by Jan Hahn
“Miss Simpson is a handsome woman,” I said.
“She is.” He continued to gaze at her, watching her graceful movements in the dance.
Of a sudden, the heat in the room became oppressive, and I opened my fan and began to use it.
“Pardon me, sir.” I curtseyed briefly and turned to make my exit.
“Where do you go?”
“To join my aunt.”
“Would you not rather step outside for some fresh air? I find it much too close in here.”
“As you wish.” I allowed him to lead me through the crowd toward the open doorway. Once we found a quiet area away from the others enjoying the breeze on the balcony, he turned directly toward me.
“It is time we talked. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I most certainly do.”
Silently, I prayed, Oh, God, temper my words with discretion. Do not let Mr. Darcy leave for Ireland if we remain at cross-purposes.
Chapter Twelve
The moon was but a sliver that night. The stars, however, littered the dark sky in a profusion of light. I closed my fan, basking in the cool air as it gently ruffled my curls. I might have given myself up to the wonder of that beautiful night had not a pressing task beset me. I knew I must swallow my pride and apologize to Mr. Darcy. Taking a deep breath, I turned to face him.
“Sir, when we parted in Hertfordshire, I fear I spoke in anger. I did not mean to give offence.”
“And I meant no slur upon your mother. You must believe me.”
“You used the term ‘degradation.’ Surely, you know that I am somewhat sensitive because of the circumstances of my birth.”
“Of course, I understand. Truly, I do. But you must perceive that I did not refer to your mother.”
“Then to whom?”
“I referred to my father’s behaviour—how a gentleman of his character could take advantage of a young girl. I consider his conduct degrading—degrading toward my mother, toward your mother, and toward himself. I cannot conceive of the father I knew acting in such a manner.”
He braced his hands on the railing and raised his face to the sky as though the answer lay hidden somewhere in the heavens.
“I have not told you of the visit Miss Eleanor Willoughby paid me.”
“Willoughby?” Mr. Darcy took a step closer. “Elizabeth, did she come to abuse you as her brother did?”
I raised my hand in protest. “No, no, nothing of the sort. She was entirely the opposite: compassionate, gentle, and caring. She told me of my mother—the kind of girl she was, her interests, her joys, and—”
“And what?”
“Oh, I do not know…other things. When our visit ended, I felt as though I had a glimpse of my mother’s spirit.”
“Of what other things did she speak?” he insisted. “Did she tell you of her relationship with my father?”
I met his gaze. He had turned just enough that the starlight revealed the concern in his eyes. “She told me of how they met in the wood, how they spent much time together, and how Miss Willoughby kept watch to warn them if anyone approached.”
Mr. Darcy slammed his fist down on the railing and let forth an oath. He then asked my forgiveness for his language.
“Are you telling me my father not only seduced a young girl, but he used her child of a sister to shield him from discovery? That is utterly reprehensible!”
He began to pace back and forth, possessed by anger. Instead of making things better, I had wounded him even more. At length, he stilled and turned back to me. “Is that all, or is there more you would tell me?”
It was now my turn to look away. I played with the tassel of my fan and peered out into the darkness, up at the moon…anywhere rather than look into his eyes.
“Elizabeth, tell me now. Delay will only postpone the effect.”
“I cannot, sir.”
“Why?”
“To do so will bring you even more pain while it eases mine.”
I heard his sudden intake of breath. “He loved her.”
I could do nothing other than bow my head.
][
Sleep was not my friend that night. Over and over, I played out the conversation between Mr. Darcy and myself. I hated the suffering that Miss Willoughby’s words brought him and that I had been the one to reveal the painful truth. In my memory, I saw him return me to Mrs. Gardiner’s side in the ballroom and then make his way to Colonel Fitzwilliam. With but a few words in his ear, which I assumed secured the colonel’s agreement to tend Georgiana and return her home at the end of the evening, Mr. Darcy stormed out the door of the Upper Rooms and into the night.
