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I wanted, almost desperately, to run to my aunt. It would not be impossible; Perkins could, and probably would take me. And I knew with certainty that Mr Darcy would not come fetch me; he would never defend himself, whether he had done it or not. But would he explain himself if I stayed? Could I stay, if he had done this awful thing?
I was conscious of a growing distaste for Anne Darcy. I allowed that it might be based upon resentment that she had held Mr Darcy’s heart for so many years, even though their marriage had nothing to do with me. I was revolted by her bedchamber, her extravagance. I was disgusted by her mother’s every description of her opinions, her arrogance.
Was this mocking sort of Venus the wife Mr Darcy desired? My imagination grew lurid, picturing the passion that such a woman could inspire. Beautiful, wealthy, blue-blooded and confident, she had fascinated, perhaps captivated many. Had it tempted him to violence? Jealousy?
I looked out over the wild beauty before me. Pemberley sat atop it—unyielding, austere, majestic, and imposing. Much like Mr Darcy himself, for that matter. Those who served her were loyal to my husband. They needn’t have been, not really. I had known plenty of servants, and loyalty was not a byword. But it only meant he had treated them well; it did not prove guilt or innocence.
My heart rebelled. He was good to more than those who served him. I remembered his kindness to his sister, who plainly adored him. I thought of the times he had been so caring towards me, such as the journey to visit my aunt, undertaken simply to increase my happiness… Of his great tenderness in those dark and silent nights spent together, of his…love for me, even if he did not say the words or call it that himself. I remembered each of the few times I knew he had been angry; there had been little outward expressions of it—he kept most everything within, walled off, constrained. His control was a part of who he was, a defining characteristic. Perhaps this was why he had hied off to London, to avoid any confrontation? But now that my initial dismay at his sudden absence was past, I even doubted that. A man who was furious with his wife did not rub her back until she drifted off to sleep. He was upset that I had defied him, but I gave it even odds that it was mortification, rather than anger, motivating his feelings. Whatever he did in London now, it made perfect, logical sense in his man’s brain that he should do it, and do it immediately.
This was not a man who would explode in a rage, or who would give way to shame or temper. It was ludicrous to imagine him goaded or provoked into an unrestrained wrath. Which meant my choices were simple: either he had killed her in cold blood, or he had not killed her at all.
And I knew which of those choices I believed.
* * *
I took a different path down the mountainside than I had going up. I was not in a particular hurry to return indoors, and the exercise kept me warm enough. I was curious when this new path led me to a large cottage within a grove of trees. It had been a pretty thing once, with a spacious appearance—far too grand for a gamekeeper, but not quite large enough to be a dowager house. I could only surmise that it was some sort of hunting lodge, although it seemed oddly placed for such, and practically within sight of Pemberley, except for the trees surrounding it.
Another unusual thing about it was its forlorn appearance. All the outbuildings of Pemberley were in immaculate condition, but not this one. Weeds had taken over its lot, tiles were gone from the roof, a pane of glass was missing in one of the big front windows. Curious, I approached it, cautiously peering through the broken pane.
It was dirty within, with pine needles and other debris having blown inside, and possibly woodland creatures taking up residence as well. There was some furniture, knocked over and jumbled, its upholstery torn, as well as shattered knick-knacks and ruined paintings. I knew I was being fanciful, but it looked as if a madman had broken loose within, and I shivered, backing away from the sight.
And then I nearly jumped out of my skin when I backed into a solid figure behind me.
“Oh, excuse me!” I cried, startled, whirling to discover who else was trespassing upon this eerie scene.
It was Mr Williams, looking as I had never seen him appear before—his face hardened, or perhaps tortured. “You ought not to be here,” he said, and there was a coldness in his aspect I could hardly recognise.
“What is this place?”
“It is called Thorncroft,” he replied, still not looking at me, but at the wintry exterior of the ruined cottage.
“It is in terrible disrepair, but perhaps it could be refurbished,” I offered.
“No,” he said in an emotionless voice. “Better it decays in its own time, its own way. Let it die its own death.” He said it as though it were a curse he was repeating, a spell recited by firelight to frighten gullible youth.
This cottage—Thorncroft—had something to do with Anne Darcy; I cannot say how I knew this. Perhaps her ghost whispered it in my ear, because if ever a place was haunted, this was it. To test my theory, I said in a low voice, “Did you find her so very handsome, then?”
“Only the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he answered sharply. Suddenly he looked dangerous and cruel, the haunting seeping out of Thorncroft and into his eyes, and I thought, I am too far away from the house and no one would hear me if I screamed. And I could not run or move, like a rabbit trapped by a polecat, frozen in place by fear or fate.
But a bird screeched and he blinked, as if awakening. “You should leave this place now, Mrs Darcy,” he said, himself again, merely the shy and sad Mr Williams. “It is not kept up, and is unsafe for the curious.”
I turned and left, walking rapidly away, forcing myself not to break into a run. I glanced back only once, to see him still standing, staring at Thorncroft. And I wondered if I had the courage to face whatever secrets I had just stumbled onto, all unknowing.
* * *
I returned to the house and tried to write to my aunt. I had only written a few meaningless sentences though, when I found my attention wandering. I wanted to ask her whether she had heard of any scandal associated with my husband’s first marriage. If I were with her, in person, I certainly would have. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to put onto paper those rumours so upsetting to Mr Darcy; it would be as if I were participating in their spread.
The dignified Mrs Reynolds would never say anything ill of her former mistress; she managed a tightly disciplined household, and had admired the first Mrs Darcy. I could, probably, obtain information from Clara, who was young and artless. I recoiled from the thought of using her in such a way. My mother had exchanged gossip with her servants regularly; my aunt never did. I knew who had the better run establishment.
In the end, I simply wrote to my husband.
Dear Mr Darcy,
I cannot imagine why you departed Pemberley without so much as a farewell. I trust you believe such unkindness justified, for reasons I cannot comprehend.
I would apologise for my unauthorised shopping expedition, had you explained why you hate Hopewell, or why some therein hate you. In my ignorance, it seemed only an arbitrary refusal, having more to do with your own schedule and the demands upon your time, than any edict regarding the utter avoidance of the town. I did disobey, but I hope you do not believe it was a purposeful defiance. Or if it was, perhaps only a minor one. I would be lying if I said I was sorry; at the moment, I am more filled with vexation than gentler feelings.
I miss you. It is difficult for me to write that sentiment upon paper. However, I am determined to be honest.
