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Chapter Six
Once she was gone, I breathed a sigh of relief. Some people, I believe, have gifts of darkness, just as some are charming or pretty. Their darkness pervades the rooms they inhabit, the people they associate with, and, even the air they breathe. Mrs de Bourgh had polluted my rooms and, it seemed likely, all of Pemberley. Had it begun with her grief? Or had she always been melancholy?
I went to the nearest window, unlatching it so that the breezes might sweep my chamber, and took a deep breath, drawing in its cleansing chill. This room did, indeed, give one the feeling of living in a forest glade—if a rather gloomy one. Unlike the sitting room, this chamber was decorated in a spare style, very masculine, with dark drapery and heavy furniture, but I did not mind. I was perfectly capable of decorating my own rooms.
I contemplated the problem of Mrs de Bourgh. Mrs Reynolds was afraid of her, and yet clearly respected her as well. I wondered who, truly, had been mistress of Pemberley. Had it been Anne Darcy? Or her mother? Or, perhaps it was as she claimed—they had done it together, a perfect, united front. I heard sounds coming from the next chamber, the murmured voices of Mr Darcy and his man. It had been only an hour or so since we last parted, so his business with the steward had not been lengthy. Or had it only been an excuse? I waited until I was sure Mr Darcy was alone, and then tapped on the connecting door. He opened it immediately, as if he had been standing just beyond it. Waiting.
I opened my mouth to tell him that it would not do—that Mrs de Bourgh and I could never happily share a house, that it was a recipe for disaster and a mistake of monumental proportions to even try. But he dove for my mouth, stopping me, stopping my words, an impatient, greedy kiss that caught me completely unprepared.
I might have ended it as he walked me backwards towards my bed. Though he gave me little chance to take a breath, he never used his greater strength to overpower me, and there was always a choice. But there was something desperate, even reckless about him now. Why was his homecoming not a happy one? What ghosts did he confront here? Were the wounds of his wife’s death gnawing at him? I had no answers, but one thing was certain—this was a man in urgent need of relief from some burden.
He had come to me, to his wife, hoping to find it.
I gave, withholding nothing, while birdsong floated in upon the draughts of weak sunlight. I clutched him to me, feeling the hard muscles of his back and arms, the vitality of his man’s body, the might and potency of his loving, marvelling at his need for me despite his power. It was as mystifying as it was exhilarating. But I wondered at it, too, and at his need. He held all the cards—to use a gambling metaphor which Lady Matlock would have despised—and yet, he could not have all to be as he wished; no amount of command would return his wife to him. How much had he convinced himself that coming back here with me would make a difference?
We lay sprawled in the aftermath in a patch of sunlight while our breath returned to normal. We had not even fully undressed, nor were we beneath the coverlet, and the room was cold. I could almost feel when he came back to himself—and his desire to escape, now that he had his release. But I was not a receptacle for unwanted feelings, to be discarded once they were discharged.
I propped myself up on one elbow, playing with the fabric edge of his ruined cravat. “Dare leave me now, and I shall order Cook to serve us naught but oysters for a month. You shall waste away to nothing.”
He relaxed a little onto the pillows, meeting my eyes. “But you would suffer as well in such a punishment.”
“You forget, I have a detailed knowledge of your aunt’s potions and possets. I am certain there are curatives, even for starvation.”
“I have heard that oysters increase one’s, er, manly stamina,” he pointed out, a slight grin lightening his expression.
“Do they really? Well, you certainly do not miss them in your diet.” I touched his face. “You need not stay long. Just…long enough.”
He pulled me close, loosening the restrictions of clothing that he could reach. And then he held me while the sunlight faded, not talking, both of us taking comfort in the touch.
* * *
After much consideration, I decided not to mention my troubles with Mrs de Bourgh to my husband. At least not as a first step. For one thing, he could—and reasonably so—accuse me of failing to put any effort into a peaceful resolution. Secondly, until I put in such effort, expelling her could make acceptance into the community difficult, giving me a reputation for pettiness and jealousy. I had no idea how popular she was, but I must give the neighbourhood an opportunity to know me without a cloud of hostility preceding my introduction. It was possible that she would try and ruin my standing, but it was equally possible that she would decide further battle ill-considered. Thirdly, my pride protested, as though I required Mr Darcy to conquer all my difficulties for me.
Compassion for her sorrows was in there somewhere; I am too self-sufficient to completely empathise, but I am not cold. I understand grief. I have never lost a child, but I have lost both parents, a sister, my uncle, and everything I have ever known and called home, twice. Especially do I understand the anger that comes with loss, the temptation to shake a fist at God, the contempt for well-meaning platitudes and envy of others whose miracles I was never granted. Oh, yes, I do understand those sentiments. But when one encounters stinging nettles, one does not roll naked amongst them. Relief is seldom found by drowning in bitterness.
