Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was an ugly story, and I understood perfectly now why he had not wished to share any of it. How terrible and vicious it had all become, what scenes of violence he endured, and I embraced him more tightly as I realised that he might have met his own early demise, just as Miss Bingley had. It was no wonder he believed Anne had killed her.
But he still had not explained how she had met her death.
While we had been talking, the late afternoon sun weakened into nightfall; the servants, probably noting Lord Cavendish’s hasty departure and the fact we had remained closeted in the library, had not disturbed us. We were accustomed to eating early and rising early, country hours which appealed to both of us and our servants as well. Now we sat quietly by the light of the fire, simply holding each other. Mr Darcy seemed calmer now, his body peaceful against mine. That awful rigidity possessing him at Lord Cavendish’s departure was gone. For the first time in our marriage, instead of walling me off from his pain, he had drawn me to him. His instincts were to protect me from ugliness. His experience had taught him that he was unacceptable and unlovable. He had overcome both instinct and experience in order to reach for me. And so, despite the dreadful topic of conversation, I felt closer to him, and more content, than I ever had. A part of me feared that if we did not complete this discussion now, we never would, so horrible was its subject. But a greater part of me simply trusted him. He would tell me what I asked, when I asked it. He was trying.
“Cook will have dinner ready by now, and Mrs Reynolds will be fretting about whether to risk her temper or yours by interrupting us,” I said. “I know there is more to this story, and I very much need to hear it. Perhaps we should have our evening meal, and talk more when we are refreshed?”
He bent to kiss me, lightly, tenderly, a gesture of appreciation as well as affection. “Thank you,” he said, “for listening to so much. Yes, let us take a respite from the past to enjoy what is here and now.” Standing, he helped me rise and kept my hand in his as we left the library.
We were mostly quiet in our evening meal; I had much to contemplate, while Mr Darcy was never talkative. How had it been, at all those meals he had shared with the late Anne de Bourgh? Granted, by his own admission, he had been ignorant of the lion’s share of her disloyalty. Still, he had known enough, had he not? He had known her disgust of him; he had felt his disgust of her. The violent rows, the huge betrayals, the parts of his marriage he had hitherto shared—these, perhaps, would not have been the worst part of such an unequal alliance. No, it would be the hours, day in, day out, of loneliness and isolation. The endless dinners while the servants looked on and she, maintaining her charade of perfection, chattered about the parties she organised, the shopping she’d done, the redecorations she planned—her mother her fascinated audience of one—while he simply ate, endured, and waited for the meal to be finished.
What had Mrs Reynolds said? The master had ‘gone quiet’ until she’d believed it was simply his way. I had wondered, when she said it, how much different he could possibly have been from his usual manner.
But though he was a quiet man, he was not a dull and solemn one. He thought before he spoke, and preferred to listen over speaking; he asked questions—how had my recent tenant visits gone to the Allen and Henshaw families? What news from the Bingleys in Georgiana’s latest letter? Had I read of the recent unrest in the papers resulting from the Cato Street conspiracy? What were my thoughts upon the matter? And always, always, he gave my answers his complete undivided attention, as if I were the most interesting person he had ever met.
How could she not have loved him?
* * *
He came to me before Clara was finished braiding my hair, simply standing in the doorway, waiting. She quickly completed her work and wished us a good night, for there was something in his demeanour expressing impatience, though he said not a word to indicate it.
Could it be, I wondered, that he actually wished to speak of it all? That he found some sort of relief in unburdening himself thus? He took my hand, leading me back to his own rooms. He had candles lit, his fire built up, and the leather settee drawn before it. There was even, I noticed, a covered tray on the table beside it, a sign of refreshments available if we wanted them. He removed his banyan and tossed it onto his bed, taking a seat before the fire. I sat beside him and he drew his arm around me, but once we were settled, he made no move to begin speaking. Rather, he seemed content to just be.
The unburdening required completion, however, and so I asked my questions.
“Were you injured? When she came at you with the poker?”
In answer, he shifted away to pull his nightshirt off one side, exposing his middle and twisting around to present his back. “Is the light enough to see it? Right there.”
I examined his skin where he pointed, immediately noticing a scar that I had previously attributed to some childhood injury. It was fairly thick, as if from a deep puncture, on the left side of his back. But as I scrutinised, I noticed other ones, not so obvious, as if she had stabbed at him again and again more shallowly while he twisted and turned away from her, and I shuddered. Even a non-mortal wound was dangerous, the risk of infection great.
I placed a kiss upon it, foolishly, as if that could heal the old wound, and he drew me up to stop me. “You had not better,” he said, “or my thoughts will stray far from the past, to the perfect present, here alone with my beautiful wife, and nothing to prevent me from doing with you whatever I will.”
The look in his eyes was an intent one I had seen many times before, and I admit I was dearly tempted. But it was time to put the past away, cut it off like deadwood, understand it, learn from it if we could—but press forward, regardless. I smiled back at him, but helped him replace the nightshirt.
“Thankfully, she was unsuccessful in her attempt,” I said.
“She struck me from behind, as you can see, or her attack would not have amounted to much. Fortunately, my coat material was a dense wool, which protected me somewhat, though it hurt like the very devil. I suppose, had it been a normal day, the servants would have rushed in, as I yelled loudly enough—but it was a harvest feast day, most were away, and Pemberley operated with a skeleton crew. As soon as I got the weapon away from her, I asked her what she thought she was doing and told her I would have her committed to Bedlam.”
“A fair consequence,” I said.
He sighed. “She was completely lost to rage, cursing me, then threatening to do herself harm and running out onto the terrace. She had always loved sitting on the edge of the balustrade with her feet dangling over the edge, though I often warned her it was foolish. She did it again, threatening to drop, but this time, you will forgive me if I was not overly concerned for her health and safety.”
“Of course,” I murmured, remembering what Georgiana had told me regarding the prank he had once played, of pretending to drop from the balustrade while she watched, in reality landing upon a ledge beneath it. “You do not mean because of your wounds. She threatened to fall from the one place it was safe to do so?”
“Not by any means safe, but less perilous,” he agreed. “How did you know?”
“Your sister told me of your hoax,” I replied. “When you were a boy.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “I was a stupid, thoughtless gudgeon, and I ought to have been horsewhipped for terrifying her so cruelly. And perhaps my grandfather ought to have been as well, for creating so dangerous a terrace in the first place. Yes, Anne was in the exact spot it was safest to execute such a deception.”
“But she knew you pulled the same trick in the past, that you would be aware of the ledge below.”
He shrugged. “My guess is, she had always wanted to try it herself, and was angry enough to do it—to at least get some response from me after all my past warnings and to attempt to penetrate my current indifference. But once she let herself fall, I did not even glance over the edge to see whether she was safe. Instead, I returned to my rooms to clean myself up—I was covered in my own blood. I had at least planned my foolish, inconsiderate boyhood prank out beforehand, equipping the terrace with rope to enable a climb back up to safety. Hers was an impulsive, dramatic performance. I thought to let her stew and bandage my wounds before I rescued her. It was, perhaps, a quarter-hour before I went to fetch a rope ladder to haul her back up. It might have been a half an hour before I returned to her.”
“Did she…had she broken her neck in the fall?”