Of what good had been my apology? I had hoped to soothe the anguish I had inflicted upon him by my previous misunderstanding and our harsh exchange. Instead, I had cut him to the heart with the account of our parents. What would he do? Where would he go for comfort?
I heard not a word from either the Darcys or Colonel Fitzwilliam for three days. Mrs. Gardiner asked me whether Mr. Darcy and I had quarrelled at the ball, for she had noticed his swift departure after our return from the balcony. I told her the truth: we had not quarrelled. I refrained, however, from sharing what had transpired between us, although her curiosity was evident.
On the evening of that third day, after my aunt and uncle and I returned from dining, we were surprised when Mr. Darcy knocked at our door. It was rather late, and he apologized for calling at that hour, but I was so relieved to see him seemingly recovered from his ill spirits that I did not need an apology. Mrs. Gardiner offered him a glass of sherry, and we passed a few moments in idle conversation.
Upon the servant’s removal from the room, Mr. Darcy asked whether he might speak to us concerning an important matter. My aunt offered to excuse herself from the discussion, but he requested that she remain. I was surprised and attempted to obtain some clue as to what he was about by searching his expression, but I remained ignorant.
He beckoned us to gather around the table, whereupon he drew out papers from his coat pocket. He then explained to the Gardiners how he and I had embarked upon a search through old journals, records, and correspondence at Pemberley, seeking further knowledge of my mother’s identity. Now that we knew she was Elizabeth Willoughby, he had continued the quest about my birth without my aid at the homes of Lady Catherine, the Earl of Matlock, and Mrs. Harriet Darcy in Bath.
“And did you learn anything of interest at Rosings or Eden Park?” I asked.
“I learned to trust my instincts that we do not know the entire story. For some reason, Lady Catherine grew angrier the longer I questioned her, and at last, she openly refused to answer any more inquiries. At the Earl of Matlock’s home, my uncle gave me free rein over letters from my father that he had saved through the years, but I found nothing of significance. I feel quite certain that my uncle remains uninformed in regard to the matter. In fact, he is curious as to your exact connection with the family.”
Unfolding an obviously aged letter, he laid it on the table for us to examine.
“However, when I reached Bath, I found this among Henry Darcy’s papers. He was my uncle, Mr. Gardiner, my father’s youngest brother, and I am residing at his widow’s house in Camden Place.”
“What is the significance of these papers?” Mr. Gardiner asked.
“It is a letter written by my father to his brother Henry in which he mentions the trouble. It is dated but a fortnight before Elizabeth’s birth.”
“And you think the trouble refers to Lizzy’s birth?”
“I do. Here, read it for yourself.” He handed the letter to Mr. Gardiner, and his wife urged him to read it aloud.
22 November 1791
Pemberley
Dear Henry,
I am glad to hear you are making progress in your new undertaking. I feel certain you can make a new life and discover a fine future in the Navy if you will forget the past and apply yourself with all diligence. If you continue in your pursuit of the nearest pretty ankle as you di
d in Derbyshire, you will find…
“Well, perhaps I should skip that part,” my uncle said.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Darcy agreed. “It is nothing more than brotherly advice. Begin with the third paragraph from the bottom, if you will, Mr. Gardiner.”
Have you heard any news from Peter? I refuse to believe he has met with foul play, even though the authorities deem it most likely since we neither have seen nor heard from him since March. Unfortunately, here at Pemberley, hope dwindles as the days pass. Anne, in particular, has taken his disappearance with great affliction. She, along with our mother, always favoured him. I am thankful, now, that Mother has passed on. If the chill had not taken her in January, I fear the loss of Peter would. Even young Fitzwilliam seems to miss him. Of course, having both you and Peter depart within a few months of each other has proved difficult for the boy. He misses the sport with which you entertained him.
