Page 73 of Nameless

“She had broken something. I saw she was lying at an awkward, unnatural angle on the ground beneath the ledge.”

I shuddered at the image. “An accident then. But definitely not your fault.”

He sighed. “I secured the rope ladder, then climbed down to her as quickly as I could. She was still conscious. ‘I made the landing,’ she whispered. ‘I tried to climb back up again, though, and slipped, missing the ledge. I cannot move my legs, or feel them. Please, if you have one ounce of pity in your soul, push me the rest of the way over the cliff and finish the job.’ I noticed then, how she had raked the dirt, trying to gain traction enough to do it herself. But she was a good four feet from the edge, and she hadn’t the strength.”

I looked up at him. “Did you do it? Help her finish her suicide?”

“No,” he said gravely. “I assured her I would get help. I climbed up the rope ladder as fast as I could, hurrying to the stables to have Frost fetch the doctor. I nearly ran headlong into Richard, and told him, very briefly, what had occurred, and sent him to wait with her. Then I searched the stables for more rope, and something that would work as a makeshift litter, and hurried back with Frost’s son. When we reached the terrace, I looked over the edge. There was no sign of Richard. There was no sign of Anne. I swiftly climbed back down the rope, peered over the cliff’s ledge, and saw her broken body below.”

“You believe he ended her,” I said, rather unnecessarily.

“One of the many sordid confessions she threw at me in that final row was how she abused poor Richard, exploiting his love for her to make his life a misery. He resisted her—he never did anything adulterous, she claimed—but he is shy and awkward with women, and she, apparently, would repeatedly express to him, with great longing, how much she wished she was married to him instead of me, how unhappy she was with me. She laughed at the tears he’d shed over her, telling me that his pain was nearly as good as a whipping for her enjoyment.”

“Oh. That is sickening,” I said.

“He did not return to Pemberley for over a week. I am certain he was quite helpless against her orders. I never told a soul he might have been there.”

“What did you tell the doctor when he arrived?”

He shook his head. “Old Mr Simpson was quite elderly. He never climbed down the rope ladder to examine the grounds. As it was, I could easily see the slight indentations where she had fallen, and the scratches in the earth showing where she had futilely tried to move herself. There were no indications that she had been able to get any further, but some of the scrub was bent or broken, a sign perhaps she had been dragged.”

I found that puzzling. “But, did you not just admit he was wildly in love with her? He seems quite strong enough to have picked her up. I beg pardon if I sound harsh, but dragging her body to the edge and a solid push is hardly the romantic work of a lover.”

“Perhaps he only moved her closer, and I am mistaken in how. Perhaps she found the strength to push herself the rest of the way, once he helped her gain the edge. Either way, I know it haunts him. I cannot think how to make it better for him—if he truly loved her, would he appreciate knowing she was unworthy of it? Or would he believe it jealousy on my part? Is it cruel to ruin his image of her?”

“How could it be? He could not have loved her, not truly. He did not know her, only the façade she presented to him. Perhaps it happened the way you believe—but you must talk to him. You said Wickham was in the area. Perhaps he was responsible, and Mr Williams arrived too late. He may have been infatuated with the idea of her, but I gained from him the distinct impression he believes you to be responsible for her death. I cannot be certain, of course.”

“I am responsible for it. If I had taken two minutes to lean over the balustrade and tell her I would be back with a rope, she might never have taken the risk of attempting an ascent without one. She would be alive today. Even if I had managed to return with a litter and get her to the house, she was horribly injured. Her life, as she knew it, was over, if she could even survive. My fault.”

“I fervently disagree. No one told her to purposely fall in the first place, or endeavour to climb back up alone. Those were her decisions, made in anger, as the most senseless choices always are. Did you hear her calling for you to help her? I would lay money you did not, or you would have.”

“No. But cannot you think it better to let sleeping dogs lie?”

“As much as I hate to remind you, the dogs growl and bark now rather than nap. Did you tell Mr Simpson the whole truth?”

“Yes, excepting Richard’s part. I told both Simpson and Cavendish that she somehow must have pushed herself the rest of the way. I swore them both to secrecy, for I did not want her death to be thought a suicide. I pleaded with them to regard the whole thing as a stupid accident, since there was no assurance she would have survived, even had she not fallen further. I begged them to say nothing regarding the details of her death. I wanted her to have a Christian burial.”

My thoughts on what good a Christian burial would do for a woman who had lived an amoral life filled with hatred and destruction, I kept to myself.

“And now Lord Cavendish wishes to be released from his vow, and clear your reputation by revealing hers, up to and including her supposed ‘accidental suicide’. Would that be so terrible?”

“Then she lives on,” he said, arising to lean against the chimneypiece and stare into the flames. “Scandal and gossip will thrive on the new tales, growing to legendary proportions, as talk surrounding the too-early deaths of fascinating, wicked, and beautiful people always does. And even more of them will believe I killed her, only now they will assume they know why. I just want her to stay dead. Is it too much to ask, I wonder?”

“Perhaps, as long as her death is shrouded in mystery, it will continue to inspire as much talk as the truth ever could. Surely the inquest would necessitate the truth’s revelation, vow or no vow.”

He just stood there, his tension returning. I understood more now, why he had hoped for it all to remain in the past, why he had so stubbornly clung to his silence. I waited, letting him ponder the myriad lies, confusion, mystery, and horror of it all. It was a lot, I could admit. At last, he sat again, but hunched forward, elbows on knees, head in hands—a desolate pose.

“All, now, is exactly what she would have wanted,” I said gently, coasting my fingers across the thin fabric of his nightshirt, tracing the little pucker of his scar. “People talking about her, wondering about her, remembering her. Perhaps they always will. But they also talk of you, still spreading her poison, and casting your honour into doubt. If Lord Cavendish can clear it, we ought to let him try, I think. But I will stand beside you, and proudly, whatever you decide.”

Sighing, he again took me into his arms, leaning back against the settee. “I cannot bear for you to be hurt by my stupid mistakes. I promise you that I sincerely believed it would all just fade, with a bit of time. Perhaps, had I waited to remarry, it might have. But I was selfish.”

“I am happy we married when we did. With all that has occurred since, you might have thought you never should pursue remarriage. That would be the true tragedy.”

He leant down and kissed my forehead. “Pemberley’s people stay loyal, because I pay them well. The rest? It is as though the first nine and twenty years of my life did not exist, for all the world trusts in my integrity since my first marriage. And now the countryside takes it out upon you, the one most deserving of their respect.”

“Pemberley stays loyal because they have had the best and most opportunity to know you as the good man you are. Your tenants respect you, and treat both of us well. I realise we have a vocal few in Hopewell who have taken a dissenting opinion, and perhaps detractors amongst Anne’s friends in the country and London. If you are not ready to release Lord Cavendish from his promise, will you, at least, speak with Mr Williams? If he had a part in her death, perhaps he would benefit from your understanding.”

For long moments, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.

“As I have benefited from yours,” he said at last. “I will do it. I will speak to him.”

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