Echoes of Pemberley

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  She poured herself a tall glass of milk and disappeared into the pantry. After a brief search, she found her loot — three sugar biscuits from Mr. Johnson’s stash — and wrapped and stuffed the booty under her arm. On her way out, Catie grabbed the glass of milk and went quietly up the backstairs, hoping to avoid Rose who was like a hound on a fox when it came to sniffing out sugar biscuits.

  As she rushed out of the stairway she almost collided with Wade Radcliff. “Mr. Radcliff!” she exclaimed, nearly spilling the milk.

  The two had never been particularly fond of each other. Wade cared deeply for the late Mr. Darcy but despised the man’s bent on being an indulgent father to Catie. And Catie couldn’t stand his persnickety ways.

  “Maybe you should watch where you’re going, Catherine,” he said defensively, making sure no milk had landed on his pristine clothes.

  “Radcliff!” Ben called impatiently, causing the man’s head to give a sudden jerk.

  “Yes . . . coming, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Humph,” Catie uttered nastily and brushed past him.

  Her plan was to spend the morning watching mindless television, but the twins had gotten there first. Catie backed out quietly and headed back to her room, grumbling about Sarah’s refusal to allow more televisions in the house.

  Sitting at her desk, she unwrapped the cookies, which were crushed in transport, and chewed slowly on the tiny pieces as she sipped her milk. Bored, she flipped through the pages of a magazine until the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Cate!” Aiden Hirst said. “How are ya, love?”

  Cate? Love? Catie grimaced. “I’m fine, Aiden, and you?”

  “Couldn’t be better! I was thinking of coming out to the country this weekend but the old man needs me in town.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” she lied.

  “Oh, be still my beating heart,” he said teasingly. “She’s sorry to hear she won’t be seeing me.”

  Catie laughed. “Did you only call to tell me you won’t be seeing me this weekend, Aiden?”

  “No, I called to be the first chap to claim a dance with you at your family’s garden party next weekend.”

  “Oh, well . . . ”

  “Don’t tell me I’ve been beaten to the punch!” he interrupted her hesitation.

  He hadn’t, though she had planned on spending the evening with Sean. “No. No one’s beaten you to the punch. I’ll be glad to dance with you.” Her answer was tinged with disappointment. No matter how many hints she dropped, Sean didn’t seem the least bit interested in dancing with her.

  “Don’t burst from excitement, Cate. You’re not making a chap feel very special.”

  “Sorry, Aiden, it’s raining pitchforks and hammer handles out here. It’s not you, just the weather.”

  “Pitchforks and hammer handles?” He laughed. “God, I love you shire girls!”

  “We do own a house in town, you know.” Catie’s disappointed tone quickly turned indignant. “We Darcys are farmers, Aiden, not country bumpkins.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . listen, Cate, that came out wrong.” He paused momentarily. “Can I still have that dance, even though I’m a daft fool when it comes to women?”

  She smiled. Aiden Hirst could be a sweet guy. “Yes, Aiden, we Darcys are also good to our word. You may still have the dance. Though I warn you, out here in the sticks it will be only country waltzes or reels, do-si-do.” She couldn’t help but chide him one last time.

  “Ha . . . ha. Finished?”

  “Yes.” She chuckled.

  “Good, next Sunday then. I look forward to it. Cheers, Cate.”

  “Bye, Aiden.” Still chuckling, she hung up and happened to notice Mary Darcy’s last letter to Thomas lying on her desk. She had never opened it. Catie ran her fingertip under the seal, already loosened with age, and carefully removed the letter.

  8th May 1945

  My dear son Thomas,

  I was saddened and troubled to hear you are feeling unwell. I pray this letter finds you in better health. Thomas, I wish you had not taken your leave so soon after your father’s death. I appreciate your calling, but a mother needs her son in difficult times, and these times have been difficult indeed. My son, promise me you will make every effort to be back at Pemberley for Christmas.

