Chapter Twenty-Four
Icould see it in his face now, his usual implacable reserve absent—naked guilt. He had picked through his last moments with Caroline Bingley and found much to criticise. It took me back to those hours after learning of the death of my father, the pain I felt at acknowledging the misery of our final conversation.
What I had said to my father had been honest, but it had not been kind. At least in Mr Darcy’s case, no one could have expected him to behave otherwise—the gentlemanly thing to do was to disabuse Miss Bingley of notions of ruin. But she had boldly addressed his most sensitive concerns, deeply wounding his pride in the process, and he had lashed out in the one manner guaranteed to make her stop. I took his hand in mine.
“Would you like to retire for the night, sir? My aunt’s servants are not accustomed to late hours, and I am certain they are standing about, hoping we will go upstairs soon.”
Again, his wishes were clear to me—what he wanted was to saddle his horse and ride for Pemberley. Anything to divert his thoughts and feelings away from a subject so painful.
“Please?” I added.
Nodding once, he stood, and helped me to my feet. Silently, we climbed the stairs and returned to my room. He became my lady’s maid, and I valeted for him. There was something so intimate in this undressing by firelight; I saw his countenance lighten as he set aside his cares and fixed his attention upon me. I saw, too, how gently he untied every tape and extracted every pin, meticulously laying aside each piece as he removed it.
I had scraped my hair into the tidy bun that was all I could manage on my own, but I knew better than to expect he would leave it be. I decided that I did not much care what Susan had to say about it in the morning, and let him take it down.
Pennywithers would have still more to say to him when he saw the state of Mr Darcy’s clothing, but I did my best to lay it out upon the clothespress so it would not wrinkle further, and hang his coat upon the chairback to try and reshape it.
And then we were in each other’s embrace as if it had been days instead of hours, caught up in the passion so easily sparked and so carefully nurtured by both. I was a bit sore from our earlier antics, but it was all forgotten in the worshipful attentions of a worshipful husband. Afterwards, I rested in his arms, listening to him breathe.
My bed was small, but neither of us had considered he would sleep elsewhere. I expected him to fall asleep quickly, but I did not wish to slip away from consciousness so easily. I had taken for granted the very great pleasure of lying within the arms of the man I loved. I still did not know what he would yet do, but at least I understood more of why he had made the decisions he had, and that we were more equal in our affections than I had previously believed. It was not all I wished for, but I was content enough nestled up against him, staring into the dying flames. I had nearly dozed off, however, when he spoke again, his voice deep, soft, and tired.
“I truly believed she eloped with Krofford. I swear it to you, I had no notion of any other possibility.”
I turned in the circle of his arms to face him in the firelight. Perhaps Georgiana had needed time to consider his innocence, but I never had. “I promise you, sir, I am not one of the Hopewellians, believing the worst of you. That you might have injured Miss Bingley, even by accident, never crossed my mind.”
“You are one of very few,” he said. “But she left a letter stating her intentions to go away with Krofford, and the man and his sister were gone in the morning. Of course, I immediately decided she was trying her plan of pretended elopement, that she had not believed me after all—perhaps that she even expected me to chase her down. And so I told Bingley what had occurred between us in every particular. He was horrified and made haste to follow quickly, questioning everyone he could, but they changed hackneys too often and at the busier inns. The postilions had little to say of use, but he did learn there were three who travelled, and the third matched Miss Bingley’s description. It was thought that Miss Krofford put her maid on a post. After London, there was nothing. The three of them disappeared without a trace.”
“Mr Bingley wrote, your sister said.”
