Startled, Catie looked at Ben. “You won’t shoot him, will you?”
“If he’s hurt badly, Catherine, I’ll have no choice.”
After Sarah bandaged Catie’s hands, Rose gave the girl two aspirin with a nip of brandy and marched her off to lie down until suppertime. With Catie safely upstairs, Sarah murmured a silent prayer for the horse and went to her sons, who were playing in the garden. She took a seat on a cushioned wicker lawn chair and was soon joined by her husband.
“Oh, Ben!” She sat up when she saw him. “How’s the horse?”
“Just a bad scratch,” he said, sitting down next her. “Sean’s wrapping his leg now.”
“Then you must go straight in and tell Catie. Her conscience is heavily burdened with that horse’s fate.”
Ben glanced at his watch. “It’s less than an hour till supper. Let her conscience suffer a bit longer.” Sarah gave him a disapproving look that made him chuckle and kiss her. “It’ll do her good, my love. Now tell me, how is my foolhardy sister?”
“She’ll recover. Though I doubt she’ll be sitting comfortably for a few days.”
“Oh?”
Sarah’s triangular brows arched with amusement. “Rose and I discovered a rather large bruise on your sister’s backside. When she fell she must have landed on a stone.”
Ben laughed. “Lessons learned from that end up are lessons learned indeed.”
“That’s what Rose said!” Sarah looked at him in amazement.
“It was one of Dad’s sayings.” He smiled thoughtfully. “How would we have managed Catie all these years without Rose?”
“We would have failed . . . miserably.”
Ben gave a soft grunt of agreement and fell silent as he watched Geoffrey and George chase each other around the lawn.
“What’s on your mind, Bennet?” Sarah asked. “Catie? Don’t worry so, darling, she still has girlish impulses.”
“No, I was thinking of Dad.” He released a burdensome sigh and added, “And Wesley Howell. I haven’t yet told you about my trip to London.”
She turned to give him her full attention. “Go on.”
“I’m afraid this whole affair is going to cost us more than I had hoped, Sarah. Charles Worthington and I are meeting next week to try and work out some kind of a negotiation, but I don’t see how we can avoid making the man some sort of an offer.”
“So, Wesley Howell is who he says he is?”
“It appears so. Everything, documents and all, appear to be in order. My only hope now is to reach a settlement with the man quickly and privately, without London’s tabloids getting hold of the story.”
“What about Pemberley?” Sarah asked, the trepidation in her voice evident.
“Pemberley will not be a part of any settlement!” he said hotly. “I shall let this matter go public and before the courts first; I made that perfectly clear to Charles.” Ben paused for a moment and then whispered, “God, Sarah, how I wish I could ask Father’s advice.”
Sarah affectionately took her husband’s hand. “I know, darling, I know.” They sat quietly until a few drops of rain forced them to gather the twins and head indoors.
Chapter 8
The few drops of rain turned into a steady downpour that lasted several days. Catie looked out of the rain-streaked windows in the drawing room and moaned. She hated more than anything to be closed up indoors, but there was more fueling her foul mood that morning. Audrey Tillman had unexpectedly flown off to meet her mother in Turkey and felt it essential to call her friend before leaving London to crow about her upcoming trip. Audrey was most likely walking on the white sands of the Aegean Coast at that very minute.
“I hope she gets sunburn!” Catie scowled at her reflection in the glass then opened Mary Darcy’s diary, her only companion for the last dreary days.
Mary and Arthur’s zealous summer romance was never discovered, and he left his friends at Thompson Farm at summer’s end with a promise to write Mary every week. Mary Darcy fancied herself to be ardently in love with Arthur Howell and was in a desperate state after his departure from Derbyshire.
31st of August 1918
I must pull myself together. Both Mother and Father are eyeing me with suspicion. It is just misery, pure and complete misery. I love Arthur so that I feel my heart will explode right out of my chest. He has already written and promises to return summer next. Oh how I shall suffer until then.
How indeed!
“Oh, Mary, you poor, poor dear,” Catie whispered, shaking her head. After several more anguished outpourings, Mary’s entries were scattered until Christmastime, when she again wrote of Catie’s Grandfather Geoffrey visiting Pemberley from Rosings Park for the Christmas season.