  On to matters of business; per your consent, by mid-June, I shall sign Pemberley and all of its holdings over to Cousin Geoffrey. He desires to give the home of our ancestors his full devotion; therefore, he will be selling Rosings Park and moving his family from Kent to Derbyshire permanently. His fortune has been great on that front, as Rosings Park became a retreat for officers during the War. A regular visitor, with whom Geoffrey became quite friendly, purchased the home at a suitable price for his future bride. The chap is a dashing and rich American general who took a fancy to an English nurse and plans to make England his permanent home. Rosings Park is most definitely a loss to Geoffrey, especially to a Yank. Thank God he is a heroic Yank, but it is a loss that must be endured for Pemberley’s sake!

  25th May 1945

  My dearest son, I am ashamed to admit it, but I have left this letter neglected for over two weeks. Much has been happening, and the house has been in uproar. With a skeleton crew of servants, my time has been fully employed with recent events. No sooner had I started your letter, than our houseguest went into labor and gave birth. A healthy beautiful boy she named Wesley. According to Rebecca, Wesley was the name of the child’s father, whether it be the man’s first name or last, I could not say. She told me in confidence he was a close friend of the family, a married man, and a Member of Parliament. Hence, I am assuming the necessity of her remote confinement at Pemberley House.

  I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for the girl, for she is but fourteen years old and has been quite ill-raised. Your father’s cousin sent for her daughter shortly after the birth. A letter arrived today by post thanking me for my “help” with the family’s “unfortunate” situation. The only real consolation I have in the matter is that the lady who came for Wesley was a kindly looking woman. She questioned me about his birth record, for Rebecca gave no more than Wesley to the mid-wife, per her mother’s direction. Oh, Thomas, I could not very well send the babe into the world with only Wesley for a name, so I offered Howell for his surname. It was the least I could do. The Worthingtons were certainly adamant he wasn’t to carry theirs. I bid you pray for little Wesley Howell, Thomas, he will need our prayers indeed.

  I shall close now. You are painfully missed by your mother. Please take care my darling, and write soon.

  Your Loving Mum

  “Worthington?” Catie lifted her head from the letter as if questioning the empty room around her. “I knew Wesley Howell wasn’t Mary’s grandson!” As the meaning of what she had just read became clearer, a burning urgency rushed through her . . . this was important, it must be important. “Worthington?” she repeated. Letter in hand, Catie jumped up and ran to Ben’s study, her thoughts racing as fast as her feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” asked Wade Radcliff, stopping her not ten steps from Ben’s door.

  “To see my brother,” Catie answered, trying to step around him.

  “No you’re not.” He stopped her again.

  “Mr. Radcliff, this is important. I must see him at once!” she demanded, but Radcliff wasn’t budging.

  “Sorry, but your brother’s on a very important call and is not to be disturbed.”

  “But, Mr. Radcliff,” Catie continued more persuasively. “You don’t understand. This is important, urgent even!”

  “Your brother is in no mood for your childish games today, Catherine. Something big is happening that even I am not privy to. He is to leave for London shortly, and hasn’t the time.”

  With folded arms and narrowed eyes, Catie walked past the unmovable man. Oh, how she wished she were six years old again! A vengeful, solid kick to the shin would be overlooked and dismissed as a tantrum. But she had matured and so
had her tactics. She stomped loudly down the service stairs, then turned and crept lightly back up. She knew Mr. Radcliff would be making arrangements for Ben to leave, and once he was sure she was gone, he would give up his guard at the door.

  “Right as rain,” Catie said quietly as she reemerged into the empty corridor, congratulating herself on such a befitting simile, considering the weather.

  Now with nothing but a door between her and Ben, she paused. What if the letter meant nothing? Then again, what if the “something big” Radcliff was referring to had to do with Wesley Howell? Either way, she couldn’t let Ben go to London without reading the letter. Catie closed her eyes tight and turned the knob.

  Suddenly she was standing in the middle of the Persian rug that covered three quarters of Ben’s study. His desk chair was turned away from the door and his feet were propped on the credenza behind his desk. Deep in conversation, he knew nothing of the breach into his sanctuary.