As to the urgent matter that presses upon me, Lady Margaret sent a message last evening. Time is growing nigh, and I fear I will be unable to keep the trouble from soon becoming evident to all. I must think of some way to conceal it from Anne. How I wish you were here. I miss your cockeyed assumption that all will turn out well, however misguided it might be, and of course, Peter—oh, Peter! With his steadfast faith, he could always give me hope and provide the answers, especially in this instance. Do you not recall days gone by when together, the three of us—the Darcy brothers—could solve any problem that beset one of us! I understand your absence. We agreed it was best—but I, as well as others, suffer Peter’s desertion most acutely. The burden of secrecy regarding the trouble weighs upon me, but I shall persevere. Whatever she decides, I shall attempt to do what I think is best.
If you have any word from Peter, alert me immediately, I pray you.
“It is signed, your brother, George Darcy.”
“What do you make of it, Mr. Gardiner?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“I hardly know. I agree that the trouble apparently refers to Lizzy’s impending birth, but it appears your father did not keep his parentage hidden from his brothers.”
“Nor did he keep it secret from Sir Lewis de Bourgh,” I added. “Is that all? Did you find any added reference among the admiral’s papers?”
“I did. Look at this journal entry written in my uncle’s hand.”
He extended a worn, leather-bound book to me. I read it and handed it to Mr. Gardiner, who shared it with my aunt.
“It would seem Admiral Darcy is the one who eventually found Peter,” Mr. Darcy said.
“The entry states he located his brother when he harboured in County Cork, Ireland on 2 June 1805,” my uncle said, continuing to read aloud.
“The port is Co…what is the name?” Mrs. Gardiner said. “I cannot make it out.”
“Cobh,” Mr. Darcy said. “Elizabeth, I have scoured my uncle’s maps and learned that Cobh is not all that far from the town in which our grandmother, Siobhan Darcy, was born and reared.”
Mr. Gardiner handed the book to Mr. Darcy. “Then, at the time this was written, Mr. Peter Darcy had returned to an area near his mother’s home.”
“Exactly. This discovery affirms my decision to travel to Ireland and find Uncle Peter.”
I turned away from the table and took a few steps toward the settee on which I had previously sat.
“Elizabeth, are you not pleased with my find?”
“Yes, of course. I just fail to understand the necessity of your making a difficult trip to Ireland to visit your uncle. What good will it do to question him after all these years?”
“Where does your uncle live now, Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Gardiner asked.
“According to a Derbyshire clergyman—to be honest, a Catholic priest—who corresponds with a fellow priest in that area of Ireland, Peter Darcy still dwells in County Cork. He lives in my grandmother’s birthplace, a small village called Ballymeghan. To answer your question, Elizabeth, this letter from my father to Uncle Henry proves, as we considered earlier tonight, that he shared knowledge of your birth with him. Doubtless, by now, Uncle Peter knows as well and can enlighten me on the matter.”
“Are you settled that Mr. Peter Darcy knows?” I asked. “From the date of that entry in the journal, Admiral Darcy did not find his brother until I had reached the age of fourteen. After all those years, do you think the admiral would have spent their brief time together speaking of your father’s disgrace that had been disposed of long before? I do not. I think they would much rather have spoken of lawful family events: Georgiana’s birth, your mother’s passing, and the admiral’s own marriage. From all accounts, I think the Darcy family forgot me as easily as one forgets the rubbish tossed out at the end of the day.”
“Lizzy!” Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed, rushing to my side. Anxiety descended upon Mr. Darcy’s face, and he, too, started toward me.
My uncle, however, detained him. “Mr. Darcy, was there no correspondence from your father to the admiral after that journal entry, perhaps seeking an address for his brother in Ireland?”
“I did not find one, sir, but I do recall receiving a letter from my father when I was at Cambridge, informing me that Uncle Peter had been found alive and well in Ireland. That was the first time I learned of my uncle’s conversion to Catholicism and how my grandmother helped him to leave England. Other than being grateful my uncle was well, I thought little of the matter at the time. Unfortunately, my father died the next year, and Uncle Henry’s death occurred only three years later.”
