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Chapter Thirty-One
Mrs Reynolds and I had made a plan for the showing; her workers would only labour in rooms we would not open while we took villagers through the wing. While much had been removed, certainly not every room had been stripped bare. There were some paintings—which Mrs Reynolds could speak of—and several of the smaller chambers and Georgiana’s former rooms were intact. Of course, the pièce de résistance would be the majestic views from the master’s terrace.
Somewhat to my surprise, the tour was very enjoyable. Mrs Reynolds, as usual, was a nearly endless repository of information, sharing amusing and informational anecdotes about Darcy forebears and Pemberley’s history. While it was a bit noisy, as the sound of workmen removing panelling echoed throughout the wing, no one seemed to mind. The tour of the upstairs ended on the terrace. The day was much warmer than any previous, and the view of sky and valley was as magnificent as it ever was. As they peered over the low balustrade, I heard gasps of awe or fear.
“I don’t blame them for moving the whole blessed wing away from this cliff,” muttered Miss Bickford, backing away several steps.
After all had looked their fill, we trooped down the stairs and into the ballroom, the one room on the lower floor that had not, as yet, been touched. A footman, Bertie, lowered one of the three chandeliers so they could look closely at its crystal perfections. Then Mrs Reynolds demonstrated the lever system that opened the windows, and explained how, in the new ballroom, they would be floor length and open as doors out onto a courtyard. As she closed them, Bertie displayed Mr Wyatt’s drawing so that everyone could see how the new Pemberley exterior would appear.
We were all gathered around Bertie when I was startled by the sound of slow, loud clapping. I turned.
Mr Wickham stood behind us, a mocking smile upon his face.
“You!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”
“My dear! So inhospitable a greeting for your old friend?”
Bertie, the dear lad, did not hesitate. Dropping the drawings, he launched himself at Mr Wickham.
Unfortunately, Wickham was no stranger to brawling. Without missing a beat, he delivered a solid punch to the poor young footman that laid him out cold.
I started forward.
“Oh, not so fast, pretty girl.” From his pocket, he withdrew a pistol and trained it directly on me.
The villagers cried out and Mrs Reynolds gasped. “Are you mad?” I asked, trying to herd the crowd behind me. “You cannot possibly hurt us all with that, but you will see a noose!”
“Mad? You could say that,” he replied, not quite so nonchalantly as in his initial greeting. “I have no interest in hurting them, but you will come with me. Your husband will learn that his wealth cannot help him in this. Perhaps he has not paid for murdering Anne, but pay, he shall.”
I stepped forward. Old Mr Davis put a shaky hand upon my arm, but I firmly shook my head at him and he subsided. “As well you know, Mr Darcy murdered no one. Frankly, he believes you did it,” I said, my voice imbued with a calm I could not feel. “You have known him since he was a boy, when you needled him for refusing to join in your wild exploits. You carried on an affair for years with his wife, and he did nothing except deny you welcome at Pemberley. You stand before us, training a pistol upon an innocent woman. Of the two of you, who is most likely to be a murderer?” I cared not that these were confidences, secrets that everyone hoped would die with Anne. I would say anything if it might stop this man from violence.
“He did! He must have killed her!”
“Why would he?” I said caustically. “You must know he did not love her, that any affection he once had died with her disloyalty. He simply could not care enough to feel such passion.”
“He wanted a child. She said he did, more than anything. She refused to give him one, and he killed her for it!”
I rolled my eyes. “If he was so desperate to be a parent, then why, pray tell, did he choose a woman of eight-and-twenty as his next bride? His sister is his heir, and he is content that she should remain so, should we never have progeny.”
“Because he is a bloody fool! Perhaps she was to give him an heir—but a by-blow! Perhaps even mine! How he would despise the bloodlines of Pemberley to be thus polluted!”
I sighed. “Mr Darcy is many things, but never a fool. Of course he knew he would have no true heirs from her. It would be impossible, for the obvious reason that he would not touch her. Provision was made for any natural children she might bear, which his solicitors can verify, with Georgiana remaining his heir to Pemberley. Simply because he did not repudiate her publicly, do you think he had not thought of this? That he made no plans?”
“She sent me a note!” he cried, and for the first time I thought I heard real anguish. “She begged me to come to her, but I was drunk, and did not read it until too late. Too late! Why did she send for me? What need had she? I loved her! I would have saved her!” The pistol lowered an inch as he seemed to deflate. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Imbecile!”
From the rear of the ballroom stood a man, hat pulled low over his face. After thus announcing his presence, however, his next actions were strange: he pulled a spill from the jar on the hearth and lit a taper; its light did nothing to reveal his shadowed features.
Wickham was not startled by the stranger’s presence. “It’s no good,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “She is right. Darcy hasn’t the pluck; he is too chicken-hearted. It makes no sense.”
“It is not for you to decide,” the stranger hissed. “Take her and we go.”
“I only want answers, not her,” Wickham said. “If I thought she would give them to me, I would. If I thought Darcy would trade answers for her, I would. But he never does do anything he does not want to do, or say anything he does not want to say. Perhaps Cavendish can get answers from him, or perhaps she tells the truth, and he knows nothing. We are wasting our time. Let us leave now.”
“No!” the stranger growled. “You have not done as you promised. She leaves with us.”
With the exception of a gasp or two, the villagers had maintained a silence during the entire fantastical conversation. But Miss Bickford had clearly had enough. “We are all leaving,” she called. “Everyone, come with me.” She began walking to the opposite side of the ballroom towards the main entrance and its two large double doors.