  “Brother,” she said softly, her only endearment for him. When she was small, chubby cheeked and angelic looking, she discovered adding a “my sweet” or in dire situations a “my dear sweet” saved her many dues.

  Ben’s feet dropped to the floor and his chair turned in her direction. “What’s the matter, Catie?” he asked with the phone still to his ear and a confused expression on his face.

  “I need to speak with you, it’s important,” she said, her voice still soft but firm.

  “Charles, can you please hold?” Ben said into the receiver and pushed a button for privacy. “Catherine, I am very busy. How did you get in here?”

  “I need to show you something. Now, Bennet, before you leave for London.”

  “Catherine, I do not have time for you right now. And furthermore, you know better than to bother me this time of day. Now run along!” Ben said in a shooing tone and swiveled back to the credenza.

  Frustrated with his lack of interest, Catie turn on her heel and started out. “I’m sorry, Charles,” she heard Ben say as she neared the door. “Please continue.”

  Charles Worthington . . . Worthington, it meant something, it had to mean something. She stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back. “No, Bennet, I damn well bloody refuse to run along!” She hadn’t meant to accentuate the curse words, but it worked well. She had his attention.

  “What did you say?” Ben swiveled back around in his chair, his expression so incredulous she had a painful twinge of regret. “No, Charles, I wasn’t speaking to you, but I’ll have to call you back. I have a situation here that needs dealing with.”

  “Catherine Elizabeth Darcy!” Ben stood up as he returned the phone to its base, giving her such a severe gaze that her heart thumped hard in her chest. “You know that I will not allow you to speak to me in such a manner.”

  Catie looked him straight in the eye. “No? Well, I have something to show you, and how else am I to get your attention when you dismiss me like a child?”

  “Catherine — ”

  “Read this,” she cut him off and extended her hand. The letter was crumpled, and she thought it strange that she hadn’t even realized she was clutching it so hard.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Read it, Ben. It’s about Wesley, Wesley Howell. I think it’s important . . . it seems important.”

  “What do you know about Wesley Howell?”

  “For starters, I know he is not Cousin Mary’s grandson.” Catie took another step forward, putting the letter even closer to his reach. “Go ahead, Brother, read it.”

  With a distinct look of annoyance on his face, Ben took the letter from Catie’s hand and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the page, and she could tell he was only skimming the words.

  “This is merely a letter Mary wrote to Thomas while he was in Africa, Catherine.”

  “No, Ben, keep reading,” she urged, waving an impatient hand at him.

  “All right, all right,” he said in a surrendering tone and returned his attention to the letter. Almost immediately his expression began to change, signifying he had reached the crucial excerpt. Frowning, he began to reread the letter. This time, however, he brought it closer to his face and his lips moved as he read. He felt behind him for his chair and eased himself down. Only then did he look back at her.

  “Where in the bloody hell did you get this?”

  Catie’s eyes widened at his reaction. “In my room; it must’ve been Mary’s room at one time.”

  “Radcliff!” Ben yelled. “Radcliff!”

  Wade Radcliff hurried through the door. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”

  Not lifting his eyes from the letter, Ben demanded, “Ring Horace Harold at once!”

  “Horace Harold?”

  The Darcy temper was one that reared up quickly. A blotch of red was creeping up Ben’s neck and a vein was pulsating. The expression on his face when he raised his eyes from the paper to Wade Radcliff’s question needed no words.

  “Yes, sir, Horace Harold!” he quickly amended and went straight to the telephone.

  Catie understood Mr. Radcliff’s need for clarification. Ben and Uncle Horace’s business relationship had completely dissolved, and their personal ties had suffered because of it. Still, Uncle Horace was the first person Ben thought to call, and she was grateful for that. Horace Harold was as close to a father as they had.

  As Radcliff held the line, waiting for Horace Harold to be pulled from a meeting, Ben began to question Catie. “Where exactly did you find this?”

  “Behind a panel in my window seat,” she told him. “First I found the diary, but I returned it and then I found the letters . . . ”

  “There is more?” Ben stopped her. “More letters and a diary?”

