by Jan Hahn
“And did your grandfather know?”
He nodded and smiled. “My father said his father permitted it because he loved her. He found it hard to deny her anything even though his own family was not at all pleased that my grandfather married beneath him.”
“Beneath him? I thought her family prosperous.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Irish and Catholic? ’Twas unacceptable. Besides, Grandfather married her without her father’s consent. She came to him without a dowry. Yes, I would say he married below his station, but then, he married for love.”
His eyes met mine, and for one unguarded moment, it was as though I caught a glimpse of his soul. Almost immediately, however, he cleared his throat and marched on ahead. “That is sufficient for today. I shall not bore you with more family history. Let us walk on to the opposite wing of the house. I want you to see the ballroom.”
I had to hurry to catch up with his long stride, but not before I turned and looked into the green eyes of Siobhan Darcy once more. I felt a chill run down my spine when I recognized that they were mine.
][
By nightfall, Mr. Darcy had exhibited the entire great house, save the attics. We agreed to postpone those for a day when we had adequate time to devote to our quest. I was pleased to know he had not abandoned his offer to search for knowledge of my birth. I had feared it might have been simply a scheme to entice me to visit Pemberley.
A welcome break in the weather occurred on the morrow, and we enjoyed four glorious days of sunshine. Mr. Darcy took advantage of it to show me the grounds. Even covered in snow, I could see the gardens were outstanding and that I had experienced only the briefest of tours during my visit the previous summer. The stables were filled with thoroughbreds, and he took pride in naming each horse’s forebears—all superior pedigrees, I am certain, had I known anything about breeds. He was surprised when I informed him that I was no horsewoman, and he assured me that riding lessons would commence as soon as the weather permitted. I met his declaration with the same enthusiasm I would have exhibited had he served me a beaker of pickle juice.
On what proved to be the final day of clear weather for some time, Mr. Darcy announced at the breakfast table that he would take Georgiana and me on a ride in his phaeton. She clapped her hands in delight, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“A phaeton?” I asked. “Will it not be rather crowded with three passengers and cold as well?”
“Oh no, Elizabeth,” Georgiana declared. By that time, we had progressed to addressing each other by our first names. “The wind has disappeared, and the sun is out today. We can fit if we squeeze close together. Tucked under a rug, we shall be quite cosy.”
Sipping my tea, I raised my eyes to observe Mr. Darcy’s reaction. He appeared completely satisfied with the idea, unconcerned with any discomfort such intimacy might cause. Well, if he could sit close beside me without problem, I should do as well. After all, he is your brother, I reminded myself. I quickly swallowed the remains of my cup, but in so doing, I choked and coughed to the point that I was forced to excuse myself from the table.
A half hour later, I descended the stairs and saw the phaeton waiting at the side entrance. Attached to a beautiful white mare, the shiny green conveyance with its huge yellow wheels looked like something out of a painting, even down to the bells hanging around the horse’s collar. My sister carried a white muff and wore a fur coat and hat. Mr. Darcy had swathed his neck with a flannel scarf, but he frowned when he saw my plain wool coat and bonnet.
“Do you have no fur?”
“My coat is adequate.”
He shook his head and ran up the stairs two at a time, calling for a servant. I followed Georgiana outdoors. She climbed up into the vehicle with aid from a servant and urged me to join her, but before I could, Mr. Darcy returned with a fur hat and cape.
“Exchange that bonnet for this hat,” he demanded. “I shall not have you catch your death.”
When I hesitated, he untied the ribbons himself. Before I knew what had happened, he handed my bonnet to the maid, placed the warmer covering on my head, and then wrapped the cape around my shoulders.
“Whose garments are these?”
Georgiana smiled. “They are mine. Wills, we must see to a more suitable wardrobe for Elizabeth.”
“Yes, we must.”
“No,” I protested. “I shall not accept—”
“’Tis better than coming down with a chill, is it not?” He raised one eyebrow while he completed tying the bow under my chin. I shivered slightly, uncertain whether it was caused by the weather or the intimate nature of Mr. Darcy’s concern for me.
Stepping up into the carriage, he held out his hand to assist me. “Now, let us arrange the blanket, and we shall be off.” He sat between Georgiana and me and securely tucked the warm throw around each of us. I held my breath as he leaned over me, his head so close that his hair brushed against my cheek. “Warm enough?” he asked.
“Perfectly,” Georgiana announced. I could manage nothing more than a nod.
Not even a hair could have squeezed between us, and I became keenly aware of the warmth of his leg touching mine. This is a mistake, I thought. But how was I to escape? Before I could think of an excuse, Mr. Darcy flicked the reins, and the great horse picked up her heels and trotted off. The cold wind fanned my cheeks, and I gasped to catch my breath. How fortunate that I could blame the elements for the rosy colour of my countenance.
That day, I discovered Mr. Darcy had a passion for driving fast. We had scarce left the outskirts of the park before he urged the horse into a brisk gallop. Georgiana squealed as we rounded a corner and laughed gaily when I protested.
“Do not fear, Elizabeth,” she cried. “Wills is an excellent driver. He will not allow us to spill.”
