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Chapter Twenty-Five
Estate business almost immediately called Mr Darcy away. Mr Williams greeted me in his usual kindly, shy manner, but it was the response of the servants which pleased me most. Almost every one of them managed to take time to greet me during the day, and Mrs Reynolds was nearly beside herself with what seemed like gladness. Nothing would do but that she send someone to fetch Clara, change the menu to my favourites, and continually ask what else she could do for my comfort.
Clara, too, once she arrived, was nearly as gleeful to be returned.
“I apologise for the lack of notice,” I said to her. “I told Mrs Reynolds tomorrow or the next day would be soon enough.”
“Don’t mind it a bit,” Clara replied firmly. “I like my family, but I was beginning to worry you might never return, and then what would I do? This is the best place I’ve ever had.” And then she took great pains over my hair, until it looked better than it had in weeks.
“I have missed you, Clara,” I said, peering at my reflection with a happy sigh.
One person, of course, was not part of my welcoming committee. Steeling myself, I tapped on the door of Mrs de Bourgh’s sitting room. Mr Donavan, thankfully, was not there, but instead the solemn, pinched-face nurse; she looked as displeased at the interruption as he ever had.
“Mrs de Bourgh is having a bad spell today,” she said. “It is not advisable that she be disturbed.”
Especially by you, her look seemed to add. I did not take it for cowardice that I merely shrugged and left. I was too happy to be home to allow anyone’s hatefulness to intrude.
The keys Mr Darcy had given me before he departed with Mr Williams demanded my attention. After leaving Mrs de Bourgh’s rooms, I made my way to the nearest staircase leading to the cliffside wing’s upper floor.
On my first visit to these ‘hallowed halls’, it had appeared as though Anne de Bourgh Darcy was only away, and all was kept in readiness for her return. On my next, the dead flowers and eerie draughtiness made it seem the perfect rooms for a ghost.
This time, it was merely empty. Mrs Reynolds and her workers had cleared everything from the former Mrs Darcy’s rooms; not a stick of furniture remained, neither console nor clothespress. The hand-wrought crystals of the massive chandelier at its centre still tinkled softly upon an invisible breeze, but the mirrors had all been removed.
While they had not touched Mr Darcy’s furnishings, I decided I would have those removed as well. Perhaps he would like to retain the picture of the dog, but I could not imagine him wishing for any of the rest of it. How had she felt, stealing into these rooms, leaving behind one of her handkerchiefs or a ribbon in the game of pretend she had maintained for so long? Taunting and triumphant, or despairing and depressed? What perceptions had driven her upon such a course? I wondered, even, if her love for Wickham had been at the root of it all, if he had taught her, too young, to tread such a miserable path.
No, there were too many terrible memories contained within these rooms, and they all required a completely new purpose. I returned to Anne’s bedchamber, shivering a little at the chill, trying to see it with new eyes. The drapes were closed, preventing any of the March sun from reaching within, and cloaking the room in gloom. I pulled them back and sunlight flooded in.
That was when I noticed a set of gold velvet draperies covering one wall, against which the enormous carved wooden bedstead had once been positioned. Walking forward, I pulled them aside.
A set of three outsized portraits in expensive gilded frames hung behind them. In one, a pretty girl of perhaps twelve years stood beside an impressive-looking stallion. Her eyes were bright, her expression intelligent. The second was a much larger version of the miniature I had seen in Lady Matlock’s possession, a ravishingly beautiful woman with golden hair and adorned in diamonds, wearing wedding clothes. The third must have been painted not long before her death. Still beautiful, even stunningly so, the artist had captured her sultry expression, a certain knowledge of her own feminine powers. Nothing in any of the portraits revealed a hint of the character Mr Darcy had sketched. With a sigh, I walked out onto the terrace that my husband hated.
The view was beautiful, even on this grey and gloomy day. The magnificent sky above, the sprawling valley below, all that was pleasing to the eye and heart dwelt here in one breath-taking prospect. Giving way to temptation, I moved closer to the low wall, where the bold Anne de Bourgh had loved to sit perched over its edge, heedless of peril. Or was she courting danger, the thrill of it, the only way her cold heart could feel alive?
To this day, I do not know what instinct made me suddenly turn. But there was Mrs de Bourgh, closer than I could have imagined; although leaning heavily upon a stout cane, she had made no noise in her approach.
“You were looking at her, were you not? Pretending you were her. Wishing you were her. I cannot blame you for that. She was the envy of every woman.”
She had lost at least three stone, and a bandage covered one side of her face; what skin was visible was pinched and sallow. The nurse had not been lying to me—her patient looked very ill indeed.
“Mrs de Bourgh! You ought to be abed,” I said, surprised. “You are ill.”
“I am well enough. I have come to a decision. You are not to be blamed for attempting to take her place. You did not know, when you wed, the impossibility,” she rasped regally. “I am too old to change easily. I shall live out my days at Pemberley, as few as they are likely to be. It is where I am closest to her. I must remain and mourn her, here.”
Well. This ‘offer’ was somewhat astonishing. Her version of an olive branch, I supposed. Looking at her, scarred and sickly, my heart filled with pity. The part of my soul that was wearied to death of conflict wanted to accept it.
“I am sorry for you, and for your sorrow,” I said, knowing my sympathy was unwanted. I walked past her and back through the door I had left open, into Anne’s former bedchamber, hoping it would encourage her to come in out of the cold. “I hope you will understand that I bear you no ill will when I say that I feel your departure is best for your welfare as well as ours. I also hope you will take your daughter’s portraits with you when you are well enough to travel, that they might always bring you comfort.”
Her one good eye narrowed as she followed me. “You believe you can erase her from Pemberley just as you removed her belongings, her pretty things, her slippers and her dresses. But she is still here! She made Pemberley the grand home it ought to be, and it needs her, yearns for her! Though every servant in the place calls you by her name, you will never be Mrs Darcy!”
I sighed. “Mrs de Bourgh, you have admitted her unhappiness in her marriage to Mr Darcy. Why would you wish her to remain here, the scenes of such despair? If she hated him, why do you not take her back? Return her to her childhood home, where she was once happy and free.”
“Pemberley was hers,” she hissed. “Pemberley was everything. Even Mr Darcy understood it before he grew so foolish and weak. Pemberley was the prize, and it belonged to her! It belongs to her, still! She made it what it is, and she is Pemberley!”
I swallowed another sigh. “I am Mrs Darcy at the moment, but a century from now, God willing, there will be a different Mrs Darcy caring for it. We are none of us Pemberley, and Pemberley is not us. We Mrs Darcys must stand upon our own lives and loves, our own aspirations and accomplishments, just as Pemberley stands upon its foundations. Without those things, I am as empty as these rooms. I hope, most sincerely, that your daughter will be remembered fully by those who loved her, and not merely as the mistress of a house, however grand.”
For a moment, uncertainty crossed her expression, as if a part of her mind could see the sense in what I said. But it was quickly gone. And swiftly, before I could step away, she spat at me, a glob of spittle just missing my boot.
I rolled my eyes. “A childish display that changes nothing. I will call for someone to assist you in returning to your rooms. You should not be out of bed.” Matching words to action, I tugged on a nearby bell rope.
