As for Wade Radcliff, Bennet Darcy was as generous an employer as his father had been, so he had no desire to relinquish the comfortable, well-paid position. As he had done for the elder Mr. Darcy, Wade resided at and managed the Darcys’ London townhouse. The Mayfair residence did double duty, serving as both a family home and London office, meaning Ben needed someone in town full time when he was in Derbyshire.
The only real grumble Wade had with the younger Mr. Darcy was his fondness for the country. The late Mr. Darcy spent a large portion of his time at the family’s house in London, while his son preferred Pemberley and the countryside of Derbyshire. Wade loathed the country and country people.
Wade had left London on the first train out that morning and was already at the house arranging documents that needed signing as he waited for an unusually tardy Mr. Darcy.
Trying, sickening, even horrific were but a few words that could describe the day so far for Ben, who finally entered his study well after lunch. His indifference with Wade was not understood, neither was it questioned. Like Catie, Wade was accustomed to the man’s moods.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” Wade opened pleasantly.
“My morning was not good, Radcliff, and it’s well past noon. I believe a good afternoon would serve better.”
“Ah, yes, sir, of course . . . good afternoon.”
Ben sat at his desk and looked at the man, mildly apologetic. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“No worries, sir,” Wade replied.
“Right, well, I need you to ring the cereal company that leases the land from the river east. I’ve evicted their overseer.”
“Yes, sir.” Wade assumed this was the reason for Mr. Darcy’s being late and in a foul mood. “Oh, before I forget, sir, Charles Worthington rang several times this morning. The message is on your desk. I realize it’s brief, but he said you’d understand.”
Ben picked up the small slip of paper in front of him.
10:45 am — Mr. Charles Worthington telephoned:
The settlement offer has been rejected. Will be at Pemberley this weekend to reconsider our options.
W. Radcliff
Yes, Ben understood perfectly. Defeated, he blew out through puffed cheeks and ruefully chuckled. Not that anything was funny, but prior to entering his study he had the foolish audacity to pose himself the question: What else could possibly go wrong today?
Leaning back in his desk chair, Ben suddenly had another question that longed for an answer. Just how much money was it going to cost him to atone for Mary Darcy Howell’s sin of tossing out her bastard grandson like Monday morning’s trash? “Damn it to bloody hell,” he whispered.
Chapter 12
A cold meat sandwich, a carafe of Rose’s lemonade, and assorted fruits and biscuits were brought to Catie’s room. As to who delivered the tray of food and set it on her writing table, she could not say, for she never lifted her face from the pillow. Although her crying had stopped almost in unison with the fading sound of her brother’s boots, the pouting and self-pity had yet to ease.
Ultimately, it was the lemonade that roused her from her bed of misery. A dry scratchy throat from the morning’s commotion had turned sore after her quarrel with Ben. Filling the glass, she rebelliously picked up a biscuit rather than her sandwich and took up her favorite perch at the window.
The sky was blue without a speck of white to be found and worked in perfect harmony with the deep green lawn. It had not the appearance of a day that had gone so decidedly wrong.
Thinking upon her actions as she had been told, Catie relived the morning over and over. From the frightening events at the Ledfords up to her row with Ben, she rehashed it all and then . . . rehashed it again. Strangely though, only two parts continued to come forward in her mind: The damage to Ben’s knuckles from his literal fight for her life, and the word he used just before leaving her in her room . . . burden. He said burden.
Not only had their mother died leaving Catie behind, but only eight years later her father had also passed away. The responsibility placed on her brother had never occurred to Catie until today. I am and always have been a burden to my brother.
Pressing her forehead against the windowpane, Catie came to the conclusion that today obviously wasn’t the first time her brother had scuffed his knuckles (figuratively that is) on her behalf.
“ . . . think upon your actions,” Ben had said, but Catie couldn’t think any longer. Her brother, the Ledfords, and even Maggie Reid had all but consumed her for over an hour, and she desperately needed a diversion.