He turned back and crossed the room until he stood before me. “Elizabeth, I do not know why, but I cannot cast off the feeling that we might find the answers we seek in Ireland.”
“Sir, you take a severe measure upon yourself in order to satisfy your curiosity. Most likely, it will all come to naught. I pray you will let this go.”
“I cannot. And I cannot believe that my entire family forgot you as you say, but I must know for my own peace of mind. If there is more information out there, I shall have it.”
He walked to the fireplace, placed his arm upon the mantel, and fixed a gaze upon me of such tender concern that I felt my heart beat faster.
“And if it turns out that your fears are correct,” Mr. Darcy said, “that the previous Darcy generation did simply put you out of their minds, then I assure you…the present one shall never do so.”
“Pray, excuse me,” I murmured. Turning, I fled above stairs to my bedchamber.
I sank down upon the window seat and pushed open the panes, gasping in the night air. My chest ached, and I could not seem to get enough air. I raised my eyes to the heavens. I had to accept the truth that my existence caused pain to the person I loved most in the world, and now he would even travel to another country because of me.
Why must Mr. Darcy persist in this endless quest for answers he most likely would never find? When would he not acknowledge that his father was not the man he thought him to be? Why must he spend his days searching for God knows what? George Darcy callously committed adultery with a seventeen-year-old girl, and I was the consequence. Avoidance of the truth brought nothing but anguish. Acceptance of it brought misery. There could be no happy ending.
I began to weep. I know not how long I sat at the window until a knock at the door startled me. My aunt entered the room and hurried to my side when she saw my tears. She pulled me into her embrace and laid my head on her shoulder, all the while patting my back and murmuring soothing phrases. At length, I drew back, wiping my eyes.
“Has he gone?” I whispered.
“Yes, Lizzy.” She rose, walked to the bed, and straightened the pillow. Beckoning to me, she gestured toward the sofa. We settled ourselves against the cushions before she spoke again. “Now, my dear, I believe a serious talk between us has been long delayed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what exactly is Mr. Darcy about?”
“I do not understand.”
“Do not feign ignorance, Lizzy. We are both too intelligent to foo
l each other.”
“I would never attempt to fool you, Aunt.”
She sighed. “Not intentionally, of course, but, dearest, we both know Mr. Darcy’s passion to determine the circumstances of your natural father and mother’s relationship has gone too far. He is like a man obsessed!”
“I asked him not to undertake it on my behalf.”
“He no longer acts on your behalf, Lizzy. Mr. Darcy seeks to satisfy himself, and I can think of only one reason why he remains steadfast in his pursuit.”
I said not a word, for I feared what she would say next.
“My dear, ever since we met Mr. Darcy at Pemberley last year and witnessed his attentions to you, your uncle and I have suspected he was in love with you. Then, when he took it upon himself to rescue poor Lydia from Mr. Wickham, we felt certain that our suspicions were correct. I even hinted as much in my letter to you at the time. Do I speak the truth? Is he in love with you?”
I looked away, unwilling to face her. “Mr. Darcy has vowed that his affection for me is that of a brother.”
“And has he been able to keep that vow?”
I closed my eyes and laid my head against the back of the sofa. “Do not ask me that. Only he can answer that question.”
“As I thought,” she murmured.
I sat up quickly. “Pray, do not think that he has acted in an untoward manner. Mr. Darcy is every bit a gentleman.”
“I never doubted that. What I wonder is how you feel in return.”
“What difference does it make how I feel? The situation is immovable. We masquerade as cousins, but, in truth, we are brother and sister. Whatever we may have felt in the past—or even now—must be repressed. To do otherwise is unthinkable.”
Mrs. Gardiner rose and closed the window, securing the latch. “I thank you for your honesty. It confirms my decision tonight.”
“What decision is that?”
