The Women of Pemberley

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  That evening, after dinner, they spent some time in the library—a fine, well-proportioned room which held an excellent collection of books.

  Amidst the family portraits on the walls was a painting by a little known French artist which Emma had always liked. Since they were selecting things to take back to London, Emma asked if she might borrow the painting for her room.

  Mrs Wilson was delighted. “Emma, of course you may. It would look very well in your sitting room.” It was immediately taken down, cleaned, and packed for transport. When Mrs Wilson was ready to go to bed, Emma followed her upstairs while James remained downstairs, reading in front of the fire.

  Saturday was one of those remarkable late Autumn days when the season appears to move back into Summer. The morning had been cold but clear, and by midday, it was almost warm enough to deceive one into believing it was not November at all.

  Having spent the day with Mrs Wilson, Emma took some time in the afternoon to visit the Conservatory, which was full of Winter blooms. Attracted by the warmth of the last hours of sunlight, she stepped out onto the terrace, where James found her looking out at the view, which fell away from the terraced gardens to the meadows and river valley below.

  He joined her, apologising as he did so for startling her. “Mother has gone upstairs to rest before dinner; I wondered where you had got to.”

  Emma smiled. “I wanted to see the Conservatory—the flowers are always beautiful—but I could not resist coming out here,” she said.

  “When we first came to live at Standish Park, this used to be my favourite spot.” He agreed that it was the best view from the house, and took some time pointing out familiar landmarks and his favourite woodland walks, which he recommended to her.

  Emma confessed she was not much of a walker. “Perhaps in Spring,” she said laughing, “I might be persuaded.”

  “Well, I shall try again in Spring,” he said, with a smile. “Kent is a very special county, you know, Emma. William the Conqueror believed that being nearest to France, its men were less ferocious and more cultured than those inhabiting the rest of England.”

  She laughed and wondered aloud what Mr Darcy might have to say to that, to which James replied, “Oh, the men of Derbyshire have always been strong, Emma. Even the Romans feared them and left them alone, for the most part!”

  Even as they talked, Emma realised that David had not shown an interest in the house or its grounds, and certainly had never made the effort to talk to her about it. His brother clearly loved the place.

  A sudden gust of wind caused her to shiver and draw her wrap more closely around her. James suggested that they return indoors.

  In the Conservatory, which was pleasantly warm, she sat down facing the terrace, and James took a chair across from her.

  When he spoke, his voice was serious, though his manner was gentle. “Emma, I cannot make you tell me. I will not even attempt to persuade you to tell me why you are unhappy, but if you want to talk to me, I am ready to listen and if I can help in any way, I shall,” he said.

  For a while it seemed as if she would not respond at all and then, quite suddenly, when he leaned across and touched her hand and said, “You have nothing to fear Emma. Whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence, and I will do nothing without your permission. You have my word,” her resistance seemed to crumble and it all poured out, as though she no longer had the will to hold it back.

  For James Wilson, it was a revelation that left him appalled and grieved. He had asked the cause of her unhappiness and when the problems had manifested themselves. He had not for a moment anticipated the answer he received.

  Within a very few months of their marriage, while they were still on their wedding tour of Europe, Emma had realised that David Wilson had not married her because he wanted a wife, as her mother had been to her father, or a partner, as Caroline was to Fitzwilliam.

  “It was soon clear to me that while my husband enjoyed taking me out and introducing me to his friends as his new bride, it was the role of a doll or a pet that I was expected to fill, not a partner.” Her voice, diffident at first, strengthened as she spoke. “David’s friends were permitted to dance with me or compliment me on my looks or my clothes, but I was not permitted to engage them in anything but the most superficial conversation. When we visited art galleries or museums, David would ask the questions—I was supposed only to smile and drink it all in. One memorable evening in Paris, we had been asked to a soiree at which two of the most celebrated opera singers had been invited to sing. It was a great privilege to be there and hear them. But, when Madame Lemercier, our hostess, invited me to join a small group of ladies and sing a chorus or two, together with her famous guests, David was so annoyed, he walked out into the night and did not return for several hours. I was so mortified. I had thought he would be proud of me. I had spent many years learning under a very famous teacher, and I enjoyed singing. After we returned to England, he forbade me to spend any more time on singing lessons. He thought they were a foolish indulgence.”

  James’s countenance betrayed his astonishment. He had often heard Emma sing and could not understand his brother’s objections. “Do you mean he stopped your singing lessons?”

  Emma nodded, “And he has since refused to let me have Victoria and Stephanie taught as well. He says he will not have them turned into performing monkeys.”

  James shook his head, aghast that she had lived with such harassment and neither he nor his mother had known of it.

  Emma explained how much it had meant to her mother, who had never had much of a voice, when it turned out that Emma could sing. She had been encouraged to have lessons and had developed a good singing voice, but David wanted none of it.

  “Do you mean you no longer sing?” James asked, incredulous.

  “When I am alone or with the children, but not in company. I have no wish to annoy him,” she said.

  James was almost speechless, but there was more to be heard.

