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She just stood there, staring at me, breathing hard. I wondered, in fact, whether I should do something more, for she looked as if she might topple over. However, even in her present state of distress, she would probably prefer dropping to the floor rather than accepting my assistance.
A maid and a footman, both a bit out of breath, appeared from doorways at the opposite ends of the room.
“Mrs de Bourgh requires assistance returning to her room,” I said, nodding at the footman.
“She forced me to come up here,” she croaked, wailing. “I told her it was too much, I was too ill. But she insisted. And then, all she cared to do was taunt me with my poor, dear dead daughter’s portraits. She threatens to burn them. My poor, poor, pretty girl.” Great tears dripped from her chin. “And then she spat at me. I will never call her ‘Mrs Darcy’. Never!”
“Please help Mrs de Bourgh,” I repeated calmly. “And do give her nurse a message from me—she must keep a closer eye upon her charge. She ought not to have been allowed to climb the stairs alone.”
The footman, John, tentatively approached the elderly lady, holding out his arm. For a moment she drew back, and I thought she would refuse it. Then, remembering she was supposed to be an injured party, she took it and slowly limped from the room. I turned to the maid, whose mouth was gaping.
“Martha, please clean up Mrs de Bourgh’s, er, emanation upon the floor,” I said, pointing to the mess at my foot with a raised brow.
I saw her face clear as she realised just who had spat upon whom. Mrs de Bourgh had overplayed her hand. Again. “And ask Mrs Reynolds to come upstairs when you have finished, please.”
Upon her departure, I took a somewhat shaky breath. Had she truly believed I could allow her to remain at Pemberley? Or was Mrs de Bourgh not quite so much the invalid as her appearance indicated? Had she slipped away from her attendants to recommence her visits to her daughter’s rooms? Had seeing them stripped bare set off even darker impulses?
Sighing, I abandoned contemplation of the problem of Mrs de Bourgh in favour of a different matter entirely. Walking the length of the room, the dressing room, the sitting room, then through the same set of rooms on Mr Darcy’s side, I considered them all carefully. I also looked in on all the rooms on the wing’s other side, to which I had paid little attention in the past. By the time Mrs Reynolds joined me, I had the beginnings of an idea.
“Mistress, Martha told me what has happened here. I am so sorry. I had no idea the old lady was strong enough to dress, even. Her nurse says she only dozed off for a few minutes and her patient was gone when she awakened.”
“Hmm. Did she ring for assistance in finding her patient?”
“She did not, ma’am.” I could tell by her tone that she, like me, was not overly impressed with the nurse’s performance. “I have stationed John in her corridor and will ensure, henceforth, someone is always there.”
“Very good. I was looking at her daughter’s portraits before she entered,” I said, gesturing at the pictures. “I am afraid the sight of them reminded her of all she has lost.”
“Perhaps, but it is kind of you to say so, mistress, after her treatment of you.”
“She is elderly and ill,” I replied, which was true—but I was also fairly certain her grief had evolved to the worst kind of bitterness, and well before she had injured herself. “I cannot decide whether these portraits are better hung in Mrs de Bourgh’s rooms, or if it would only exacerbate her, er, condition.”
Mrs Reynolds looked pained. “I asked the master, ma’am, when you were away, what he would like me to do with them when we cleared these rooms.” She hesitated.
“What did he reply?” I asked, curious.
“He said to put them anywhere I liked, as long as he never had to see them again. I am afraid the attics are too damp. I know they were painted by masters, costing ever so.”
I came to a decision then. Normally, I would not share any such personal details, but the housekeeper had long since proven her devotion to Mr Darcy. “Mrs Reynolds, I tell you something now in the strictest confidence, something I am not sure Mr Darcy would care for you to know. His first marriage was terribly unhappy, for him at least. I suppose that the reasons for that no longer matter but you advised me once of your opinion that Mr Darcy is a good man. I would say he is the best of men, and has borne much while attempting to…”
I stumbled to an awkward halt, my throat closing at the thought of the pain he had endured for so long. She placed a gentle hand upon my arm.
“I understand,” she said. “The master had been so…quiet, for so long, I simply grew to think it was his way. I always thought him content, until he brought you home and I saw what happiness looked like on him. And then, while you were gone visiting your aunt, he grew sombre again so quickly, and I knew, somehow, you took his happiness with you.”
I smiled at her, for it seemed to me he was always a quiet man—how much more silent could he have been? “He did not want me to be affected by the gossip,” I explained. “He thought removing me to my aunt’s would protect me from it. I insisted upon returning, but he worries, still. Lord Cavendish will be home within a few weeks, and I believe he fears a siege once the coroner’s inquisition begins.”
“I cannot believe it. I have heard the silly rumours, but surely not an inquest? They would not dare question Mr Darcy of Pemberley!”
“An inquest would reveal nothing,” I said, “because he has done nothing wrong. He is no murderer. There is no evidence. He cannot be held accountable simply because no one has any better idea of who harmed poor Miss Bingley.” I took a deep breath. I had not called the woman upstairs to alarm her but rather because I wished to speak of my ideas to someone who loved Pemberley as Mr Darcy did, and as I was beginning to.
“I will not fret about the future. I wanted to speak to you of a different matter entirely, regarding refurbishing these rooms. I have a design in mind, but we will need architectural assistance and a good builder in order to make some major alterations here. It is long past time, I think, for change.”
As I revealed my ideas for this wing, and as I saw her dawning excitement at my account of them, I was encouraged to be excited as well. Perhaps Mr Darcy would also approve, and the work of change and renewal could transform even this hated scene of too many awful memories.
But to this day, a small, superstitious part of my nature wonders whether the very act of speaking of such plans and future hopes within the self-same spaces once presided over by Anne de Bourgh Darcy caused more trouble, after all.
* * *
Lady Day came and went, with no Lord Cavendish—sending a clear signal, I hoped, that he was in no hurry to act on the matter of poor Miss Bingley. Nevertheless, the reprieve could not be extended indefinitely, and he presented himself at Pemberley shortly after Easter. It was a surprise to find myself a participant in the conversation between he and Mr Darcy. I had been writing letters in the library, my favoured room, while my husband worked quietly at his desk. We often spent afternoons thus occupied, after he and his secretary or Mr Williams were finished for the day. Once every so often, Mr Darcy would say, “Listen to this,” and proceed to read me a portion of some treatise or article he found interesting—be it agricultural, trade, or politics. He never assumed I would not understand, nor hesitated to answer my questions if I did not. It was my favourite time of day, and I resented the interruption when Morton brought a visitor’s card to Mr Darcy.
