“And when did your mama tell you of this?” asked Anna.
“Oh, not long afterwards,” he replied. “I visited them in London to ask after my father’s health, and still appalled by what she had seen and heard, she told me all about it, which of course confirmed everything I had learned about the man from Anthony Tate.”
After a short silence, Anna, still seeming rather confused, asked, “Jonathan, why did you not think to tell me about this at the time?”
It was a question he had not anticipated, but he answered it without hesitation. “Because, my dearest Anna, you had brought so much that is good and beautiful into my life, I had no wish for us to speak of something as ugly as Harwood’s appalling behaviour. Besides, it was of no consequence to us at all. We could have no influence upon the situation, and I particularly wished that Anne-Marie should not hear of it; she may have been very upset. You will recall that she was once quite close to Eliza Harwood and used to think very highly of them.”
“Do you think Eliza knows? If she does, how can she bear to continue in such a marriage?”
“She must know, almost everyone else among their general acquaintance does, though they will not tell her. But there is little she can do about it. Her husband, it seems, does as he pleases. He is a man of some wealth and consequence, and she is completely dependent upon him.”
Anna’s voice was very soft, almost despairing, “Poor Eliza, what a dreadful life.”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes indeed. Now I think you will understand why I did not wish to tell you about it at the time. I knew it would distress you.”
Anna turned to him, her troubled eyes softening. “Yes, I do understand and thank you.” And there was no more to be said on the matter.
* * *
The following morning brought first some unwelcome rain, followed by a fine, bright afternoon, which called for a drive out to Hatfield House. “You must see it,” Jonathan had insisted, and Aldo Contini had agreed that such an historic place, situated so conveniently in the district, could not be missed.
“It would be like going to Florence and not visiting the Palace of the Medici,” he said, partly in jest, which caused both Anna and Becky to warn that while Hatfield House was steeped in English history, it could not boast of the opulent grandeur of the Florentines. For Anna and Jonathan, it brought back many memories of their first meetings and the happy days when he had come into Hertfordshire and decided to purchase Netherfield Park. It had been a fateful decision, which had had many unforeseen consequences for both their families. Becky, always sensible of such matters, could not help noticing the genuine warmth of their affection for one another.
Later, as they relaxed in the shade of a mighty oak, Becky recalled her conversation with Anna on the previous night, concerning the situation of Eliza Harwood.
“Poor Eliza, how utterly unsupportable must her position be,” she thought, but some of her natural sympathy was diluted by her knowledge that Eliza had quite deliberately decided to marry Mr Harwood, on very short acquaintance, after discovering that his family was well connected and owned a great deal of property in the south of England.
“Eliza, unlike Jessica, was never happy in Derbyshire,” Emily had told her. “She would tell us all that one day she would marry a man rich enough to own an estate in one of the southern counties, and so she did.”
“And do you believe she is happy?” Becky had asked.
“It is not what I would have chosen, but Eliza is not a romantic young woman. She will find satisfaction where she can. She has a fine house, plenty of money and servants, she wants for nothing; perhaps she is happy; she has never admitted to being otherwise,” Emily had replied.
* * *
Becky had never discovered if Emily knew what a high price her eldest daughter had paid for her fine house and estate in the south of England. Happy in her present marriage to a man of only modest means, but with a wealth of affection and regard to offer, Becky felt a cold shiver travel down her spine as she contemplated Eliza Harwood’s unhappy fate. How very different was the situation of Emily’s younger daughter Jessica and Julian Darcy. Whenever she had encountered them, Becky had been aware of the intimacy of their relationship and the warm sincerity of their feelings of mutual affection and esteem.
Having failed in his first marriage to Becky’s daughter, Josie, mainly as a consequence of his single-minded dedication to his research, Julian appeared to be devoting himself with the same intensity to securing the happiness of his wife and child.
While her sister had sought status and wealth, marrying an aspiring businessman from a wealthy family, Jessica’s happiness flowed from the love of her husband and daughter and the fulfilment she found in the work she did at the parish school at Pemberley. They would never be wealthy, for Julian refused to take any more than his agreed allowance from the Pemberley estate, having signed away his inheritance to his son, Anthony, yet they were deeply in love, and even a disinterested observer could tell which of the two women enjoyed the greater degree of contentment.
Chapter Five
William Courtney had not made a good impression upon the Darcys. He was handsome, talented, and a distinguished musician—everything that should have counted in his favour—but when he failed to arrive in time for his mother’s funeral, everyone who knew Mr and Mrs Darcy and their great affection for Emily Courtney knew also that her son had earned their lasting displeasure.
He had, however, been present for the reading of the will and did not seem particularly perturbed or disappointed that his mother had left him nothing more materially significant than her congratulations on his present success and good wishes for his future.
When his sister Eliza Harwood had complained about her children being left out of their mother’s will, clearly expecting him to express similar dissatisfaction, he had surprised her by declaring that as far as he was concerned, he had not expected a penny.