I held on in terror, for I had not the confidence she possessed. Unknowingly, I grabbed the side of the phaeton with one hand and Mr. Darcy’s arm with the other. Within moments, he turned the conveyance to the left as we rounded a sharp curve, consequently causing both my companions to swerve to my side. Once more, his face appeared alarmingly close to mine. I felt his breath warm on my cheek and heard him chuckle before we turned back onto a straighter path.
“You are welcome to hold on, Elizabeth, but when you clamp my arm that tightly, it does hinder my driving somewhat.”
Immediately, I withdrew my hand from his arm, shocked that I had touched him unawares.
“Do take care,” Georgiana cautioned. “I fear you frighten Elizabeth.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Of course not,” I lied, straightening my spine and sitting as tall as I might. Within moments, he rounded another curve, and I found myself clinging to him with both hands. I heard him laugh softly in spite of Georgiana’s gleeful screams.
“You are incorrigible, sir,” I declared. “You drive like Jehu!”
At last, to my great relief, he slowed the horse to a gentle trot. I reached for my hat to make certain it did not sit askew and pulled the cover back into place, for it had slipped loose in all the twists and turns. I felt my heart beating furiously and took a deep breath of the cold, frosty air. The remains of my breath hovered about like miniature clouds.
“Shall we drive by Lady Margaret Willoughby’s house?” Georgiana asked. “It lies directly around the next bend in the road.”
Within a few moments, we came upon a large manor house set far back from the road, surrounded by the forest. It almost appeared a part of the wood, for what park surrounded the house was untended, allowed to grow wild, obviously abandoned.
“That is Bridesgate Manor,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Is her ladyship away, for it appears vacant?”
“Oh, Lady Margaret no longer lives there,” said Georgiana. “She died years back before I was born, did she not, Wills?”
He nodded. “Since her son had died before her, the estate passed to her grandson, and he has let the house to a family named Denison. I hear they shall take posses
sion by Lady Day.”
“I do hope we shall like them,” Georgiana said. “Perhaps they have a daughter near my age and sons to court Elizabeth. Would it not be lovely if she were to marry and live nearby? Then, we would not have to travel to Hertfordshire to visit her.”
I swallowed at the thought. “Georgiana…”
“Do not speak nonsense,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Is that not one reason we invited Elizabeth to Pemberley—to find her a husband?”
“I am in no hurry to find a husband.”
“Of course not,” Mr. Darcy agreed. “And I know little of the family other than Mr. Denison is a retired admiral in the King’s Navy. They certainly do not dwell on Lady Margaret’s level.”
“Even though they shall now dwell in her house,” I murmured.
“You may scoff, but the Willoughby family was the reigning aristocracy in the neighbourhood when I was a lad. I recall my parents often dined at the old lady’s table. ’Tis a pity her grandson has not taken better care of the place.”
He turned and drove the horse up the long path leading to the house. Brambles wound through the wild bushes that lined the drive. The beautiful old trees appeared almost bent under the weight of vines grown unchecked for years. It would take a prodigious amount of work to clean the grounds. One could only hope the inside of the house had been better preserved.
“Shall we walk for a bit?” Mr. Darcy asked. When Georgiana and I agreed, he stepped down and assisted us from the carriage. I missed the warmth of his body next to mine and shivered slightly as the wind came up.
We began to walk about the property, the paths covered in snow, and I could see the estate compared poorly to Pemberley. The house was about the size of Netherfield, but due to lack of maintenance, it appeared sad and bleak.
“A door is open here on the side,” Mr. Darcy announced, having walked on ahead of us. “Do you wish to see inside?”
Georgiana and I readily followed him into the entrance that opened upon a great hall. It smelled musty and dank, but it did provide relief from the cold.
“Evidently, neither the workmen nor servants have arrived as of yet,” Mr. Darcy said. “I should think Denison would have ordered preparations to commence long before now.”
“Look where the portraits were removed.” Georgiana pointed up to the wall lining the staircase. “The house is in sore need of fresh paint.”
“And soap and water,” I added as we followed Mr. Darcy above stairs.
The draperies in the drawing room were still hanging, and what furniture remained was covered in dust cloths. Georgiana spied the shape of a pianoforte beneath the coverings and pushed them back so that she might run her fingers over the keys.
“How sad. It is out of tune.” She sat down on the stool and began to amuse herself with chords and scales. Mr. Darcy indicated that I follow him into the dining room, where a grand table and chairs were still in place.
“When did anyone last dwell in the house?” I asked.
“The family moved away from these parts when I was but a child. I could not have been more than seven or eight years. That is, all but the grandmother, Lady Margaret Willoughby.”
“Do you mean she stayed here alone?”
“The grandson moved his mother and sisters to London, but his grandmother refused to accompany them. I still remember the night my father returned from a visit and told us, ‘Lady Margaret said she came to Bridesgate as a bride, and she would not leave until she died.’ Her family could not persuade her otherwise.”
“And did she live out her declaration?”