21st of December 1918
The house is most merry, adorned with greenery and holly. The Darcys of Rosings Park have arrived in their new shiny automobile. “Ostentatious,” Father whispered in Mother’s ear as we all waved them in, their horn blaring. However, I think Papa is still a bit miffed because Cousin Geoff made a fortune during the War. It is rumored that Rosings Park is now fully electric, even in the servant’s quarters. Thankfully, Cousin Geoff and young Geoffrey took Papa automobiling, and the three returned in high spirits. Now it is Mamma who is miffed, as the men have spent the whole of the afternoon in the carriage house staring at the engine. Arthur continues to write weekly and is presently in the north with his regiment. His latest letter was addressed to My Dearest Mary . . . my dearest! Oh, I think he must love me . . . surely he must!
Catie closed the diary and sat up. “Wesley Howell — Arthur Howell — Rosings Park — what does it all mean?” she mulled over the mystery once more, as the large hall clock belled the hour. Mr. Johnson would be preparing Ben’s lunch. She’d had every intention of broaching the subject of their grandfather being raised at Rosings Park with her brother, but the success of these types of conversations depended greatly on timing. She heaved a determined sigh. “I suppose now is as good a time as any.”
Upon entering the kitchen under the pretense of getting a glass of milk, Miss Catie was not a welcomed sight. As grand and enchanting as Pemberley was, even it could grow small and grey when one found oneself imprisoned within its walls for too long. And with the Aegean Coast weighing heavily upon her temper, young Miss Darcy had become a most disagreeable inmate of her ancestral home, sulking about the house the last few days, as stormy as the weather and never opening her mouth except to complain. Confident she would find something to be unhappy about, Mr. Johnson went about his business and ignored her.
Soon enough, Catie justified the man’s disregard by pouring her milk down the sink, claiming that it tasted a day or two old. Then, while advising Mr. Johnson to purchase from a different dairy next time, she emptied the rest of the container down the drain as well. Mr. Johnson grumbled under his breath as he filled a tray with Mr. Darcy’s lunch. He had just bought the milk fresh.
“What’d you say, Mr. Johnson?” Catie stepped over to the man.
“Nothing, miss, just speaking to me dearly departed mum,” Mr. Johnson replied as he forcefully brought down a sharp knife to halve the sandwich, making Catie flinch. He turned to call for a maid to deliver the meal.
“If that’s for my brother, I’ll take it.” Catie rushed forward. “I must pass his door on my way. No need to disturb anyone.”
Happy to see her with reason to leave, Mr. Johnson handed the tray over to Catie as he warned, “Careful now, missy. The soup is hot and the bowl’s full.”
“Enter.” Catie heard Ben respond to her knock and opened the door to his study, clumsily trying to manage the heavy tray.
“I have your lunch, Brother,” she announced pleasantly as she came in but drew up short at the sight in front of her. Aiden Hirst. Athletically built, eighteen years old and, like her brother, bearing a handsome, rectangular British face. Catie swallowed at the sight of him and glanced nervously at Ben.
“Allow me.” Aiden came forward to take the tray from h
er hands.
“Thank you.” Catie watched him edge it carefully onto Ben’s desk and ventured another look at her brother. He didn’t appear to be too nettled — no more than usual anyway. Ben stood and smiled, slightly easing her rapidly beating heart.
“Aiden, allow me to introduce my sister, Catherine; Catherine, Aiden Hirst.”
“Pl-pleased to meet you, A-Aiden,” Catie stammered and blushed when she noticed Ben grimace at her awkwardness.
“Likewise, Miss Darcy,” Aiden said.
“Catherine, Aiden is the nephew of Lawrence Hirst of Ardsley Manor,” Ben continued. “His uncle and our father go way back.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.” Aiden gave Catie a conniving wink. “Well, Mr. Darcy, I must be off. Thank you for seeing me, sir.” He shook Ben’s hand and turned back to Catie. “Miss Darcy, I hope we shall meet again soon.”