Moving from the window, she noticed Mary Darcy’s diary lying on her desk. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Mary,” she said as she topped off her glass with the last of the lemonade and picked up the book.
Wanting to be left alone, she set the tray outside to be collected and gazed down the vast corridor. She noticed a few dust motes floating in the sun-dappled hall. The house was quiet that afternoon as if her sentence of solitude had been imposed on Pemberley as well. Sighing, Catie stepped back into her room and shut the door.
By Mary’s seventeenth summer Arthur Howell had secured himself another invitation to the Thompsons’, and their romance picked up at a ferocious pace from where it had left off.
16 July 1919
Our walks are beginning to consist of little walking. His kisses are passionate and cause a burning inside me that is unexplainable. Tonight he touched my leg and slowly moved his hand up my thigh. I shuddered, he paused, smiled, and then continued until he reached my . . .
Catie slammed the book shut and looked about the room. No one was there; no one knew what she was reading. Why was she so jumpy? She even wondered whether continuing to read might violate Mary’s privacy. But the woman was long dead, she rationalized. She read on.
18 July 1919
It pinched and stung, but I shut my eyes tight to the pain. I wanted it. I wanted him, Arthur. He finally entered me. Finally made love to me! His touch is like a spark on my tingling, begging skin. “You are mine!” he told me. His woman, his lover, his! My body trembles when he is near . . . I am no longer a virgin . . . I am a Lover!
20 July 1919
Again today, I was naked in Arthur’s arms, his hands caressing me. His hands have touched places no other hands have touched. His mouth has explored me, and my body aches for him, arching to his bidding without command from its master. We are sinners, but our love must be forgiven. It is so sweet and pure. I tremble as I write of my Arthur, my lover . . .
Catie’s breathing was thick and uneven. A virgin who had never even been kissed, she was curious and captivated by Arthur and Mary’s lovemaking. Biting her bottom lip, she closed her eyes. Suddenly, she was Mary and Sean was Arthur. He touched her, and she trembled. They kissed as she ran her fingers through his gypsy black hair. She could almost taste the salty sweat of his skin.
The passages of forbidden, youthful lovemaking were long and detailed, and Catie read through them with the ardency of an eager apprentice hoping to learn a life’s trade.
She turned the page and inhaled a small gasp. What she and Mary had feared the most finally happened . . .
23 July 1919
OH! A most dreadful thing has occurred. Young cousin Geoffrey happened upon Arthur and me in the boathouse. He rushed Arthur and hit him. “You blackguard!” he yelled. “Geoffrey!” I cried after him, but he ran to the house and told Father.
Mamma is in hysterics. I am ashamed. So ashamed, I could hardly face Papa. He was furious and sent me above stairs. As I write this passage in my room, I weep. Papa is speaking with Arthur. Papa says I am ruined and must be married now. Pray Arthur, marry me my darling!
Catie hurriedly turned the page but it was stuck, and she worked hastily to free the corners. “Yes!” she exclaimed when the paper finally broke free and peeled back.
24 July 1919
Arthur has agreed to be my husband. He and Papa have made the arrangements. We will marry on 6 September. I wish I c
ould be happy but I have disappointed Papa and Mamma so. My heart is heavy with both love and regret . . .
Catie flipped to the next page and then thumbed quickly to the end, but only empty white pages remained. She was disappointed, but at least now she understood why Mary chose to hide her diary. It would never do in the family library alongside the memoirs of the more genteel Pemberley ladies.
The decision to return the book to Mary’s secret hiding place was an easy one. Mary had been violated quite enough, in more ways than one. There was no need for anyone else to trespass on her privacy.
Carefully removing the panel, Catie replaced the book and felt around the narrow cavity. Dust and cobwebs was all that was to one side, but to the other there was something wedged quite tightly. With one good pull, Catie was in possession of a small stack of envelopes bound in a blue ribbon. Assuming her find was the correspondence of the lovers, her face expressed visible delight.
