Echoes of Pemberley

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  Catie sat down and took off her riding hat. She placed it in her lap and looked up at him, sure she was in for a sermon for the trouble and worry she had caused.

  He stared at her for some time and then turned away, towards the river. When he finally spoke, he did not look back at her. “Your brother has been played for a fool, Catie.”

  “What?” she asked, surprised by his words.

  “I know you have wanted to know . . . to understand the circumstances surrounding Cousin Mary and Wesley Howell, but I have been too ashamed.” He paused for another moment and then faced her. “Catie, had you not found those letters, I would have been swindled, duped by a con artist, a man no better than a common pickpocket. Our father advised me — warned me many, many times — that if anything were to happen to him, to put my trust in Horace Harold. But . . . I followed a path of my own conceited confidence. I wanted to run Pemberley and my business affairs my way, not Dad’s. Horace Harold scolded me like a child when I brought Charles Worthington on board, and I shut him out.” Ben took a deep breath. “In arrogance I turned from what I was taught by our father, letting him down — and all those who depend on me.”

  Catie couldn’t stand the speech any longer. Staring up at Ben, she saw what she always saw: strength and confidence. “No, Bennet, you have let no one down! What have you done wrong but trust a friend? The only person to blame is Mr. Worthington, not you! You could never be to blame for anything. You always know what is right, and you always do what is right.”

  “No, Catie, I don’t!” he snapped at her. “I am just as fallible as any man, and your perception of me is far too unrealistic!” The sharp response made Catie lower her eyes and fiddle with her hat straps. Ben grimaced regretfully. “Sis,” he said softly, kneeling on the wet grass in front of her. “You’re not a child anymore. It’s time you grew up. You have to stop romanticizing the world around you. You idolized Dad when he was alive and have set him upon a pedestal and worshiped him since his death.” He placed a warm hand on Catie’s knee. “He was human, dearest, just as I am. The truth is, I, like our father, have made many mistakes in my life and will make many more. I’m honored by your admiration, but it’s difficult to live up to. It was for that reason that I’ve put off coming to you. How do I tell my little sister, who looks to me for guidance and security, of my own carelessness? I never wanted to let you down, Catie.”

  Catie stared at him. “You haven’t.”

  He marveled at how her eyes were just like their mother’s eyes, and smiled. “Still . . . you are at an age now that you must understand . . . I don’t always know what is right, and I certainly don’t always do what is right.”

  “But you do.” She sniffed back both the chill of the morning and her increasing emotion.

  “No, Catie, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you bloody well do! I am grown-up, Ben; grown-up enough to understand what you did for me, the sacrifices you’ve made for me. I know what a burden I’ve been and — ”

  “Burden!” he interrupted. “How could you say such a thing?”

  “It was you who said it, Bennet, not me.”

  “I said it?” He stood and looked down at her. “I never would have — ”

  “Yes, Bennet, you did. When you put me in my room, remember?”

  His expression showed his disbelief, but inside he didn’t question the truth of it. “My God, Catie, I was out of my mind with worry that day. Please know — whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. You have been anything but a burden.”

  Ben motioned for her to make room for him on the stump and sat down beside her. “Do you not understand why I was so upset that day?”

  “Because I didn’t leave the Ledfords’ when you told me to.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “That’s not it. Catie, I almost lost you, and that would have been like losing our parents all over again. God, Sis, every time I look into your face, I see our mother. And you are overflowing with Dad’s personality, his determination, his sense of humor. You aren’t a burden; if anything you have been a gift. You’re all I have left of them.”

  “I’m so sorry they died.” Catie’s voice broke, but she was determined not to cry.

  Ben swallowed hard. “I’m sorry too. But you and I . . . we’ve done all right, eh?”

  She nodded as her bottom lip trembled, and she bit it fiercely.

  “It’s all right, dearest.” Ben pulled her into his chest. “Cry if you must . . . God knows I’m about on the verge myself.”

  He held her as she cried. When she had finished, he helped her dry her face, and they walked back to the horses. “Cold?” he asked, noticing a shiver.

  “A little,” she admitted with a half smile.