“I think Mama and Papa spent enough on me through the years I was studying music. I am well able to support myself and have no dependents. I had no expectation of receiving anything more. In fact, I am glad Oakleigh Manor has been left to Jude, because he is best able to make the most of it; the rest of us know nothing about farming. Jude, I am told, loves it; he wants no other life.”
Eliza had appeared puzzled by this apparent magnanimity, pointing out that one did not have to till the soil and milk the cows oneself; there were tenants and labourers who would do the work, drawing a sharp retort from her brother that he did not fancy being an absentee landlord anyway.
* * *
On the afternoon following the reading of the will, William Courtney presented himself at Pemberley to call on Mr and Mrs Darcy. It was one duty his mother had impressed upon him. “If it were not for Mr Darcy’s generosity in paying for your education, your father and I could never have afforded to send you to Oxford. You must never forget what you owe them. They are very proud of your success, and through you they celebrate the memory of their own dear William, of whom they had such great hopes, before he was so cruelly taken from them,” she had said.
William Courtney was very much aware that the Darcys, especially Mrs Darcy, saw in him a reflection of their young son, whose name he shared. William Darcy had died in a foolhardy escapade when he was scarcely sixteen years old, destroying a life full of promise and a prodigious musical talent. Ever since it had become clear that Emily’s young son William had a similar gift, Mr and Mrs Darcy had been eager to assist in its development and applaud his success.
As for William Courtney, he had felt impelled to do his best and succeed in his chosen field, not only for himself and the expectations of his family but for the memory of his cousin William Darcy and his parents who had never ceased to mourn the loss of their son.
Arriving at Pemberley that afternoon, he was shown into the saloon and plied with refreshments until Mr and Mrs Darcy appeared. Their greeting, initially rather reserved, confirmed his belief that he had incurred their disapp
roval, and he set about trying to explain the reasons for his late arrival, with a tale of a tardy cab driver and a missed train, but it soon became clear to him that they appeared not to find his excuses credible. While Mr Darcy seemed unwilling to discuss the matter, Elizabeth asked poignantly if he had not thought it appropriate to travel down a day earlier, especially in view of the fact that he had not seen his mother since his father’s funeral. The implication of the question was clear, woundingly so.
Perhaps William’s downcast eyes and disconsolate expression had some effect on Mr Darcy, who intervened to comfort his wife and say, “Lizzie, my dear, please do not distress yourself again about this. I am quite sure William has contemplated that possibility and realised that had he done so, things might have been different. Besides, I do not believe that Emily would have wished that questions of attendance at her funeral should cause such pain and grief to those she loved very much.”
Elizabeth nodded and dabbed at her eyes, while Mr Darcy offered William a glass of sherry. Feeling a good deal worse than when he’d arrived at Pemberley, William had tried desperately, over the next half hour, to make conversation, but sadly, failed to do so, except in the most superficial terms; not even the mention of his very successful concert tour of the eastern United States excited their interest sufficiently to elicit any significant questions about his work or his future plans. He left, wishing them well, but feeling that he had forfeited their affection and respect; it was, for William, who was generally of a friendly disposition, a particularly depressing sensation.
As he was leaving Pemberley House, a young man walked up from the park towards the house, accompanied by a boy. As they approached, the man smiled and quickened his step; it was then William recognised his cousin, Darcy Gardiner. They shook hands and Darcy introduced young Anthony Darcy.
“Julian’s son?” William said, surprised at how grown up the boy looked.
“Indeed, and the next master of Pemberley,” Darcy replied. “Anthony and I have been doing the rounds of the park; he is learning fast.”
William remarked that there must be a great deal to learn, and the boy smiled and replied that there was, but it was all very interesting. As they stood together, they did not notice that Mr and Mrs Darcy were watching them from one of the windows. Neither spoke, but both were aware of the deep sense of disappointment they felt about a young man for whom they’d had great affection. They could not hear their words, but clearly William and Darcy appeared to be having a perfectly amiable conversation. Elizabeth sighed, wishing things were different.
Before they parted, William asked after Darcy’s wife, Kate. Recalling that their wedding had been another family occasion he had missed on account of being out of the country, he apologised and invited them to visit him whenever they came to London.
“I expect to be spending quite some time in London this year, before I leave for a series of Winter concerts in Europe; I should be delighted to see you and your wife,” he said, and young Darcy Gardiner, quite charmed by his famous cousin, agreed that the pleasure would be mutual.
“Well, send me word when you are in town. If you give me some notice, we might arrange for you to have seats at one of my concerts, if your musical taste runs to that sort of thing,” he said, and Darcy responded, “Indeed it does, Kate plays the pianoforte and enjoys music very much. I am sure she would like nothing better.”
“Well, there you are then,” said William, handing Darcy his card. “I shall look forward to hearing from you.” He then shook hands with them, entered the waiting vehicle, and was driven away, leaving his cousin more than somewhat baffled.
* * *
Later that evening, Darcy Gardiner and his uncle Julian Darcy fell into conversation as they waited for the ladies to join them before dinner. Julian had previously expressed his concerns about William’s often inexplicable behaviour, and the two men had discussed the possibility that there may be some simple explanation.
