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“How wonderful,” I said, truthfully enough. “And Mr Darcy’s parents? Were you here when they were alive?”

And in this question, Mrs Reynolds unbent fully as she spoke of what, to her, were glorious years with old Mr Darcy and his wife at Pemberley’s helm. We walked through the gallery and she showed me their portraits, talking of her early days as a younger servant and her rise through the ranks to her current exalted position.

“Mr Darcy looks much like his father,” I commented. “They are both very handsome.”

“Yes,” she said, almost wistfully. We walked a bit further, and there was a portrait of Mr Darcy himself, looking very much as I remembered him from those days in Meryton. But his hung alone on the wall.

“Is there a portrait of Anne de Bourgh Darcy?”

“There are, three of them. But Mr Darcy had them moved to one of the closed rooms after her death—he was distraught, and said he was having difficulties bearing the memories. It was so unexpected, you understand.” And then she added something very odd, speaking fast, as if needing to get the words out before prevented. “Mr Darcy is a good man. I say no more than the truth. I would not listen to the gossip, nor will I let anyone repeat it in my hearing. I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”

“Repeat what in your hearing?” I asked.

But she stiffened, clearly regretting her phrasing. “Just…gossip, ma’am. Of folks with nothing better to do.”

Her confidences were ended, and I knew better than to push. Another portrait caught my eye. “Oh, there is Mr Bingley.”

“Do you know him?” she said, her voice lightening. “Yes, that was painted upon the occasion of his betrothal to Miss Darcy.”

I stared at the picture for a moment. Mr Bingley looked much the same as I remembered, perhaps a bit less ebullient. Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Jane, her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there was intelligence and sweetness in her face. I recalled what Mr Wickham had said of her arrogance, but of course, if he was speaking, he was lying. “I knew him many years ago. I will look forward to renewing our acquaintance, and meeting Mrs Bingley.”

“They always visit in the summer months, but perhaps they will come sooner,” she replied.

I made one or two remarks upon other pictures—there were many, very grand, our footsteps echoing upon the marble floors as we walked, and since she gave tours nearly every week that included this room, she was very knowledgeable regarding its contents, naming great artists and the staggering sums paid for most. It was a gallery worthy of kings; I was dutifully impressed. She showed me to a ‘morning parlour’ where the first Mrs Darcy had attended to her daily correspondence. It was a pretty, graceful, almost fragile room, the furniture delicate, perfectly matched. I admired especially a writing desk that was the envy of all writing desks, placed at an angle to catch the morning sun for which the room was named. As for the rest, Anne Darcy had carefully selected every piece, and I could applaud her taste—but it was not mine. It was a showpiece of a room; I would spend no time here. It could be added to the tour, for all I cared.

And then, she brought me to the library.

I recalled Miss Bingley speaking of Mr Darcy’s library in terms of respect, but she had accorded the same adulation to his penmanship. This…this was a dream. Shelves crept up the sides of every wall, all the way to lofty ceilings. There were wheeled ladders built in, running along a brass railing, so one could access even the most distant shelf. The furniture was leather and designed for comfort rather than for show. A few paintings hung within the limited wall space available, although they all seemed to memorialise favoured hunting dogs.

And the books! I had never seen so many in one place—they overflowed even the abundant shelving, and were stacked in piles beside the desk and tables. Surely there was more knowledge in this one room than could be absorbed by an entire university. The answers to a million questions, the accumulated wisdom of generations assembled in one place—and at my fingertips.

I moved aside a curtain to peer out the window; this room, evidently was the point at which the rest of the house met the cliffside wing, and from this view, Pemberley was a different place than appeared from the dining parlour. Every disposition of the ground was mild and idyllic; I looked on the whole scene—the lawns, the trees scattered upon its surfaces and winding into the forest like an enchanted path—with delight. A smell permeated the thick draperies, a secret, dark scent of leather, musty books, heavy velvet and soft carpets too worn to show the neighbourhood and too thick and serviceable to toss. The large fireplace was cold, the room icy, but the kindling was set and ready to light, the whole atmosphere calling, “Enter and welcome! Come and stay!”

“Oh, my,” I murmured. “I have never seen anything so wonderful in all my life.”

Mrs Reynolds smiled fondly. “I believe those to be the master’s sentiments. He never allows this room to be redecorated, unless it is to add more books—and even more volumes are stored in two smaller book rooms. Many were the times I heard Mrs Darcy complain of the shabby furniture, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

Shabby! The sofas were abnormally large and of the softest leather, made for curling up within. Perhaps one or two cushions required restuffing and a bit of stitching, but they were still impressive and obviously designed for the space.