  Following her to Chloe’s side, Ben took off the pullover he had grabbed before leaving the house and gave it to her. “One, two, three,” he counted and hoisted her into the saddle. Then he mounted Geronimo and the two headed back to the house, riding slowly and evenly.

  As they made their way home, Ben finished unburdening his soul. He told her how he had trusted Charles Worthington, their casual friendship going back to Cambridge. He and Horace Harold had been knocking heads for some time, and although it wasn’t an excuse, Worthington was in the right place at the right time, so to speak. Once Horace Harold was completely out of the picture, Worthington had put his plan firmly in place to extort an inheritance for Wesley Howell.

  Ben said he’d been made to believe that impregnating young Rebecca was the primary reason Thomas Howell had left the country and gone to Africa. And following the birth of her grandson, Mary Howell had paid the girl off and sent the baby away so as not to cause any complications with Grandfather Geoffrey’s takeover of Pemberley. In actuality however, Rebecca was Rebecca Worthington, Charles Worthington’s aunt and a distant cousin to Arthur Howell. Ben had no clue of the kinship between the Howells and Worthingtons until Horace Harold discovered it in his investigation.

  Mary Darcy Howell, he told Catie, had been nothing but generous by allowing Rebecca to spend her confinement in the privacy of Pemberley. She only gave Wesley Howell her husband’s surname out of kindness — not familial obligation.

  “I believed Worthington, Catie. He promised to deal with the matter swiftly. He hired a phony private investigator who produced a falsified birth record naming Thomas Howell as Wesley’s father. I saw the bloody thing myself and believed it.”

  “The man named Sams in front of the house?” Catie asked, and Ben nodded.

  “I should have sent you out to kick him in the shins, Sis.” He smiled finally, remembering the times she had done just that. Once he was in a heated dispute with a traffic warden over a parking ticket in London, and she slammed her little Mary Janes in the poor man’s leg so hard, he was sure he was going to prison. “It was a well designed plot, Catie — one that would have worked had it not been for the letter you found and the quick work of Horace Harold’s staff.

  “So . . . where is Mr. Worthington now?”

  “Fled the country most likely. No one has been able to locate him. Bloody blackguard somehow knew Horace and I were on to him.” He looked over at her with the glimmer of a smirk on his face. “But don’t worry, your Uncle Horace is seeing to him.”

  “Poor Mr. Worthington,” she said with a chuckle.

  “Indeed,” her brother agreed gravely.

  Catie looked serious again and asked, “What about Wesley Howell?”

  “Mr. Howell, or whatever his name really is, claims to be a victim of Worthington’s as well, and with Worthington nowhere to be found . . . ” Ben shrugged. “Who’s to say otherwise? I’ll admit it was a fair mess I fell into, Sis, but thankfully I’m no worse for having been so foolish.”

  They reached the lake and pulled the horses to a halt to gaze upon the grand home of their ancestors. “You know, Catie, Grandfather once told me, ‘Bennet, my boy, if you love and care for Pemberley, Pemberley will love and care for you in return.’ Never have I believed that statement more than wh
en you burst into my office that morning with Mary’s letter in your hand, taken from Pemberley’s very walls.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “You had no way of knowing this, but I was just minutes away from leaving. I was headed to London to sign over a very large sum of money to Wesley Howell.”

  Upon their return to the house, Rose took Catie to the kitchen for cocoa, while Ben went to the nursery where Sarah was readying the boys for breakfast. Sean had called the house as soon as he returned to the stables, letting all know Catie was safe and with her brother.

  “You’re back,” Sarah acknowledged, handing him Geoffrey’s shoes and gently pushing the child in the direction of his father.

  Ben took a seat and pulled the boy onto his lap. “Yes, we’re back.”

  “And?” Sarah’s tone was anxious.

  “And . . . she galloped,” Ben replied, as he tried to wriggle Geoffrey’s shoe onto his foot. “Are you sure this shoe fits this boy?”

  “Of course it fits him, I just bought it. Though it wouldn’t shock me if it didn’t; the poor dears have their father’s feet. So where is she now?”

  “Who, love? Ah . . . there you go, Geoffrey!”