There came a faint rap on the door, and her delight was dashed. Annie had come to run her bath and put fresh linens on the bed. She hid the letters in her bedside table and called out, “Come in.”
Still feeling a bit blistered, Catie felt the necessity to quarrel on the matter of the bath. Placing her hands on her hips, she stoutly declared, “I do not need a bath. I am not going downstairs for dinner tonight!” In truth, she just wanted to be left alone — alone to read Mary’s letters and to forget about the morning.
Annie replied just as stoutly, “Sorry, Miss Catie, but Rose said you were to have a hot bath, and I’ll not cross her path tonight. She’s in one of her moods, she is.”
Catie gave a small stamp of her foot, but it was all the protest she could muster. After the exhausting day, she didn’t have the strength to argue.
“In with you now.” Annie motioned Catie to the bathroom. “Or Rose will have both our heads!”
Fatigue quickly caught up to her, and the hot water was more relaxing than Catie had anticipated. She yawned several times while she listened to Annie bustling around her room, making the bed, gathering laundry and straightening up. A moment later, Annie deposited a fresh towel by the tub and hung Catie’s dressing gown on the door.
“I’ll return directly with your supper, Miss Catie.”
“All right,” Catie answered, staring at the ceiling.
“Anything else you need, a book from the library maybe?” Annie asked, feeling a bit sorry for her.
Giving Annie a wry look, Catie shook her head. “Not unless you want to be arrested for smuggling contraband.”
Annie’s brows furrowed in question.
“I’ve been sentenced to think, not read.”
“Ah.” Annie smiled faintly at her humor. “I see.”
As Annie closed the door, Catie used her toe to pop up the drain stopper and then dried off and dressed. Slightly rejuvenated from her bath, she grabbed Mary’s letters and settled down into the clean smell of line-dried sheets ironed with a hint of lavender.
Once the letters were untied and shuffled through, she quickly discovered they weren’t Mary and Arthur’s, but rather the correspondence between Mary and her son Thomas. From the postmarks, Catie surmised they were exchanged while Thomas was in Africa. Catie wondered whether they had been sent back to Mary after her son’s death along with his body and belongings.
Although the letters were more than forty years old, their condition was excellent, likely the result of being preserved inside the window casing for so long.
For the most part, the content of the correspondence was pretty much what one would expect between mother and son. But then Catie chanced upon the reason for Ben’s strange comment to the cigarette smoking man named Sams. “ . . . I’ll be bloody well damned to the devil before I let Pemberley fall into the wrong hands again!” The “again,” at least, now made better sense.
Apparently after Mary’s father died, Arthur Howell stood at the helm of Pemberley House. That is until he drank himself to death. Having the wealth of the Darcy empire at his fingertips but never having been taught restraint had led to a destructive outcome both for Arthur Howell and Pemberley Estate. His and Mary’s marriage had seemingly not been a good one . . .
4 April 1945
Pemberley Estate, Derbyshire, England
My Dearest Son,
Other than the abundance of Victory Gardens planted throughout the estate grounds, Pemberley is all but destitute. The fields are barren, the house is understaffed, and your father has left us almost bankrupt. I met with the solicitor today, and I am grieved to inform you the inheritance your grandfather intended for you has been drank, gambled, and squandered away. I have contacted Cousin Geoffrey at Rosings Park, and he has promised to help save Pemberley from ruin.
My only solace is that your weak constitution has kept you out of this dreadful war. It seems Pemberley’s weak constitution has kept her from being conscripted into service as well. Although some of the acreage has been used for training grounds, the house itself was not deemed usable. A dying master and disrepair has kept Pemberley from being of much use to her country. I do not know whether to be grateful or ashamed.
Your Loving Mum
Catie remembered studying the Second World War. The Blitz, rationing, Victory Gardens and yes . . . many country estates were converted during the war years for institutional use, barracks, schools and such. She couldn’t help but think of the Pemberley she knew today in comparison to the one Mary described. Arthur Howell’s hands were the wrong hands indeed. Catie now theorized why her grandfather had to sell Rosings Park. Possibly it was the only means to save Pemberley House from ruin brought at the hands of Arthur Howell.
