Echoes of Pemberley

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  “Sarah,” he interrupted her, “have you seen the litter of romance novels scattered about my sister’s bedroom?”

  “A woman can be both a romantic and a successful business woman, Bennet!”

  “Did I say she couldn’t?”

  “No,” Sarah said repentantly as she brought his hand to her mouth and brushed his knuckles with her lips. “No you didn’t.”

  “What’s all this really about?”

  “Bennet, I’m afraid. Maybe we shouldn’t interfere so. Surely you can see how she wants nothing more than to please you. I fear if you were to nudge her, she might choose someone to satisfy you instead of herself.”

  He touched her cheek affectionately. “Darling, no one wants to see Catie happy more than I.”

  “But that’s the problem, Ben, don’t you see?” She sat up and faced him. “Your ideal of happiness may not be hers.”

  “I shan’t do anything other than what’s in her best interest,” he stated resolutely. “Fair enough?”

  Sarah nodded halfheartedly, taking note that he made no promises. Her own marriage suddenly came to mind. Sarah had never met Ben’s mother — and his father only once. She often wondered if he would have even married her if his mother were alive.

  Bennet Darcy was the biggest catch at Cambridge University, and those fishing for him had some rather alluring bait. But he stepped aside from all of the young and pretty socialites who kept a constant circle around him and chose her.

  At first Sarah had gone out of her way to avoid him because he seemed conceited. She disliked him really. She was the only person in their World Politics course (including the professor) who challenged his hidebound conservative views with her more liberal ideology. Sarah Mottinger was outspoken and headstrong, the daughter of a nine-to-five father and a school teacher mother, and yet . . . Bennet Darcy had chosen her.

  Would Margaret Darcy, the daughter of Lord Sumner, have approved? Or would Ben have been nudged in another direction? It was a question Sarah asked herself almost every time she passed the woman’s portrait in the gallery.

  * * *

  Not really tired, Catie hurried to her room to wait. Her bed had been changed and turned down, telling her Maggie Reid had already come and gone. The two were doing an excellent job of avoiding each other, which was just fine with Catie.

  She pushed open her window and sat, tucking her knees under her chin, to watch impatiently as night tiptoed slowly in and greedily consumed the sleepy lawns and gardens. Wafting up from the bushes, she could hear the “crex, crex” of the corncrakes, screeching loudly to attract a mate. Their rhythm lulled her until the tree tops finally disappeared into the shadows. She turned off all of her lights and took the service stairs down to a side door, praying it wouldn’t be bolted when she returned.

  Padding mouse-like through the walled garden to the pond, Catie thought of Sean. He had often said he took walks at night to wind down before bed, and she hoped this was one of those nights.

  Stepping out onto the small dock, she sat down and removed her shoes to dangle her feet in the cool water. Under a new moon, the still darkness closed in tightly, and she kept her torch light on for comfort, wishing Sean would hurry.

  For entertainment, she laid flat on the dock and shone the beam up into the trees, waiting, hoping. Soon she heard the rustling of footsteps, his footsteps. She called softly out to him, “Sean, is that you?”

  “Catie?” he said, equally as hushed.

  “Yes.” She laughed. “Who else?”

  Still lying on her back, streaming the light up into the starry sky, she turned the beam to his face when he stepped out onto the dock. As before, he instinctively raised a protective hand to his eyes.

  “What are you doing out so late?” he asked.

  She turned the beam back to the heavens and exhaled loudly. “Oh, I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You shouldn’t be out this late. Go home.” Sean gestured toward the manor with his chin.

  “And you shouldn’t be so bossy.” She patted the planks invitingly. “Sit.”

  Sean glanced back towards the house and deliberated. He knew she was too stubborn to leave and decided it was better to stay with her than leave her alone. Kicking off his shoes, Sean rolled up his tattered boot cut Levi’s to his knees and sat down beside her. It took several attempts to put his feet in the water, as he winced and sucked air through his teeth.