  “Catie!” Sarah exclaimed as she gestured to George, who stood waiting, shoes in hand.

  Ben patted his knee and the boy climbed upon his father’s lap. “She’s in the kitchen having cocoa with Rose.”

  “Cocoa!” she exclaimed again. “Is that your idea of a proper consequence?”

  “Consequence?” His brows knitted and he paused to look up at her.

  “Yes, Bennet, a consequence!” she answered tersely. “Have you forgotten how she left this house before dawn without telling anyone, how she went out riding her horse in that dreadful fog...alone?”

  Visibly fighting a grin, Ben argued, “Really, Sarah? Is punishment your only recourse? I have found that it is much better to talk to her, to reason with her.”

  Sarah stared at him. “You’ll not use my words against me, Bennet Darcy! That was before she scared me half out of my wits this morning.”

  “Well, Sarah,” he offered, the grin now spreading. “She’s in the kitchen. If you feel she needs to be punished, go to it. I’ll certainly not stop you.”

  Arms folded and lips pursed, Sarah tapped a contemplating foot. “And I would too,” she declared, chin thrust up. “Had this not been such a trying week for us all, but seeing that it has, I feel the matter is probably better dropped.”

  Still grinning, Ben finished tying George’s shoe and helped him off of his lap. “There you go, Son.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” the little boy said, looking up at him.

  The grin transformed into a proud beam as Ben replied, “You’re welcome, George.”

  Sarah’s face softened at the sound of her little boy’s voice. Although still slow in coming, George’s independent speech had markedly improved after his little fishing trip with his father. “Oh, Bennet, whatever did you say to that child to encourage him so?”

  “That, Sarah, is between father and son.” He stood, wrapped her in his arms, and kissed her.

  Sarah pulled back and smiled at him. “Catie is galloping; George is speaking. Shall I expect any further parental miracles this summer, Mr. Darcy?”

  He sighed musingly. “No, my love, I believe my work is done. Except, that is, for the garden party.” Ben turned to his sons. “Come, lads, we must break our fast. Your father needs his nourishment. I have a long day of grandiose supervising and finger pointing ahead of me.”

  Cupping her hand over her mouth, Sarah laughed softly into her palm. The return of her husband’s teasing and playfulness said more than any words ever could have. He was finally himself again.

  Chapter 21

  From the formal Italian terrace to Sarah’s less symmetrical English cutting garden, the park surrounding the house by mid-August had matured into absolute perfection. The grounds were a sight to behold, and for over a century, Pemberley’s annual garden party had been timed accordingly. As tradition mandated, the tables would be adorned with only the cuisine the valley had to offer. The fare was arranged on silver trays lined with doilies and placed amid elaborate ice sculptures and floral displays. There would be lawn games and Pimms, face painting and pony rides. And finally, to top the festivities off properly, guests would spread picnic blankets on Pemberley’s large front lawn and watch fireworks as soon as the sky was dark enough to act as a canvas.

  On Saturday, the set-up was busy and hurried. In a faded Cambridge University tee-shirt, Mr. Darcy worked alongside the men all day to ready the lawn and gardens, placing chairs and folding tables at Sarah’s direction. Rather grandiose direction, Ben thought, but was wise enough to hold his tongue on the matter. When the work was completed, an exhausted Mr. Darcy tapped a keg brought up from the Green Man, and Mr. Johnson lit a large grill to cook generously cut steaks for the workers. This evening feast was as traditional as the garden party itself. It was a time for Mr. Darcy to eat and drink with them, to socialize and thank them for their help.

  By dusk the men were so full they had begun to recline in order to drink more, as no self-respecting Derbyshire man would let the remnants of a keg go to waste. Like the others, Sean had worked hard all day, impressing those who had fancied him for nothing more than a university boy who never got his hands dirty. He now sat picking his old guitar and singing pub songs. For pure sport, the men had dutifully kept his mug full and laughed heartily as they saw him beginning to feel the effects.

  Well before midnight, he stood and announced, “I think I’ll be off to my bed, mates.”

  “An Irishman that can’t hold his stout?” a fellow called out.