  Emma revealed that she had had to fight for the right to care for her babies; David had demanded that they be handed over to their nurses day and night, and it was only the intervention of his mother that had led him to give ground and let her stay at Standish Park with the children.

  “If David had had his way, they would have been banished to a nursery in the South Wing—out of sight and out of earshot. He wanted to take me back to London with him, but when I was there, he had no use for me, or very little. Unlike Caroline, who used to accompany Fitzwilliam to all the parliamentary functions, I was only expected to grace the ladies’ tea parties, and then I was to smile and say very little. David made it clear that he was the Member of Parliament. I was not to have or express opinions on any significant subject. He was quite adamant about that.”

  James, quite unable to comprehend the reasons for his brother’s behaviour, could only express sympathy. “Have you attempted to remonstrate with him or to persuade him to a different way of thinking?” he asked.

  She answered with a degree of hopelessness that saddened him, “Indeed I have, particularly at the start of our marriage, but it did me no good at all. I soon learnt that crossing my husband or even pleading for a change in his attitude would only make matters worse. It irritated and made him even more stubborn.”

  “And the situation has never improved?”

  Emma explained things had got much worse since they had gone to live in London after his father’s death. “Now, I do not get told where he is going or whom he is going with. He has also started to drink quite heavily, and I dare not object. He can get very angry indeed.”

  James, looking anxious, stood up and came around to her, “Emma, tell me, has he ever threatened you or has he…” His face was dark with anger, but she was quick to deny the implication of his question.

  “No, never; he has been rude and surly, I admit, but never has he laid hands upon me in
anger.” As tears filled her eyes, she added, “There have been times when I have been afraid, I confess, but it has never come to such a pass.”

  James was clearly appalled. At first, he said nothing, walking away from her to the end of the Conservatory, his face gloomy, his brow furrowed. He wanted to alleviate her distress in some way, but had no means to do so. He was mortified and revolted by her account of his brother’s behaviour, yet knew there was little he could do to change it. When he came back to her, it was to apologise. “Emma, I am sorry, profoundly sorry. I had no idea, and yet, I should have known. Why have you not told us, my mother or myself? Why have you endured this torment alone for so long?”

  She admitted then that she had only very recently confided in her mother, pleading with her that it should go no further. “I had no wish to anger David or bring dishonour upon your family by taking such a step,” she replied.

  James was astounded. “Dishonour! Emma, how can you speak of bringing dishonour upon our family? It is David, my brother, who has dishonoured us all with his appalling behaviour and his vile treatment of you! I can only apologise for him on behalf of my family, and I give you my word, Emma, that I shall do all I can to set things right.” Though he spoke with restraint, there was no doubting his anger nor, indeed, the compassion he felt for her.

  Emma begged him not to tell his mother. “She is not in good health, and I will not have her hurt on my account. And should you approach David, he will, in all probability, deny everything and blame me. He will surely refuse permission for me to go out with any of my friends and may even forbid me to see my parents.”

  James’s consternation could not be concealed. “Emma, if I am to say nothing to my mother or David, how then I can help you?”

  Emma shook her head. Her distress was obvious as she pleaded with him. “Please, James, I know what I ask may seem unreasonable, and I thank you for wanting to help me, but for all our sakes, David must not know that I have spoken of these matters to you. It will infuriate him and I will suffer the consequences.”

  This time, realising the depth of her distress, he assured her of his secrecy. He felt the frustration of his situation keenly. He wanted to help, to relieve the pain and suffering to which she was being subjected, yet he could also understand her fears. His brother could be moody and stubborn. He knew now he could also be irrational and cruel, and Emma and her children had to be protected from the consequences of any action he might take. He decided to consult a very close friend in London before taking any steps in the matter.

  Meanwhile, he gave Emma his word that he would say nothing to David or their mother.

  She seemed much calmer since they had spoken, and he presumed that the telling of it had helped. Indeed, she almost smiled as she declared that she would like to go upstairs now and rest awhile before changing for dinner. For his part, James had never felt more wretched and helpless than he did at that moment.

  After dinner, at which Mrs Wilson remarked that Emma looked rather pale, they withdrew to the drawing room. James opened up the pianoforte and sat down to play. It was a most superior instrument with a beautiful tone, and Emma knew her brother-in-law played very well. Having worked through a couple of simple compositions, he turned to her, inviting her to sing and offering to play for her.

  Before Emma could protest or beg to be excused, Mrs Wilson intervened. “Now that is just what I would like, above anything. Emma has a charming voice, yet, except to sing to the children, she rarely lets us hear it.”

  James needed no further encouragement. Coming over to Emma as she sat beside his mother, he offered her his arm. “Come now, Emma, you cannot disappoint my mother,” he said.

  Emma did not require much persuasion. She began with a couple of popular English airs and, soon finding it more enjoyable than she had imagined, continued with some of Mrs Wilson’s favourites.

  Her sweet, clear voice delighted James and his mother, who said quite firmly when Emma had finished singing, “When we return to London, Emma, you shall sing for me every evening. You have the most pleasing voice of anyone I know. What’s more, I think it is about time that Victoria and Stephanie started music lessons, don’t you agree, James?”

