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“I know you understand my preference that you keep away from it,” he said, in a rough tone which raised my hackles.
“You are an unlucky husband,” I snapped, struggling to a sitting position. “Your first wife was a sordid murderess, and your second—why, ’tis even worse! She insists upon entering any room in her home, at any time she wishes!”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted how quickly I had turned from patience and comfort to snappish vexation. But before I could apologise, he flopped back down onto the mattress and drew me into his arms, sighing, his large hand smoothing up and down my stiff spine, his hold comforting instead of his previous frantic embrace.
“I am a great trial to you, am I not?” he asked.
“For as long as we both shall live,” I agreed acerbically.
“I am sorry, my darling,” he said. “Even now, I have not yet accommodated Miss Bingley’s death in my mind. I knew my marriage was a bad one. I knew we were in every way unsuited. I thought I understood all the mistakes for which I was responsible. And yet, it appears I have barely scratched the surface.”
I wanted to tell him to let it go, let her go. But of course, the past could no more stay buried than poor Miss Bingley. It all must be resolved. Somehow.
I tucked my head beneath his chin, feeling his fingers stroking through my hair, revelling in his return to my side. I would not lose him to my impatience, or to Anne’s sins. “This is the proper moment for me to offer just the right words of solace and relief. If you could, perhaps, pretend to have heard them?”
He brushed his thumb along my cheek. “Your very presence does it,” he said. “I know I am the most fortunate of men in my second marriage. You…you understand I realise it, do you not?”
It was hardly a burning declaration of love, but its simple, awkward sentiment touched me regardless.
“I want to go home,” I whispered. “And I want it to be our home. I…I hate feeling as if she owns part of it, even still.” And part of your soul, I thought but did not say.
“You heard Martin. There is talk. Talk about Miss Bingley now, as well as Anne. In Hopewell I was labelled abusive before, but I am henceforth to be branded the murderous Darcy. If you support me, if you stay beside me, you shall be dragged into it. The cartoonists in London have already begun to sell their work. When Lord Cavendish returns, he will not be able to avoid a public inquest, much as he would rather not. He is delaying, I am certain, hoping if he misses addressing it at the next quarter-day, it will fade away. It will not, and all my wealth will not protect me. Or you.”
I felt the tension in him as he tried, with all his gentleman’s heart, to convince me of my greater comfort and safety if I stayed in Lambton. As he pleaded with me to do the very opposite of what I knew he wanted, I smoothed my hand across the hard planes of his chest. “I am your wife,” I said at last. “I wish to go home.”
There was a long silence. He did not answer. I thought he had fallen asleep, and I nearly had.
“I know the rooms on that floor must be redone,” he said into the night’s darkness. “I would rather not live in them again, though. I do not believe its terrace to be safe, and hope you would stay off of it. If it would not ruin its architectural beauty, I would wall it off entirely. But I will give you every key I have. Tomorrow. When we arrive…home. Together.”
And somehow, despite murderous mysteries, refused revelations, and a foggy future, I found a sleepy smile as I dropped quickly into dreams.
* * *
Late the next morning, I bid my aunt, my niece and nephews, and Mr Martin a fond farewell and boarded a comfortable carriage the latter had somehow produced. My husband said little, and I wondered if he regretted his decision allowing my return to Pemberley. I refused to think of it.
“This carriage is unusually fine,” I remarked into the silence, only the sound of wheels against road and the horses’ hooves between us.
He glanced around as if only just noticing it. “’Tis Martin’s own,” he muttered.
“Ah,” I said. “He certainly prospers, if he can afford such a vehicle.”
For the first time that morning, he unbent a little. “I did not think Mrs Gardiner would be long in guessing his ruse, but he wrote to me when she did. It lasted longer than I thought it would. He said you guessed immediately he was no pockets-to-let.”
“My aunt was grieving and distracted. And I only guessed in part. I did not expect such a person to patch roofs. Is he in love with her, do you think?”
He looked mildly alarmed, and I laughed. “Very well, I shall not question you. I would not blame him if he is, for she is the very best of women. I hope he is prepared for patience if so, however, for she is hardly done grieving. If you had ever seen my uncle and aunt together…” A wave of the sorrow which at times so easily beset me stopped my words.
Reaching over, he took my gloved hand in his. “I never met your uncle in person, but by all accounts, he was a fine man, and he was certainly a wise and gifted businessman. I do not know Martin’s feelings, but he is a much more cheerful fellow than the man I approached a year ago for advice upon hiring workers in Lambton. I could not have dreamt his solution, but I was pleased to see him take an interest in anything at all. He was so lost when his wife died.”
“I hope neither is hurt, but I shall not worry overmuch. They are both of them happier together than they were alone. But will his lands suffer without him?”
Mr Darcy told me of Martin’s very competent bachelor nephew, who had been entrusted with the extensive farming operations while his twenty-year-old son continued to expand his knowledge and experience with Matlock’s stewards. He also spoke of the other tenants, some of whom were newer but many of whom had been with him for generations. They were not all as prosperous as the Martins, who were educated and affluent, but his goal was that all those who desired to prosper, might.
Unfortunately, as we began the twists and turns that marked the mountain road to Pemberley, I felt the change in atmosphere between us. Distraction would not work, I knew. It was better to broach the subject directly.
“When Lord Cavendish returns, what do you expect him to do? Will he take your part?”
“He will wish to, but he, too, understands what Peterloo meant. Gone are the days when a man with wealth enough might do as he pleases without repercussion, whatever my learned friends in the House of Lords believe. Especially as far north as we are, one cannot make enemies of everyone simply because one wishes to protect a friend.”