  Sean smiled. “Aye, a disgrace to my fellow Ulstermen, eh?”

  “You’ll no sing for us anymore, laddie?” another said but was quickly interrupted by the former. “Leave the boy be, Tom! His auntie will skin ’im if he’s up past his bedtime!” An uproarious laugh followed, but Sean took their tease in jest. He had seven uncles on his father’s side and had suffered his fair share of ribbing before.

  “Aye, she will at that,” he agreed good-heartedly as he threw his guitar over his shoulder and started off. “Good night, mates.”

  “Sean!” Hearing his name, Sean turned to see Mr. Darcy following him.

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy.”

  Ben extended his hand. “I just wanted to thank you for today.”

  Sean gave his employer’s hand a firm shake. “Don’t mention it, sir. I didn’t mind helping set up, and I rather enjoyed this evening.”

  “No.” Ben shook his head. “I was referring to this morning. What you did for Catie; I want you to know it was very helpful and most appreciated.” Laughing softly, Ben rubbed wearily at the back of his neck. “My little sister . . . well . . . she’s none too easy to manage at times as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “She’s . . . I mean . . . it was no bother . . . ” Sean’s voice trailed off. Even through the slight buzz of beer, he was mindful enough not to expose his affection for the girl he knew he could never have. It was best to say no more. “Good night to you, sir.” Sean gave a single nod and departed.

  * * *

  With only a short time before the guests were expected, Ben gave another knock at his sister’s door and yelled for her to hurry. Although Catie never would admit it, she was at a loss getting herself ready for such an event without Annie. Even though Maggie had pressed her dress, Catie chose to do her own hair and makeup. The sprigs of baby’s breath that Sarah insisted she tuck in her hair were giving her the most trouble.

  After fumbling with the tiny flowers for some time, her impatience was hurled at the next knock at the door. “Bennet, please!” she shouted. “I’m hurrying as fast as I can!”

  “It’s Maggie, Miss Catie, may I come in?” a timid voice called back from the hall.

  Seated at her dressing table, Catie scowled at her reflection in the mirror but answered pleasantly, “Yes, come in.”

  The door opene
d slowly, and Maggie Reid took a few cautious steps into the room. “Mrs. Darcy sent me to help you.”

  Meeting Maggie’s eyes in the mirror, Catie sighed. “Yes fine, if I can’t make these flowers work, Sarah will make me wear one of those ridiculous, wide-brimmed hats.”

  “Oh, I can help with that,” Maggie said and rushed to stand behind her. “I am really good at doing hair. Everyone says so. Do you have curling tongs?”

  Catie pointed to the drawer and for the next half hour intently watched in the mirror as Maggie worked industriously with her hair. Though only fifteen months Catie’s senior, the girl had much more womanly features, which Catie envied. Maggie was beautiful, not in a polished way, but a rather wholesome beauty that Catie imagined would be quite attractive to a man.

  When Maggie finished, Catie looked at herself. Maggie had done a good job, an exceptional job actually, and she had no choice but to compliment her. “It looks very nice, Maggie, thank you.”

  “So you like it?” Maggie asked with childlike enthusiasm.

  “Yes, Maggie, I like it very much,” Catie responded, mirroring Maggie’s kind smile.

  Waiting for Catie in the front hall, Ben and Sarah looked up when she appeared at the top of the staircase. She was wearing an ivory, tea-length party dress that dropped just off the shoulders and flattered her maturing form, presenting her brother with the sight of a beautiful young woman, not a little girl. Slightly taken aback, Ben stared at her in wonder. Had she truly blossomed so rapidly or had this change been coming over her for some time? Had she concealed it from him or had he just refused to see it?

  His contemplation appeared to Catie as her brother’s usual taciturn demeanor, and she countered it with sisterly playfulness. “What’s the matter, Bennet?” she asked. “Do you not think I look pretty?”

  Barely softening his expression, Ben answered, “I was thinking quite the opposite, dearest.”

  Taking Ben’s proffered arm, Catie teased back, “Well, Sarah, I guess we can safely say it wasn’t my brother’s dazzling talents in the art of flattery that won you over.”