  “Namby-pamby.” She giggled.

  “Hey! It’s cold!” he said defensively. “How do you swim in this?”

  “Completely nak — ”

  “Never mind!” he interrupted her, shaking his head.

  “Well, you asked.” Still giggling, Catie sat up.

  Now side by side and close, the two gently swayed their feet back and forth in the water. Sean seemed so free, so unfettered, and she envied that. It was as if he had no rules, no one telling him how to sit, how to dress, what is and isn’t proper. Proper. Sometimes she wished she would never hear that word again.

  “So, I hear you’ve received an invitation to the garden party. Are you coming?” she asked.

  “I believe I must. I’ve never had a cucumber sandwich before.”

  “Your mother is English and you’ve never had a cucumber sandwich?”

  “Aye, but my father’s Irish and with five hungry boys to feed, well . . . cucumber sandwiches would be a bit dainty for our lot. We are more meat and potatoes.”

  They were quiet for several minutes, listening to the swishing water and the stirring of leaves from a passing breeze.

  “What is your father like?” Catie finally asked, already surmising his mother was probably much like Rose.

  Sean leaned back on his palms and sighed. “Seamus Kelly . . . he’s a good man, strong and proud but also difficult, bloody difficult. I doubt he and I have spoken ten kind words between us in the last year.”

  “Why?” Surprised, Catie turned to him.

  “Because I made the unforgivable mistake of not choosing the life he had planned out for me. That’s why I told you, all of the choices you make in life have consequences, some good . . . some bad. I have been living with my consequences for a while now.”

  “But . . . ” she hesitated. “It’s your life, not his.”

  “Irish fathers are extremely proud men, Catie. My father owns a good deal of land, a horse farm and livery business. He’s Protestant now but he was raised Catholic and poor . . . very poor. My grand-da was a farrier by trade but he found little work. My dad and his seven brothers lived a beggar’s life, often went hungry.”

  “No work for a farrier in Ireland?” she asked disbelievingly. “I would think there are plenty of horses to shoe there.”

  “Northern Ireland . . . and yes there are plenty of horses. But most of those horses belonged to Protestants and they’d not have a taig shoeing their precious animals if a Presbyterian needed the work.”

  “Taig?” she asked.

  “An offensive term for Catholics, like . . . papist,” he explained.

  “Oh. So your father . . . he has suffered a lot during the Troubles then.”

  Sean nodded.

  “Is that why he became Protestant?”

  “No. I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “That happened before I was born, even before he married my mam. I don’t know why he left the church. I’ve asked him, but he won’t talk about it. Like I said, he’s difficult at times.”

  Sean paused and looked away for a moment but then continued. “Anyways, Seamus Kelly was the first in his family to purchase land, to own his own business . . . to own anything really. It gave him great pride to be able to give me, his first son, an inheritance and an occupation. For me to turn it down, well, it was the same as slapping him in the face. I mean . . . I love horses, but . . . it’s just . . . I really want to finish my education. I very much want to teach.”

  “Teach? School you mean?”

  Sean laughed. “You sound surprised.”

  “No.” Catie shook
her head. “I’m not surprised. It makes perfect sense really. You’re certainly bossy enough.” She cut a teasing eye at him.

  “Evidently not bossy enough. You’re still not galloping properly, but some students are more thickheaded than others. It’s to be expected I suppose.” He returned the teasing eye.

  “Haven’t you explained all of this to your father?” Catie asked more seriously. Sean Kelly no longer seemed so unfettered.

  “Da doesn’t understand. I don’t know if he ever will.” He sat back up and brushed his palms. The heaviness of his words seemed to fall away with the debris. Clearly he had a lot of practice shaking off this particular pain. “Now, Catie Darcy,” he said with a brightened voice. “I’ve shared my life story — your turn.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Sean narrowed his eyes as a devilish smirk creased his lips. “Why do you not like to gallop?”