“Yes. He obtained their direction in Austria, and Krofford wrote back disclaiming any knowledge of Miss Bingley’s whereabouts, denying all accusations. I made enquiries, which took a good deal of time. The most I learned was that Krofford currently keeps a mistress whose description could be said to match Miss Bingley’s, although she goes by a different name. Bingley sent more letters, begging Krofford to tell his sister to write and assure him she was well. I saw the latest of his letters before he sent it—he informed Krofford that if he wanted her settlement, he must bring her back to England to be wed. He heard nothing else, but…we still had hope that, eventually, he would want her fortune enough to see it done. He never replied. I ought to have known the blackguard would have married her if he could have.” He rolled onto his back, and I followed, propping myself upon his chest. “I ought to have done more. I ought to have prevented it. I ought to have known.”
I was not quite certain how he expected this. Murder would have been the last thing upon his mind, especially after the sordid scene he had been subjected to from her the day before. “Do you believe…do you believe he killed her?” I asked softly.
He shook his head in the darkness. “No,” he said, his voice full of guilt and anguish. “I believe Anne did.”
I was shocked. “What? No. Surely she would not!” I gasped.
“It would hardly be surprising,” he replied, his voice hard. “After all, she tried to kill me.”
There followed several moments of absolute silence while I simply stared at him, shocked speechless.
Why, I am still not certain; it was not as if females were incapable of violence. I had found it within myself, even. Wickham had goaded me sufficiently to visualise a moment of fury and yes, satisfaction at the thought of forever ending his ability to cause hurt and pain. I could, as well, envision a lover’s quarrel ending tragically, of betrayal and passion culminating in death.
And yet, the thought of poor Miss Bingley involved in any such torrid episode was unimaginable. Even her proposal to Mr Darcy offering a forbidden liaison had been somewhat off-putting, with her list of practical requirements for property and wealth. No, it appeared she had been cold-bloodedly murdered, buried in a shallow grave, and—as if that were not horrible enough—her reputation mercilessly destroyed at the same time. And he believed his wife had been perfectly capable of perpetrating both.
“How? Why?” I asked incredulously, still unable to manage a coherent sentence.
But instead of answering me, he looked away. “I should not have mentioned it. Needless to say, she was unsuccessful in her attempt, and I have no proof, regardless. If it was she who harmed Miss Bingley, no one will believe it upon my say so.”
I did not much care for either his vague reply or bleak conclusion; it was as if Anne held a pitiless power over him, even in death. I wished that speaking openly of her was not so difficult for him, that he was not so accustomed to keeping her secrets that he recoiled from revealing them even now. Still, I understood it. The deepest hurts seldom lend themselves to easy speech; they are wounds that bite and sting when poked.
Even so, I might have protested his response, except next he did an odd thing: suddenly, he clutched me to him, so tightly, I almost could not breathe. His heart pounded wildly beneath my ear, his own breath coming unevenly. Startled, I nevertheless moulded myself against him, holding him just as tightly in return, trying to think what I could say; the urge to comfort bested the yearning to prod.
He had suffered more than any man ought to have endured, in the darkness of that marriage. I tried to remember Anne de Bourgh’s appearance from my brief view of the miniature in Lady Matlock’s possession, but it had receded into hazy memory. An impression of beauty, of golden hair, and pale, perfect skin was all that remained. Knowing what I now did, would I still see loveliness of countenance? Would there be any hint of madness or murderous impulse? And why was it, the thought occurred to me, that I had not noticed her portrait when I had visited the cliffside wing’s upper floor? Mrs Reynolds had indicated it had been put in one of the closed rooms, but I had been through them all now without ever noticing it. It had not been removed to Mrs de Bourgh’s chamber. I certainly could not have missed it there.
Well, I would solve the mystery when I returned home—hopefully soon. Hopefully tomorrow, for I was certain Mr Martin could procure a vehicle. And it was time that I redid those upper rooms of the cliffside wing, repurposed them entirely. I was not certain yet for what, but it would come to me. They must be cleared of everything—every stick of furniture, every vase, every candlestick—and completely refurbished. If I could not erase those unhappy years for him, I could at least destroy the monument that upper floor had become to their memory.
“When we return home, I shall need the keys to the upper floor of the cliffside wing,” I began to explain, but he interrupted me, rearing back so abruptly that I toppled off his chest.