain James Weston could see you now, and as a matter of fact he can, what do you suppose he would think of your recent conduct towards the Darcys?”

  Lady Catherine took laboured breaths as a growing sense of turmoil took root within her. She met his intent gaze. “You do not mean—you cannot. I do not believe…”

  Mr. Graham closed his eyes. “Captain Weston is grieved that you believed guarding your heart was the best way to prove your loyalty. He would have rather seen you honour him by embracing your marriage to Mr. de Bourgh and attempting to be happy. He is gratified to see the new health and vitality displayed by your daughter, and he hopes you will support her in all her future endeavours. He is disheartened to see the actions you took against the Darcys. He recognises that they are a couple whose love burns with a bright flame, just as yours and his did.”

  Lady Catherine swayed in her seat as a dizziness came over her. Was Mr. Graham mad?

  “Captain Weston is anguished to have had so little time with you, and he looks forward to seeing you again in the afterlife. He is showing me a particular spot at your family’s estate: a small glade near a large oak tree with a view of the River Derwent where you and he often spent time together. Here, in this place, you will feel closest to him, and he urges you to return there. If you do, he will endeavour to give you a sign of his presence.” Mr. Graham opened his eyes and removed his hand from hers.

  It was impossible for him to know of that place unless… Had he truly communicated with James? Her hands pressed on her handkerchief, now folded into a neat, small square. On the corner of it, the initials “J W” had been embroidered in a close, ornate style.

  Mr. Graham’s eyes fell upon the handkerchief, and his facial muscles lost their tension. “I have given you much to contemplate, my lady. I shall leave you now.” Mr. Graham rose and gave her a pensive smile.

  “Mr. Graham.”

  “Yes?”

  She lifted the folded handkerchief and held it against her heart. “I thank you.”

  He gave her a reverent bow. “It was my great pleasure, my lady.”

  ***

  Bingley’s gaze lifted from the glass in his hand as that blond gentleman, Darcy’s friend Mr. Graham, entered the parlour. He stood and bowed. “Mr. Graham, as you can see, everyone else has retired. Would you care to join me in a glass of port?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bingley, I thank you. I do not mind if I do.” Mr. Graham poured himself a glass of port and settled into a seat near him. “I thank you for the invitation. When I saw you here alone, I was hesitant to intrude upon your solitude.”

  He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “No, no. I am glad for the company. You and I have not yet had the opportunity to get to know one another. I understand you were friends with Darcy at Cambridge. I attended there as well, but I believe you had already left by the time I arrived.”

  “You are several years younger than we are, so that makes sense. I settled in Italy when I left university.” Mr. Graham paused to take a sip from his glass. “Italy has a culture quite different from England. One big difference, for instance, is the view towards mistresses.”

  Bingley held his breath. The hand that had been raising his glass of tawny liquid to his lips froze and was afflicted by a slight tremor. He set the glass down in a hasty, jerking motion. “Oh?” His eyes darted towards the other man before he released the breath he had been holding. It seemed Mr. Graham had not noticed his reaction. Criminy! What was wrong with him?

  Mr. Graham stared into his glass. “I must say, this port is excellent. What was I speaking of? Oh yes. In Italy, men are open with regard to their mistresses, and the society places no stigma whatsoever on them, either for the mistress or the husband, while in England, if a man has a mistress, he is expected to show discretion. Notwithstanding, even in Italy, keeping a mistress opens one up to certain risks.”

  Bingley straightened his back and sat at the edge of his chair. “Risks? Of what do you speak?”

  “Besides the distinct risks of creating an unwanted child or contracting what the English like to call the French disease, a married gentleman who takes a mistress is bound to cause unhappiness and jealousy. I have known of several cases in which a wife killed her husband or his mistress in a fit of jealous rage, and there is no less
a risk of violence from the mistress.”

  Plagued with a discomforting heaviness in his stomach, Bingley released a forced, humourless laugh. The man had opted for a morbid subject of discussion—a damned odd choice of topic if you asked him. “Such extreme occurrences must be rare. I am certain I have not heard of any instances such as you described in recent memory, and yet countless gentlemen in England keep mistresses. I am inclined to believe the risk of such an event must be quite low.”

  With a grim twist to his mouth, Mr. Graham spoke in a solemn tone. “It happens more often than you might think. In the vast majority of these cases, the death is reported to have been from an illness or accident to save the families involved from scandal.”

  He rubbed his knuckles over his mouth. Mr. Graham’s words had the ring of truth. What family would allow such an occurrence to become public knowledge if they could prevent it? They would pay off any servants to keep them quiet and the truth would never be discovered. He rubbed at the back of his neck where beads of perspiration had accumulated. Why did Darcy keep it so blasted warm in this room? “What you have said has merit, but even so, I am certain any person who would commit murder must have already been known to have had a bad temper and to have been prone to violence.”

  “One might believe so, but in certain cases, the violence is not provoked until the person is faced with deception and betrayal from the one person in whom they have placed their love and trust. In such cases, their anger is often overshadowed by the tremendous anguish they feel.” Mr. Graham cocked his head and grew silent.

  What had drawn Mr. Graham’s interest? Bingley followed the blond man’s gaze, which fell upon his hands, folded in his lap.

  Mr. Graham leaned forward. “That is an unusual signet ring you have. May I see it?”