“He has invited us to visit him in London, and as you know, Kate and I are to travel there quite soon,” Darcy told him.
“How very opportune,” said Julian. “Perhaps you should accept the invitation as soon as possible, before he changes his mind or his travel plans.”
Darcy looked surprised, as much at his tone as his words. “Why? Do you really believe that is likely? Why would he? His invitation sounded quite genuine,” he said.
Julian was somewhat sceptical. “It may well have been at the time, but as we have found in the past, Cousin William is a rather quixotic character. He does the strangest things, and it is not often possible to explain his odd behaviour. If you believe, Darcy, that it was a genuine invitation, then my advice to you is take it up expeditiously. It may offer an opportunity to discover something more about our distinguished cousin, which may not arise again.”
The arrival of the ladies interrupted their conversation, but later, when they were seated at dinner, the subject came up again when Kate Gardiner, addressing Mr and Mrs Darcy, asked, “And how did you find William Courtney today, Mrs Darcy?”
Before Elizabeth could answer, Mr Darcy, sensible of her feelings on the matter, said, “He appeared surprisingly untroubled by questions about his late arrival for the funeral, and though I was unimpressed by his explanation, I would not go so far as to suggest that he had no tender feelings for his mother. He clearly feels some degree of guilt at not visiting her before her death.”
Mrs Darcy’s silence signalled her own disapproval, but Cassandra spoke up. She had met and observed William Courtney at the reading of the will, she said, and didn’t believe he was unfeeling or cold-hearted at all.
“When I spoke to him about his mother, he thanked me and said he and their entire family owed a debt of gratitude to those of us who had cared for her. He made mention of Papa and Mama and Richard, of course, but as I have just told Jessica, he had very special thanks for her and Jude. He said they had done everything for their mother that he had not and for that he was very grateful to them.”
There was a moment of silence and then, Julian said, “But, Cassy, surely the material point is he never made any effort to see his mother, even after he was informed by Richard that she was dying. It is easy enough to thank those who cared for her, and so he should, but it was surely his duty to visit her, to give her that last comfort, do you not agree?”
This time there were tears in the eyes of all the women, and when Jessica left the room sobbing, Mr Darcy said he felt they had all suffered sufficiently for William Courtney’s sins of omission and needed some respite, making it quite clear that as far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.
* * *
It was reopened, however, when Darcy and Kate returned home that night. Kate, noticing that her husband had been rather quiet after the contentious conversation around the dinner table at Pemberley, asked as they prepared for bed, “Do you suppose, my dear, that Julian Darcy is right about William Courtney? I thought his judgment rather harsh. I hardly know William at all and would not wish to proffer an opinion publicly, but he did not seem to me like a man without deeper feelings. I cannot believe that he had deliberately stayed away when his mother was ill, could you?”
Darcy’s answer was quite categorical. “I certainly could not. William had just spoken with me on the steps of Pemberley House; he was leaving, having called on Mr and Mrs Darcy, when I arrived with young Anthony and he was most gentlemanly and cordial. He asked after your health, apologised for not having attended our wedding on account of being on tour in America, and has invited us to visit him when we are in London next month.”
Kate expressed her astonishment. “William Courtney invited us to visit him?”
“Indeed he did and in the most gracious and friendly way. Look, he gave me his card—here it is—and asked me to send him word when we would be in London. What is more, he said he would try to arrange for us to have seats at one of his concerts while we were there.”
“What did you say? Did you accept?” Ka
te was wide-eyed.
“Of course I did, I said we would be delighted. I told him you play the pianoforte and would like nothing better than to attend one of his concerts. Was I right?” Darcy was smiling, and Kate hugged him.
“Of course you were, dearest, I cannot imagine anything I should enjoy more. I have heard so much of his talent and yet never had the chance to see a performance. It would be a wonderful opportunity. Do you really believe he would arrange tickets for us?”
“I believe he would,” Darcy replied. “Why bring up the subject, if he had no real intention of pursuing it? He has no reason to do so. I am only his cousin; he has no need to impress me with such promises or favours. I am inclined to believe he would keep his word, although Julian seems to think otherwise.”
Kate seemed surprised. “Julian? Does he know about it too?” she asked.
Darcy pulled a face. “I’m afraid he does; he came upon me while we were waiting together for the ladies to come downstairs, and I told him about the invitation.”
“And what did he say?”
“Oh, he was rather sceptical, as I would expect him to be. Apparently Jessica is particularly upset about William not visiting their mother before she died, and it is understandable that Julian would share her feelings, I suppose,” Darcy said.
“That is certainly understandable and even justifiable in the light of William’s past conduct, but why should Julian also believe that William would invite us to visit him in London without meaning to keep his word? It would be a most ungentlemanly thing to do, and we have no evidence that he is such a person,” Kate argued.
Legacy of Pemberley (The Pemberley Chronicles; Pride and Prejudice Sequel Series) Page 6