In her position, I should not have begun a confrontation on my first day, although I might have privately mocked the new Mrs Darcy’s taste in fabrics—especially since I presented such a perfect target for derision. Of course, in her position, I would have demanded Mr Darcy find me a house elsewhere. And she still might. One could only hope.
I began the very next morning after breakfast by asking Mrs Reynolds to show me the house. Mr Darcy would have done it, and I certainly would have preferred his company. But it was important to begin building a connexion with the housekeeper. Mrs Reynolds, he said, had been with the family since he was a small child. Her deepest loyalties ought to be with my husband. Despite her discomfort at being caught amidst the friction between me and Mrs de Bourgh, and unless the family had treated her ill, she would possess a moral code requiring her first loyalty to be to him and thus, me.
I followed her into a magnificent dining-parlour—we had dined in a much smaller one the night before. It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up, with beautiful prospects from every window. “This is the cliffside wing,” she explained.
The house was built in a sort of modified ‘L’ shape, or perhaps a backwards-block style ‘J’. The cliffside wing to the west took up one half of the long, straight edge; the eastern wing, extending nearly to Pemberley Woods, held most of the home’s square footage, the new family apartments being located within the annexe of the ‘J’. I had walked through that section of the house, simply taking its measure—a dizzying number of rooms. But I was eager to see the rest.
From here I could see the cliff’s edge, from which we had ascended yesterday, receiving increased abruptness from the distance. The windows showed a magnificent vista of mountain peaks, rugged boulders, and trees clinging perilously to their serrated edges. As I passed into other rooms, these objects were taking different positions—but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The ballroom was the pièce de résistance, its windows large and staring out into the vastness of a mountain valley. I think I even gasped, because Mrs Reynolds smiled knowingly.
“It is something, isn’t it?” she said. “Mrs Darcy wished to add a terrace on that side, and change the window sashes so they could be raised from the bottom, creating doors leading onto it. The master refused, because balls are always at night, aren’t they? Not much of a view, and a danger, it being so close to the cliff’s rim—though there is a small hidden door leading out onto its edge, for he let her have the view, at least for herself. He seldom denied her much.” She sighed, obvious sorrow in her tone. “’Tis cool in the evenings up here, even in summer. So, the upper and lower sashes are fixed, but the middle can be raised to allow breezes in by these levers. And of course, there is a full terrace on the other side, more inland and facing the gardens, if not connected directly to the ballroom.”
I could only stare. Besides the immense windows, the ballroom was all whites and golds, with three enormous, magnificent crystal chandeliers. Even though the space was frigid now, I could well imagine it lit brightly, instruments playing, dancing in the arms of Mr Darcy. The one dance we had shared, so many years ago at Netherfield, was spoiled by the memory of my stupid anger. Of course, the next time I would insist upon a waltz, and…
My reverie was spoiled by a sudden blast of wind, so violent that the chandelier directly above me rocked wildly, the pendeloques and prisms crashing against each other in a glassy scream. My sudden harsh intake of breath was covered, however, by Mrs Reynolds’s remarks.
“Goodness me, I wonder who lowered the sash on this one! Well, it’s a good thing we looked in today. It’s a miracle no rain got in.” She walked to a set of levers and set about closing it, while I wondered how we had avoided a drenching. The rain beat against its panes now that it was closed.
The other rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of the Darcys. But I saw, with admiration of its tastefulness, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine—with less of splendour and more real elegance than the décor of Matlock Court. Was this the work of Anne Darcy? Or of prior generations? I asked one who was certain to know the answer.
Mrs Reynolds appeared startled by my easy introduction of the topic of my predecessor. She was cautiously willing to speak.
“Many of the rooms are just as they were in old Mr Darcy’s time, ma’am,” she answered. “The hall, the gallery, and all the rooms we show are just as they have always been. Young Mrs Darcy redecorated the cliffside wing—her rooms, its dining parlours and the ballroom. Much of the furniture she recovered from the attics and had refurbished. She had a wonderful eye, and could tell just how the place would look when she was finished. ‘Reynolds,’ she would say, ‘you do not believe me now, since I have caused such destruction in your realm, but you will see I was right to do it. And you will, at some future date, admit it is so. See if you do not.’ And she always was…I always did.” Mrs Reynolds stopped talking suddenly, as if fearing she had said too much, too enthusiastically. I hastened to reassure her, though the ‘young Mrs Darcy’ was a bit of a sting. Surely we could not be too far apart in age.