  Rolling her eyes, she slumped back down to the dock. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. But tomorrow — it’s getting late.” She pulled her feet out of the water and stood up. Then, using his shoulder for balance, she worked her wet feet into her shoes. “I want to take you somewhere tomorrow, during my lesson . . . okay?”

  “That’s fine, but you are telling me.”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you.” Catie patted him in assurance and started off the dock to home. Getting only a few feet away, she turned and called to him, “Sleep well, Mister Kelly!”

  She heard him laugh as he called back, “You too, Miss Catie!”

  Chapter 17

  Already awake, Geoffrey and George were playing in their room, waiting for their mother. George liked mornings the best. Mummy came in early every morning to wash their faces and help them get dressed. When they were ready, she would smile, kiss their cheeks, and walk them to breakfast. Mummy was tall and beautiful and looked at him and Geoffrey the same way. Most people looked at George with pity, like there was something wrong with him, but Mummy didn’t.

  George saw her peek around the door, as she often did. She liked to watch them play when they didn’t know she was there, but George always knew. George was an expert at knowing when someone was watching. Still, he waited for Geoffrey to take notice of her first and would only race across the room squealing, “Mummy, Mummy,” behind his brother.

  George Fitzwilliam Darcy was born four minutes and eleven seconds after his brother, Geoffrey Bennet Darcy. And that day set a precedent. Geoffrey crawled first, talked first, walked first, and often received a smiling look of pride from their father. George had never received that look, but he was content with the way things were. That is until recently.

  Living in Geoffrey’s shadow was becoming less and less appealing for George. His self-imprisoned voice was beginning to grow restless, struggling to find a way out. He wanted to be heard.

  As they approached the breakfast room, George stuffed the little wooden horse Sean gave him deep into his pocket. Daddy didn’t like toys at the table, and George was afraid he’d take it away. At breakfast one morning, he confiscated a bouncy ball that escaped Geoffrey’s hand, bounced across the table, and landed in Daddy’s eggs. George was taking no chances. When they entered the room, Daddy smiled and George waited.

  “Well, good morning, Sons!”

  “Good morning, Daddy!” Geoffrey yelled boisterously, scrambling over to his father’s chair.

  George observed closely as Daddy snuggled Geoffrey into his crisp shirt that always smelled like Rose. George liked that smell, the same smell as his sheets with the D embroidered on them. Each night he would trace the letter with his fingertips as he drifted off to sleep.

  Geoffrey went to his seat, and George carefully mimicked everything he had just observed. “Good morning, Daddy.”

  * * *

  Awake earlier than usual, Catie sat in her window seat and watched the sun rise over the hills. She smiled, appreciating the sun more than usual. There was a tingle inside of her — not nervous like butterflies, but happy. She had almost forgotten she could feel so happy.

  The smell of bacon drifted up through the house, reminding her that she had only picked at last night’s supper. She dressed quickly, frowning at the sight of her ankles peeking from below her cuffs, and hurried down to breakfast.

  “Good morning!” she sang merrily as she crossed the room and took her seat. “How is everyone this morning? Sleep well?” When she only got odd looks in return, Catie looked at Ben and Sarah. “What?”

  “You are rather chipper for so early in the morning, Catherine,” Ben said, somewhat bewildered. The previous evening she had retired to her room, hardly speaking to anyone.

  “It’s such a beautiful day, Bennet.” Catie smiled. “How could one not be chipper?”

  Ben looked at her suspiciously and raised a brow at Sarah before retreating behind his morning paper.

  “Sarah, are you terribly busy today?” Catie asked as she buttered a muffin.

  “No, not terribly busy, dear. Why?”

  “I’m afraid I must go shopping. All of my trousers are starting to ride up over my ankles. I can’t imagine what they are doing to my laundry.”

  Sarah smiled. “Catie, no one is doing anything to your laundry. I believe you are just experiencing a little growth spurt. It’s normal. I had my last significant spurt of growth at your age as well.”

