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Chapter Thirty
Lord Cavendish announced ‘a formal coroner’s inquiry into the death of Miss Caroline Bingley’ would be held the next quarter-day, the twenty-fourth of June, and hied himself and Lady Cavendish back to London.
I shoved any worries about the situation to the back of my mind. Not only was there a lack of hard evidence, but neighbourhood opinion seemed to be tipping in our favour. Old Mr Davis, the linen draper who had been so impolite upon our first meeting, now treated me (and my purchases, it should be noted) with great courtesy, and others followed suit. I did not look upon it as bribery—Pemberley would never pay more than she should have to pay for goods and services. But she would pay fairly, and between a flourishing trade with Hopewell, new connexions with leading citizens, and London gossip having moved on to much newer scandals—well, no one was particularly pressing to have my husband hauled off to the stocks, so to speak. Seeing Mr Darcy at the Cavendish ball had reminded everyone who he really was, making print shop caricatures and anonymous broadsheets seem utterly ridiculous.
Bingley and Georgiana stayed for a month, and during that time, Georgiana shyly confided that they were fairly certain of ‘a happy event’ before Christmas. I was so delighted for her, and Bingley was over the moon with happiness. Mr Darcy was very pleased as well, of course, and did not seem to feel any anxiety because we had not yet been likewise blessed.
“I am quite happy to have you all to myself for the rest of my days,” he assured me when I quizzed him on the subject again. “Or, it will happen when it happens. It took them three years, when we have not even had one yet.”
I decided never to tell him of the long period of abstinence his friend had endured. His keen conscience would only feel somewhat to blame.
I received the bulky package by express, in the late afternoon approximately two weeks after the Cavendish ball. Since that event, I had been inundated with callers, invitations, and the accompanying duties of a hostess. Almost, I missed the quiet days of my first months at Pemberley, where most of my time was my own. However, I had made some promising friendships during these weeks, of both older and younger matrons of Derbyshire society, so I did not regret it. Still, neither did I regret that most would be following Lord and Lady Cavendish to London this week to finish the Season, for I required time for what I had privately named ‘The Great Project’.
It was, of course, impossible that I proceed without Mr Darcy’s full cooperation and authority, but I wished to at least have drawings done which faithfully represented the pictures in my mind’s eye. This was made easier due to the school building which—thanks to Lady Cavendish—had expanded in size and scope, and, as Lord Cavendish would say, folderol.
Mr Darcy looked up from his desk as I accepted the package. “The final drawings of the school?” he asked.
“Unquestionably,” I replied, walking to his desk. “And something else besides.”
My husband believed that the distinguished architect Mr Jeffry Wyatt had agreed to design the school due to Lady Cavendish’s influence, which was true, insofar as it went. But the allure of devising alterations to Pemberley was the true motive inspiring his charitable impulses, and when meeting with him, Lady Cavendish and I had managed to discreetly bring him through its cliffside wing and explain what was wanted.
Heart pounding, I untied the string and began to remove drawings. The first were of the school, a rather simple but elegant, classical building which would lie halfway between Hopewell and Pemberley and be accessible to both tenants and children from the village. To build such a large one was an almost unheard-of measure, certainly excessive by any standard, and not even entirely wanted, except by myself and Mr Marley. But we were convinced of its usefulness, its rightness even, and had managed to push the concept along. Following the ball, monies for its construction were amply secured.
And then I withdrew from the stack the drawings of Pemberley.
Mr Darcy’s brows raised in surprise.
“I have an idea for the cliffside wing—and new purposes, if you will,” I said, somewhat breathlessly. “I wanted you to see it as I can in my imagination, and Mr Wyatt kindly agreed to sketch out my proposal.”
“Kindness. Sketches. Indeed.” Mr Darcy murmured.
I understood his sarcasm. What lay before us were hardly ‘sketches’ such as I had envisioned, but exquisite renderings, an elegant vision merged with my own and added thereunto. But my heart soared to see them, for they were everything I had hoped for and more.
My proposal was to move the entire wing. Reconstruct it in the opposite direction, so it met up with the rest of the house and formed a more classical rectangular shape—with the end result resting far from the edge of the peak it was currently perched upon. Of course, Mr Wyatt had taken it all a good several steps further than ever I dreamed, with his end result nearly doubling the size of the house—adding an orangery, a theatre, a Turkish bath, a dairy, a new kitchen and numerous servants’ rooms—in addition to my particular project. I saw Mr Darcy comprehend what the drawings meant, saw the surprise on his normally calm mien.
“Mr Wyatt agreed there was sufficient room to build, and it would be possible to do so without tearing down the rest of the house, he said, although of course there might be some disorder and disruption for a time. Yes, it would be expensive, but Mr Martin feels that there is ample skilled labour in the county, and the jobs it would create in the short term might help to further our community goodwill. We would preserve everything possible in the reconstruction. At the same time, we could add some modern amenities—Mr Wyatt spoke of rather alluring-sounding plumbing, improved heating, and even exterior gas lighting.”
Mr Darcy continued to pore over the plans, brow furrowed, before finally coming to a large additional drawing.
“The Great Library of Pemberley,” he read. It showed an interior view, with columns where walls had once stood, added spacious windows and, in between them, massive ebony shelving to house books.
“What is this? Another entrance?” he asked, pointing to a set of exterior doors in what once had been the mistress’s bedchamber.
“That is part of my idea,” I said, talking more quickly in my anxiety. The very private master of Pemberley might not care much for this part of it. “Since, if we adopt these plans, there would be room to add exterior staircases, I thought, what if we were to provide a separate library entrance and enough um, supervision, to allow the public in?”
“Turn Pemberley into a–a lending library?” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Oh, no. No, of course not. We would not lend; any books must be read here. I thought perhaps we could hire a librarian, who could organise the books and help those who needed to find specific information. Such a person would help all of us, for we have so many volumes I cannot identify them all, including very many that will not fit in our current library. I realise there would be expenses besides the librarian—the extra fireplaces to keep the place warm throughout the day and more servants to ensure its security, although I think we should limit public admission to daylight hours, perhaps not even every day. And see here, a private reading room for the family’s use only, very comfortable and cosy.”
The family’s ‘cosy private reading room’—a larger room than the library we currently occupied—also was windowed, adding opportunity for reading or drawing with beautiful views of sky and clouds. It was a softened effect, perhaps, with no four hundred-foot death-defying drops, but what it lacked in drama it added in elegance, several times the original amount of space, and simple human appeal.
The ballroom would have to be rebuilt, of course, but in much the same design, with the addition of a large courtyard extending out onto the majestic cliffs, and a wrought-iron fencing surround, so that those who wished spectacular views of the valley below might have them safely. With the gas lighting, we might even offer out-of-doors dancing within it, when weather cooperated.
He continued to study the renderings carefully, occasionally referring between them. Finally, he spread them out upon the surface of his large desk, as if he were trying to picture each in three dimensions.
“What do you think of it?” I asked hesitantly, after some minutes passed.
He blinked up at me, as if he’d forgotten, momentarily, my presence. “Oh. Why, it is brilliant, of course.”