  James could not agree more and added that he would look forward to hearing Emma sing whenever he dined at the house in Mayfair.

  “Perhaps we may soon hear my nieces too,” he added, and Mrs Wilson agreed.

  “Certainly, there is no reason why they should not be as talented as their mother, now is there?”

  Emma looked across at James and smiled. He was glad to see how her general demeanour had improved. She smiled more easily and her eyes were bright. The singing had certainly lifted her spirits. The evening, he decided, was a great improvement on the afternoon.

  Returning to London on the Sunday, Emma noted that of all the things being taken to Mayfair, James had chosen only one for himself.

  When they broke journey, she made a comment, at which he smiled and said, “Yes, it was my father’s writing desk, and I have a sentimental attachment to it. For the rest, since I hope to return to live at Standish Park next year, it did not seem sensible to move too many things.”

  When Emma expressed some surprise, he explained, “It is the area I represent in Parliament; I ought to spend more time there.”

  “Does that mean we shall not see you as often as we do now?” she asked, a note of regret creeping into her voice. There had developed between them a close and friendly relationship over the years. James, unfailingly courteous and considerate, had been for Emma relief from her moody, demanding husband.

  She had been frequently grateful for his company, especially at family gatherings, when her husband often neglected her to spend time with his friends. James had always found her good company. More reserved than the society ladies of London, but more talented and certainly more beautiful than most of the women of his acquaintance, and blessed with a sweetness of disposition unmatched in their circles, Emma was a natural favourite.

  Though he had never suspected the extent of her unhappiness, he had occasionally detected in her a melancholy strain. He recalled her saying, after a grand family gathering, “These occasions seem calculated to make one miserable.” And when pressed for a reason, she had added, “I cannot explain it, but I often find I am less happy after than before. Perhaps the anticipation of enjoyment is always better than the fulfilment of it.”

  He had teased her then, saying, “This is a very grave, philosophic comment from you, Emma.”

  On this occasion, however, with his deeper understanding of her situation, he sympathised with her apprehension and hastened to reassure her. “You will see me at my mother’s house very often, Emma. I am hoping to transfer a lot of my routine legal work to my cousin, Hugh, who has recently joined the firm. That will leave me with more time for my Parliamentary work, and I shall certainly not be neglecting my family. Indeed, the way I see it, when Parliament is sitting, I may spend more time at the house, not less—Mayfair is a lot closer to Westminster.”

  Seeing the relief on her face, he continued, “Emma, you need never worry that I will not be there to help you. If David continues to harass you and you are unable to reach me, you must go to my mother and seek her protection. You are entitled, as her daughter-in-law, to do that. You cannot let him keep you like some latter day prisoner in the castle.”

  Emma laughed. They had all read the much talked of novel by one Currer Bell in which a young woman, Jane Eyre, discovers the dark secrets of Mr Rochester’s life, locked away in a room at the top of the house. “I cannot believe that even David will attempt to lock me up, and fortunately, there are no Gothic castles in Mayfair,” she said lightly, and he was happy to hear the laughter in her voice. Soon she was serious again as she thanked him for the opportunity he had afforded her to speak frankly of her situation. “It was very kind of you. I cannot tell you how good it feels to have spoken.�
�

  The arrival of Mrs Wilson, ready and eager to be gone, ended their conversation, and James assisted first his mother and then Emma into the carriage.

  While there was little he could do that would materially change her circumstances, the very act of speaking openly with him and having his concern and sympathy had given her a good deal of comfort.

  ***

  At Pemberley, they were preparing for Christmas.

  Elizabeth and Jenny were drawing up the lists that always preceded such occasions when Julian came in to announce that Jonathan had arrived. Elizabeth went out to greet her nephew and, thinking he was there to see her husband, informed him that Darcy was away on business in Liverpool with Mr Gardiner and was not expected back until that evening.

  Jonathan expressed some regret at missing Mr Darcy, but he said, “I am really only here as a messenger, Aunt Lizzie. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Caroline wondered if you and Mr Darcy would dine with them tomorrow. ”

  “Tomorrow? This is rather sudden, Jonathan.” Elizabeth was puzzled and asked if he knew of any special reason for this invitation. “Are we celebrating anything?” she asked.

  Jonathan looked a little uncomfortable. “I would not call it a celebration, but, yes, there is something particular happening. It concerns David Wilson, Emma’s husband.”

  Surprise turned to astonishment at this news. “David Wilson? Is he invited too?”

  “Oh no, he is not,” said Jonathan quickly, looking more confused and awkward as he tried to fend off her inquiries.

  Elizabeth, realising there was more to this visit than met the eye, decided it was time to ask some serious questions. “Jonathan, I think we need to have some tea,” she said, and having rung the bell for a servant and ordered tea, she took Jonathan into the morning room.

  Sitting him down, Elizabeth faced her nephew and said firmly, “Now Jonathan, tell me, what is this all about?”

  After some initial reluctance, he told her of information he had recently received from a very reliable source. It concerned David Wilson and his activities.