“Poor Mary,” Catie murmured, wondering how they went from summer lovers to near destitution. It was not the “happily ever after” she had dreamed of for Mary and Arthur.
If Bennet Darcy had hopes of educating his sister on the evils of man, his sister had, in one day, been inundated by just that . . . the evils of man. From the perverse and abusive Mr. Ledford to the pillaging of Mary Darcy’s virginity and fortune by Arthur Howell, Catie’s education had begun indeed.
* * *
Barging was not in Sarah Darcy’s nature, but barge she did into her husband’s study. “Why did you not tell me Mr. Ledford had a gun?”
Ben sighed heavily in disgust. Though part of his disgust was born from the fact that gossip had the tendency to spread like the plague, the rest was for himself. He should have told her already. “Try not to get upset, Sarah; I was going to tell you.”
“When?” she demanded. “And is it true . . . did Catie shield the Ledfords’ child from being shot?”
“What!” Ben came to his feet. “Where did you hear that?” Only he, Catie, and Mrs. Ledford knew the particular details.
“It seems Mrs. Ledford boasted to Clark Ferrell all the way to her sister’s house how young Miss Darcy put the infant’s life before her own. Is it true, Bennet? Did that madman fire at Catie?”
Clark Ferrell, Ben repeated irritably to himself, committing to memory that he needed to have a word with that man.
Sarah waited, but before she could get her answer, the Darcys were notified that the police had arrived and were waiting in the front parlor.
“I am coming along.” Sarah glared at him insistently. “If you will not be forthcoming with me, at least I can be assured you will not perjure yourself with the authorities.”
“Fine . . . fine,” Ben said, daring to put an arm around her in comfort. “But do calm yourself, dear. Remember, Catie and I are both unharmed.”
In the small parlor, Senior Officer Hardy, a fiftyish man of great girth, waited for Mr. Darcy with Officer Conner, lanky in his youth and new to the force. Connor fidgeted, uncomfortable with the fine surroundings, but stood tall and still when Hardy cleared his throat, warning his young protégé to the sound of approaching footsteps.
Greetings out of the way, Ben offered the officers a seat and settled across from them. Then, without preamble, he recounted al
l of his dealings with Mr. Ledford, including the earlier morning incident, which he assumed started the trouble between Ledford and his wife.
Sarah listened in complete shock alongside Rose, who had brought in Mr. Ledford’s weapon so it could be turned over to the police.
All now seemed finalized in Ben Darcy’s mind, but Officer Hardy, who was painstakingly thorough, wanted to speak to Mr. Darcy’s sister. “ . . . and your sister, Mr. Darcy,” Hardy continued, as he flipped a page in his notes. “Is she available to give an account?”
“She is.” Ben gave a single nod. “But I was hoping she could be spared from speaking with the police.” He breathed deeply. “Officer Hardy, allow me to be direct. I have no interest in pursuing this matter with Mr. Ledford, and he will not be returning to my property, of that I can assure you.”
Officer Hardy turned uneasily to the younger officer. Mr. Darcy was a local magistrate, a principal and affluent member of the community, but not speaking to all the witnesses was certainly against protocol. He was clearly hesitant but relented to Mr. Darcy’s request. “Please understand, Mr. Darcy, if anything else arises in this case, it will be imperative that I speak to Miss Darcy.”
“Yes, of course. I thank you for your understanding, Officer Hardy, my . . . ” Ben paused, emotion had finally got the better of him, but he spoke deliberately through it. “My sister is at a very impressionable age, and the less that is made of this . . . well . . . the better it will be for her.” Ben stood, stepped away, and found a trinket on the mantel that needed readjusting.
Always the keen observer, Rose hastily but politely, saw the officers out. Knowing Ben needed a few minutes of privacy with Sarah, she closed the doors to the parlor and left the two alone.
Echoes of Pemberley Page 14