“Oh, how my father would have adored this room,” I said, the sudden emotion so surprising me with its power that I had to fumble for a handkerchief.

“When did you lose him?” she asked gently, kindly.

“It has been almost eight years now,” I replied, quickly composing myself. “A carriage accident. I apologise. He was a great reader, and I love books as well. This library is a dream to me, and I anticipate many happy hours. In fact, I must have the fire lit now and begin it warming.”

“’Tis early in the day for the library fire. Would you not prefer the morning parlour?”

But I insisted, smiling to myself at her efforts to control her alarm at this new evidence of irreverence for tradition. Heedless of draughts, I threw open the drapes cloaking the other large floor-to-ceiling windows, delighted to have the green and mysterious views of Pemberley Woods brought within.

“Shall I leave you here, then?”

I looked at her curiously. “But we have yet to see the upper floor of this wing, I believe. We have only explored the lower.”

Stiffening, her face assumed an impassive mien. “No, ma’am. It was closed up after the mistress’s death. I am sorry he did not explain—Mr Darcy keeps the keys to that floor himself.”

She left me alone, then, with my thoughts churning. Still, there were only simple conclusions to draw. Mrs de Bourgh had not accused my husband of having anything to do with her daughter’s death, and yet she had said that ‘only he knew how Anne died’, while Mrs Reynolds urged me to disbelieve gossip surrounding him. Had whatever happened to her, occurred upstairs?

What gossip? Gossip having to do with his wife’s death? As if he were responsible for it?

I tried to imagine Mr Darcy having anything to do with murder and malice aforethought. I failed. What of an accident? An argument, perhaps…an angry shove, a head colliding with hearthstone. And then I laughed at myself. Mr Darcy did not lose control of his temper; in fact, I would wager that it was a point of pride with him. George Wickham—a name I hated recalling—had spread vitriol about him everywhere in Hertfordshire. I would never forget the first time they met in Meryton—Wickham had gone very white in the face. He was afraid, I knew he was afraid—but at the time, I did not realise what I knew, and it seemed so impossible that such a charming man had anything to fear. Mr Darcy had turned red with anger and, of course, I had thought him a naturally unpleasant man who dwelt in pessimism and vexation. He had made a terrible first impression upon me; I smiled to recall it now.

Mr Darcy had remembered that little insult towards me from that Meryton assembly, all these years later. I even knew why he remembered it—because it had been so out of character. Day in and day out, my husband was every bit the gentleman. He was polite, even kindly, to the bootblack, stablemen, inn servants, and his housekeeper, just as he was to his crass, boring relations. Knowing what I know of him now, I realise that only the most intense provocation could have incited his unpleasant response to George Wickham.

And what had he done in response? Acknowledged the greeting with…unfriendliness. And that was all. Since I full well knew Wickham’s capacity to cause suffering, I could only imagine what offenses he might have offered my husband. I was certain they were awful, and that Mr Darcy had not murdered him or even punched him in the nose in retribution. I, personally, would support either of those actions. I would help him bury the body.

His wife’s death had affected him deeply, deeply enough that he hated hearing her name mentioned and had shut up the rooms they had shared together. I could not imagine Pemberley’s Mr Darcy being subjected to a coroner’s inquest. But why did her own mother not know how she died? Or did she know more than she said, only wishing to cause me distress? Distressing me would never bring her daughter back, but people were often irrational in grief.

Mr Darcy and I must discuss this. It was ridiculous to shut up an entire floor, in effect, throwing away the key, thus causing talk for the rest of his life about it. Why carry such a burden? Pemberley was huge; he could live in the rest of the house without ever entering those rooms again—why not let it rest in peace quietly? I was selfish enough to not desire, particularly, to hear him sing praises to his lost love; he had certainly never said he loved me, and I doubt such effusions came easily to him regardless. But if he was hurting, or troubled, or upset, I was here to be hurt, troubled, and upset with him. For him. The only thing worse than suffering, was suffering alone.

And yet, I, too, disliked putting my grief on public display. If it were possible, I might have preferred Longbourn shut up, covered in sheets and packed away rather than so abruptly having a new master chortling over his good fortune, making changes that seemed stupid to me while calling them improvements. I must have more patience with Mrs de Bourgh and my husband, both. I had resided at Pemberley all of two days. Perhaps I ought to wait a few more before deciding I knew best.


Tags: Julie Cooper Historical