“Yes, s-soon,” Catie repeated anxiously, glad he was leaving.
“Please don’t ring anyone, Mr. Darcy, I’ll show myself out. I’m rather used to rambling old houses,” Aiden said, waving back at them. “Cheers.”
“Nice lad, that Aiden,” Ben said as soon as the door closed.
“Is he?”
“He seems to be.” Ben sat back down.
“Because Lawrence Hirst of Ardsley Manor is his uncle or because he’s rather used to rambling old houses?” Catie asked as she flopped down on the chair in front of Ben’s desk, legs dangling over the arm. “Really, Ben, don’t be such a snob.”
He looked at her with a mixture of impatience and sympathy. “You will soon be coming of an age, Catherine, that impressions will be important. You must start considering how you present yourself and how you speak to . . . you know . . . young men.”
Catie sat up and said dramatically, “Have you offered Aiden Hirst my dowry, Brother? Is he to be my husband?”
“Must you always be smart?”
“Sorry.” She surrendered, wanting to keep on his good side. “So, what did the nice lad want?”
“He came bearing a dinner invitation to Ardsley this evening.”
“Did you accept?” she asked worriedly.
Ben’s brow furrowed. “No, I had to decline. Sarah and I already have dinner plans for this evening. Why are you acting so concerned?”
“I’m not concerned,” Catie replied as coolly as possible.
“Good, because I returned the invitation for this Friday night,” he said. “And I would prefer, dear sister, that you leave the serving of young Aiden’s dinner to the staff.”
“Yes, Bennet,” she acquiesced softly, obediently, so obedient in fact that her brother gave her a wry smile.
“What did you want, Catherine?”
“Want?”
“I assume you brought me my lunch for a reason. What is it?” he asked as he reached over and moved the tray in front of him.
“I’m just bored.” She slumped back in the chair again. “Will this rain ever cease?”
Ben studied her for a moment. He was busy and considered sending his sister on her way. But he did have to eat and so decided to entertain her for a few minutes. “You could be practicing your instruments. I haven’t heard you play at all this summer.”
“I’m not that bored!”
Ben pointed at her with his spoon. “That attitude is the reason I’m left with nothing to do but stand by and listen while Donald Tillman prattles on and on about Audrey and all her accomplishments on the violin.”
Offended, Catie sat up again. “That’s not fair, Bennet! Audrey’s mother is a professional. Audrey was born with talent!”
“And your grandmother on Mother’s side was a concert pianist! But that makes no difference. One does not inherit talent, Catherine. It is earned through diligent practice.”
“The only thing Audrey Tillman practices is how to be a ridiculous flirt!” Catie argued, with instant regret. What her brother derived from her attack on Audrey Tillman she did not know because she wouldn’t dare look at him. But from the lack of sound, she could tell that he had stopped eating. Catie only hoped he would not relate her criticism of Audrey in any way to Sean Kelly and thought it best to move the conversation in another direction.
“Speaking of inherit, do you remember the story Daddy would tell us about Fitzwilliam Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet?”
Ben had not caught up with the discussion, as Catie’s offensive remark did give him pause. Then he said, “How could I possibly not remember? I must have suffered through Dad telling you that story a million times. What of it?”
“Rosings Park . . . from the story, I think I remember Daddy saying that Grandfather Geoffrey had been raised there?” That was of course a lie but an unavoidable one, she rationalized.
Ben looked at his sister briefly then stated with a frankness that surprised her. “Both Father and Grandfather were born to that manor, Catherine, not this one . . . not Pemberley.”
“What?” She was both shocked and confused. “But . . . then, how did we end up here?”
Ben exhaled a long sigh while in his mind he tried to shorten an explanation that was many generations long. “After old Lady Catherine died, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy renewed their relations with Fitzwilliam’s cousin, Anne de Bourgh. By then the Darcys had two sons. Their youngest, Geoffrey, was a favorite of his mother’s and quickly became a favorite of Anne de Bourgh’s as well. Like his mother, Geoffrey Darcy had a kind heart and traveled to Rosings Park on several occasions to comfort Anne through her illnesses. In turn Anne became so attached to Geoffrey that when she died she willed her estate and holdings to him. She had no heirs of her own and — ”
“And she knew he was a second son and would receive very little from his own father’s estate,” Catie said, comprehending. Although her parents had set aside a comfortable inheritance for their daughter, the bulk of her parent’s wealth would stay with her brother for Pemberley’s safekeeping.