  There was a chuckle from behind the newspaper.

  “And what’s so funny?” Sarah asked her husband.

  Ben drew back the corner of the paper, grinning. “I was just wondering, Sarah. Should I report this new development in stature to the old biddy, or shall you?”

  Sarah looked back at him blandly, clearly not feeling the comment needed a response. Ben thought it best to go back behind his paper.

  Confused, Catie shook her head and didn’t ask.

  George smiled and with great emphasis repeated, “Old biddy!”

  The paper dropped, and Sarah’s teacup returned to its saucer. “George,” she said gently. “That is not a word of your father’s I want you to repeat.”

  “My word!” Ben protested. “It certainly wasn’t my — ”

  “Bennet!” Sarah cut him off. “The important thing here is that George not repeat impolite language.”

  “Impolite, indeed,” he agreed, glancing at George. “You know, Sarah, I’m glad he is talking more. But why is it he only repeats words he shouldn’t?”

  “Yes,” Catie chimed in. “I’ve notice the same thing. And I think he does it on purpose!”

  “Catherine!” Sarah exclaimed, as George’s face instantly scrunched into a mean look, which he directed at his aunt.

  “Well, it’s true,” Catie argued, glaring spitefully back at her nephew.

  George moved his hand to his pocket and felt the little wooden horse, Misneach — courage. “I do not!” he bellowed across the table at Catie, shocked at his own voice.

  Sarah gasped as George’s eyes traveled warily from his mother, to his aunt, and then to his father. Then he picked up his spoon and casually resumed eating his cereal.

  “George Darcy, look at me.” Ben leaned forward.

  Putting his hand back over the little horse again, George cautiously lifted his eyes back to meet his father’s. The two sat for several seconds in a locked, revealing gaze, making George feel completely exposed, as if all of his secrets were opened up like a window with the curtains flung back for all the world to see. Daddy would know he could talk, but maybe it was time Daddy knew.

  “George, my boy,” Ben finally spoke. “It sounds as though the women are going shopping this morning. I believe that is our cue as men to go fishing. What do you say to that?”

  George gave a slight, hesitant nod.

  “Right. Hurry then, Son, and finish your breakfast before it gets cold,” Ben urged softly. Then glancing around the table, he added, “Let us all finish our breakfast.”

  * * *

  Sitting at her piano later that afternoon, Catie sighed. Her first piano lesson wa
s at the age of four — so small she had to be lifted to the bench. The massive instrument spread out before her, but she wasn’t intimidated. It was like coming to a place you have never been before but knowing you belonged. She possessed a musical ear, a gift she shared with her mother and kept hidden like the little locket, always out of sight and close to her heart.

  Mariah Jennings was the star pianist at Davenport School. Whenever a pianist was needed to play for a theatrical production or concert, Mariah Jennings was called on to perform. Catie Darcy could play circles around Mariah if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. Instead of flaunting her talent, she used it to torment clueless piano teachers or impress the ones she happened to like.

  She didn’t need to practice, but practice she must, for the ghosts that dwelled within her brother at times seemed to haunt her as well. Sighing once more, she opened her music and began playing the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, which matched her brooding mood.

  After only a few minutes, she stopped and looked around the empty music room with a wicked grin. Then she started again, purposefully skipping notes and rearranging bars to lessen the tedium. When she tired of that, she took one particular measure and played it backwards over and over again until Rose had endured enough.

  When Rose came to the door, Catie stopped playing and asked, “Did you need something, Nan?” Her voice was as innocent as her expression.

  “Enough!” Rose said, bringing her hand to her throat and giving the air in front of it a hard slice.

  “Sorry, Nan. Try as I might, I just couldn’t make Beethoven proud.” Smirking, Catie closed the piano.

  Rose narrowed her eyes and pointed a condemning finger, murmuring as she walked out, “I changed your nappies, Catie Darcy, and you’ve not fooled me for an instant.”

  * * *