  Instantly regretting the mention of the risqué diary, she hesitantly replied, “Y-yes.”

  “Catie, hurry off and get everything you have of Cousin Mary’s and bring it to me!”

  She nodded and left to fetch her little collection of Mary Darcy Howell’s history.

  By the time Catie returned, Ben’s door was closed, and Mr. Radcliff was back at his sentry post. “He is speaking with Mr. Harold and not to be disturbed,” Wade said flatly. “I’ll take those.”

  Disappointed, she surrendered the diary and letters to Mr. Radcliff and went to the front hall. She seated herself on the lower part of the grand staircase to wait. Ben would have to pass her on his way out and maybe he would say something. He might thank her or at least confirm the importance of her find. Maybe, she fantasized, maybe she had single-handedly kept Pemberley from falling into the “wrong hands” again. Or possibly she had finally done something that would make up for being a burden to Ben all these years.

  While Catie waited, another storm came upon the manor. It rumbled and howled around the house and against the windows with a threatening strength. Everything felt electric and tense. It was almost an hour before she heard movement and male voices coming from the gallery. Then Ben and Mr. Radcliff rounded the corner and bounded down the staircase with the heavy tread of hurried men. As they neared, Catie stood and moved to the side to allow them to pass, staring hard at her brother in hopes of making eye contact with him. Ben, however, passed by without even a glance. He had a fixed look of contempt on his face, telling her his mind was clearly elsewhere.

  She thought of calling out to him before he left. There was time, plenty of time, for he and Mr. Radcliff stopped at the door long enough to don their trench coats and turn up their collars to the wind that was now blowing the rain sideways. There was even a slight delay leaving as Ben waited for Mr. Radcliff to step out onto the portico and raise the umbrella. But Catie remained silent until Ben was outside. Only then did she make her way to the window and watch Ben get into the car. She could see his face through the car window, blurred by the rain as it ran down the glass. “It had meant something,” she whispered.

  She stayed at the window until she could no longer see the black car as it blended into the grey of the heavy rain. For a moment the tail lights were still distin
guishable, like two red eyes staring back at her, but eventually they too disappeared into the storm.

  Chapter 19

  After frantically pacing the hall most of Friday afternoon with a message from Mr. Darcy for his wife, Maggie rushed forward when Sarah entered and exclaimed, “Mrs. Darcy, ma’am!”

  “Maggie!” Rose quickly admonished the outburst. “You must never rush Mrs. Darcy and really, child, do allow madam to get a foot in the door.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maggie replied, lowering her head repentantly, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  Sarah gave Rose a wink. “It’s all right now, Maggie. My foot’s officially inside the door. What did you need to tell me, dear?”

  “A message for you from Mr. Darcy, ma’am, he said it was to be handed to you the instant you stepped in the house.” Maggie glanced warily at Rose, hoping the explanation excused her.

  “Thank you, Maggie.” Sarah smiled consolingly.

  Maggie bobbed her head and hurried off.

  “That child’s afraid of her own shadow,” Rose commented as she hung up her wet coat.

  “I like her.” Sarah unfolded the sealed message from her husband. “But do remind her Rose, it’s madam or Mrs. Darcy. I’m not the Queen for heaven’s sake.”

  Rose chuckled. “Yes, yes, I’ll remind her. Now, you must get off of those ankles. I swear the planning for this garden party gets more detailed each year. Where do you fancy having your tea?”

  Fully absorbed in reading the missive, Sarah didn’t seem to hear the question.

  “Sarah.” Rose took note of a developing frown and stepped closer. “Is everything all right, dear?”

  “I must to go to London, Rose. Please make the arrangements. I shall be leaving immediately.”

  * * *

  Pulling back the curtain, Rose saw the sun streaming through a sparkling mist that had settled over the landscape during the night and breathed a sigh of relief. “Praise the Lord,” she whispered and, letting the curtain fall back into place, went to have breakfast with the children. Sarah had vaguely explained the urgency before dashing off to join her husband in London, leaving Rose in charge of Pemberley and its inhabitants — an undesirable task after thirty-six hours of unrelenting rain.