“Yes,” Ben replied softly. “She did.”
“Then we, you and I, are the descendants of Geoffrey, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth’s second son?”
“Yes,” Ben affirmed as his sister gazed around her surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. She met his eyes again with a questioning look that he answered immediately. “Grandfather inherited Pemberley after World War II, Catherine.”
“Then what happened to Rosings Park?”
“He sold it.”
“Why?” she asked but before Catie could get her answer, there was a small rap at the door.
“Enter,” Ben called out.
The door opened and a maid took a couple of steps inside the study and announced, “Mr. Charles Worthington has arrived, sir.”
“Thank you. Please inform Mrs. Darcy.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied and left, closing the door behind her.
“Come along, Catie, Charles hasn’t seen you since Christmas, and I’m sure he’ll want to say hello.” Ben stood up and shrugged into the jacket that was hanging on the back of his chair.
Catie’s mind raced with this new information as she walked alongside Ben to the drawing room. “Ben,” she finally spoke, “I still don’t understand.”
“If you’re truly interested in the Darcy family history, Catherine, there are volumes in the library that will assist you.” Ben told his sister where she could find the records but warned, “However, some of the books are very old and must be handled with extreme care.”
Catie nodded so gravely that Ben chuckled. “Relax, Sis, they’re not the Dead Sea Scrolls.” He put an affectionate hand on her shoulder and led her into the drawing room.
Sarah was already seated and talking to Mr. Worthington when Ben and Catie arrived. It was only in the last six months that Charles Worthington had replaced Horace Harold as Ben’s chief legal advisor. Uncle Horace, as Catie called him, was her godfather and had been a great condolence to the Darcy siblings in the years since their father’s death. Until recently that is. Catie knew that Ben had had a
falling out with Uncle Horace. Tensions between the two men were obvious when the Darcys spent Easter with the Harolds. It may have been unfair of Catie, but she blamed Charles Worthington for the rift. Still, he was a guest and courtesy was expected, so she entered the drawing room wearing a pleasant smile.
Though not overly handsome, Charles Worthington was a nicely built man with a thick head of brownish-blond hair that curled in odd places. He dressed extremely well and always reeked heavily of cologne. “Ben Darcy!” He stood when he saw Ben and Catie. “Who is this young woman next to you? I don’t believe I recognize her.”
“It’s me, Mr. Worthington . . . Catie,” she replied, giggling sweetly at his joke, though she inwardly moaned. Many of her brother’s friends and business associates liked to play silly games with her as if she were incapable of carrying on an intelligent conversation.
“Catie Darcy, it can’t be; good Lord, how you’ve grown since I saw you last.” Catie smiled but knew, as she was sure Mr. Worthington knew, she hadn’t grown an inch since Christmas. “And such a pretty girl, I do believe you get prettier every time I see you!”
“Thank you, Mr. Worthington,” she answered politely but unimpressed.
Charles Worthington smiled and patted her shoulder like a puppy that he no longer wanted to play with and turned his attentions back to Ben and Sarah.
Half an hour later Catie sat begrudgingly yet properly attentive to a conversation she had no part in. When able to do so unnoticed, she glanced out the window and smiled in delight as the clouds began to pull sluggishly away from each other. Blinding rays of sun began to pour in through the panes, and their bright warmth spilled across the oak floors and landed teasingly at Catie’s feet. Wanting to be away, she inadvertently sighed so loud that Sarah gave her a subtle disapproving look.
A tray of refreshments was brought in but before there was any partaking, Mr. Worthington’s mode of dialogue changed drastically from friendly and informal to more serious.
Legal words like “negotiation” and “proposal” would have normally fallen on deaf ears in regards to Catie Darcy, but when she heard the name Wesley Howell, she sat up.
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