“She did. If I am not mistaken, I believe she died that same year or soon thereafter. I recall my father attended her funeral although there had been some kind of break between her and my family. I do not know the particulars. I just recall my father ordered me to stay away from the place. ’Twas a command I found hard to obey. For some reason, the old house has always drawn me in as though some spirit called to me—a silly notion for a lad.”
“How sad,” I murmured, “to die all alone in this great old house.”
“It was her choice.”
“Perhaps…but then, she might have felt this was the only place she belonged.”
“When her family sought her company in Town? My father said they did all they could to persuade Lady Margaret to move to London when they did.”
I walked down the length of the table and gazed up at the massive stone fireplace on the far wall. “It was her home. She lived here almost all of her life. It is important to feel one belongs…to know where you belong.”
Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Darcy had crossed the room and stood close behind me. “Do we still speak of Lady Margaret, Elizabeth?”
The nearness of his presence startled me. I blinked and shook my head slightly. “What? I…of course.” I turned my face toward his, and the tenderness reflected in his eyes touched my heart. I could feel my defences slipping away, and I knew tears would prove my undoing.
Just then, Georgiana skipped into the room and exclaimed that the candelabra still held the remains of burnt candles. She claimed Mr. Darcy’s attention, which allowed me the opportunity once again to swallow my emotion. We soon quit the house and climbed back into the phaeton, bent on driving around the next turn in the road.
I was surprised to see another great house built not far from Bridesgate, a structure much more modern. Mr. Darcy explained that none of the Willoughbys ever returned to live at the estate, and Lady Margaret’s grandson had consistently sold off the land surrounding the old family home until the domain was now reduced to a fraction of its former glory. A family named Whitby had purchased some of the property and built the newer house.
“They have two suitable sons, Elizabeth,” Georgiana announced. “I am sure one of them will please you.”
I did not even bother to protest, for her brother growled enough for both of us. It did little to temper the young girl. She entreated Mr. Darcy to drive by the home of yet another family of young men in the area. He, instead, turned off the main road and onto a country lane that led us directly through the woods. When Georgiana questioned him as to our destination, he cautioned her to practice patience.
We rode for some time, allowing my mood to lighten. It proved insupportable to remain melancholy on such a beautiful day, in the company of a cheerful, chattering girl and nestled snugly against the warmth of the body next to mine.
“Here we are,” Mr. Darcy announced as he pulled off the lane onto a narrow drive. I looked in the direction he indicated and saw a small, well-kept church hidden well back within a shady glen. No sign indicated its name without, but a solitary cross adorned the steeple.
“What church is this, Wills? I do not recall ever visiting here.”
“It is not one of our persuasion.”
“What do you mean?” Georgiana held out her arms for him to lift her down from our high perch.
“It is a Papist church, is it not?” I said, climbing out the other side, unaided.
“Papist? Here in Derbyshire?”
“The religion is not outlawed, Georgiana,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Certainly not prevalent, though. We know no one of that faith, do we, Wills?”
His eyes met mine. Evidently, he had not shared the secret of our grandmother with his young sister.
I was surprised when we found the door unlocked. Inside, we were greeted by the smells of incense mingled with lemon oil and old wood. One would never guess the beauty of the interior from the simple stone structure without. Georgiana marvelled in awe at the statues of the Madonna and Child and another saint, whom I did not recognize. As she and I crept silently about the sanctuary, Mr. Darcy disappeared through a side door at the front of the room. It seemed such a reverent place that both Georgiana and I spoke in whispers.
“Is not the altar magnificent?”
I agreed as we approached the table covered with a lace cloth and containing various religious emblems, among which I saw the Celtic cro
ss.
“Is it true they worship idols?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” I said. “But I am not acquainted with their rituals other than I believe they confess their sins to the priest.”
“All their sins?” Her eyes grew wide.
“Do you find that shocking?”
“I do. I should not like that to be a requirement of my faith.”
I smiled. “I am certain you are a sick and wicked person.”
Her lip trembled, and tears formed in her lovely eyes.
“Oh, Georgiana, I did not mean it. I am simply teasing you. Forgive me.”
“You might be surprised to learn how wicked I have been. I fear you would no longer think highly of me if I were forced to confess it.”
I assured her that nothing she did would ever lessen her reputation in my eyes, but I could see it did little to comfort her. Mr. Wickham’s escapade with her had robbed her of her innocence. I put my arm around her and led her into the pews to sit beside me.
“Georgiana, I know what happened at Ramsgate.” A look of horror covered her face. “It was not your fault. I know Mr. Wickham; he married my youngest sister, and he is a man who deserves to be branded wicked, but not you.”
“I should never have entered into the alliance. I was such a fool.”
“You were young. You are still young, much too young to recognize the man is a scoundrel.”
“Your poor sister! How will she manage in a marriage to such a man?”
I looked away, a cloud descending over my expression. “It is sad, but there was nothing to be done. Her name would have been ruined had she not married him. Thank goodness he was made to do the right thing, and it is all due to the generous nature of your brother.”
“Wills is a good man.”
“I know.”
We said nothing more for a while and simply sat back on the pew, absorbing the stillness of the place. A curious peace settled upon me. Although the religion was not mine, I found it satisfying to know my grandmother had been granted this lovely setting in which to practice her faith.
