by Jan Hahn
“If it concerns me, do I not have a right to know?”
He sighed again. “I have searched everywhere for a hint, a clue, some revelation that you were fathered by someone other than George Darcy. I have combed through every document I could find at Pemberley. I sought out the vicar at the church for a record of your birth. There is none. Your mother’s death is recorded, but that is all. I have told you how Lady Catherine provided no answers. Eden Park was the same. I even called upon Sir Linton Willoughby again, but he refused to see me. And Bath…I thought surely I would find more than I did among Uncle Henry’s many journals and correspondence. I even dared to insult my aunt by asking whether her husband could possibly be your father. Her answer is what drove me to Ireland.”
“Her answer? What do you mean?”
“Aunt Harriet said Admiral Darcy was close-mouthed about your birth and spoke of the occasion only once. He said that his brother had chosen to forsake a woman and child in Derbyshire, and that after the woman died, the child had been taken to a far county to be fostered by an unknown family. She assumed the brother was George, for he was the sole brother she had met. For years they thought that Peter was dead. I could not accept her assumption, and that is why I am here. I hoped to find Uncle Peter and confront him. I had this insupportable notion that he might— In truth, I had determined to force him to take responsibility for your birth…until today.”
I sank down upon the bench once again. “What happened today?”
He sat down beside me and leaned forward, holding his hat between his legs. “I learned from Lord Killaine that Peter Darcy could not be your father, for he is a Catholic priest.”
“A priest!”
“That is why he ran off without telling his family. He travelled directly to this country and began his studies to join the priesthood. He had always been meant for the church, but not that of the Papists. Evidently, his mother’s influence truly shaped his life. After her death, there was nothing to keep him at Pemberley. Lord Killaine said he has served the poorest parishes in Ireland, devoting his life to good works. That hardly sounds like a man who would desert a woman and child, does it?”
“No,” I whispered.
We said nothing more for a long while. The sadness rose up between us like a deep chasm over which no one crosses. Rising at last, he said, “Come, I must return you to your rooms.”
As we crossed the street, I felt as though heavy weights pulled at my legs. My shoulders drooped, and weariness settled upon me. When we reached the door to the hotel, I stopped.
“What will you do now? Shall you return to England without seeing your uncle?”
“No, I shall see him. The earl confirmed the fact that he has not long to live. It is only right that I visit him, and I wish to introduce Georgiana to him.”
I nodded.
“I still would like for you to meet him.”
“Why? Would it not be shameful for a man of God to witness the result of his brother’s sin?”
“If Peter Darcy is the same man I remember as a boy, he will not hold you responsible for another’s misdeeds. I hope you will go with me to Ballymeghan.”
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Four days later, my aunt and I departed Cork City with the Darcys for Siobhan Darcy’s birthplace. Business concerns forced Mr. Gardiner to remain behind. He would make numerous trips between the city and the harbour at Cobh either by ferry or by hiring one of the local jingles, little horse-drawn cabs that provided transport each day. Not wishing to leave my aunt and me alone all day, and since his wife had rallied from the stresses of travel, he allowed us to go to Ballymeghan without him.
I saw little of Mr. Darcy during those four days before we left, and when I did, he kept his distance. Depressed and brooding, he said little to any of us. I noticed that he did accompany my uncle to the local pub down the street every evening, and they often stayed until closing time. I prayed that my brother visited the establishment for Mr. Gardiner’s company alone and did not seek refuge from his sorrows in a bottle of Irish whisky. If Mr. Darcy drank to excess, my uncle never made mention of it, but then, he had always possessed a modest affinity for spirits himself.
Ballymeghan was situated about forty miles from Cork City, and the day’s journey proved excessively diverting, for it took us along the picturesque coastline with its magnificent views. I was content to stare out the windows the entire trip. The only sights that marred the scene were the obviously poverty-stricken tenant farmers attempting to scrape out a living in the fields. Many of their dwellings were little more than hovels, and numerous children littered the yards while the fine houses of the landowners contrasted sharply in their affluence. Mr. Darcy had told us that, with the English occupation, native owners who formerly owned much of the land now made up little more than five percent. Most had been reduced to the status of tenant farmers working the land for the benefit of the oft-absent English landlord.
As we drove into the village of Ballymeghan, I noted its tranquil setting. The whitewashed, thatched cottages were well tended. Set against the lush, green hills in the background, they made a charming, typically Irish scene.
I was pleased to see the fine, spacious house Mr. Darcy had rented for all of us to share. He had brought his own servants and sent one ahead to secure local help. Thus, we were ushered into a lovely, limestone house with everything made ready to receive us.
“What a charming little place,” Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed. She was relieved to be free from the bumps and jolts of the carriage ride but did not protest when I urged her to rest in her chamber. I supervised the maid unpacking my aunt’s belongings before seeking my own room.
“That will do, Lizzy. Go along, and arrange your things as you like. I shall lie down for a bit before dinner.”
After setting my possessions in their proper places, I returned to the parlour, where I found Mr. Darcy pouring a glass of brandy. He offered me a sherry, which I declined.
“Do you find the lodgings to your liking, sir?”
He shrugged. “As long as Georgiana is content, they will do. And, of course, I trust that you and Mrs. Gardiner are satisfied.”
“Very much so.”
I noticed that his voice had not the slightest inflection. It was as though a man devoid of emotion—of life—had spoken. I walked to the window covered in fine Irish lace and pulled aside the curtain.
“What a beautiful little village this is. I have not seen its equal during our entire journey. I wonder whose fine mansion that is far up on the hill.” I hoped to prick Mr. Darcy’s interest and lift his dark mood.
He joined me at the window. “That is Castelaine.”
“Where the Earl of Killaine lives?”
He nodded. “His presence affords this village more prosperity than most we have seen, for it enjoys his protection.”
“Tell me, sir, why was he able to retain ownership of Castelaine when so many landowners have been disenfranchised?”
“He is a clever man and enjoys the benefits of his connections.” Mr. Darcy returned to the brandy decanter, and I frowned, not only at his words but also at his actions.
“I do not understand,” I said, crossing the room to the nearest chair.
“Lord Killaine’s younger brother, Pádraig, married Maíra McKenna, a wealthy widow who possesses a treasure even more valuable than riches.”
“What could that be, sir?”
“She is Anglican. Not particular about his religion, it was a simple thing for Pádraig Killaine to renounce Catholicism and become Anglican in order to secure her hand. Lord Killaine’s wife also has a prominent Anglican cousin—the Bishop of Shrewsbury, in fact. He is a close colleague and friend to the Bishop of Canterbury and, hence, the Crown. Such family associations have assured the earl’s continued preservation of Castlelaine.”
“A fortunate man.”
He looked disinterested. “A prudent man. Maintaining goodwill toward his Anglican relations provides him the power to protect his community and, doubtles
s, my uncle as well.”
“Why should your uncle need protection?”
“According to Lord Killaine, Father Peter Darcy does not always play inside the law. He scorns the dictates designed to subdue the Catholic faith, and he has done whatever was needed to assist his parishioners to practice their true faith.”
“And does that distress you, sir?”
“It means little to me. He chose this life. What he does with it is up to him.”
Another resigned answer, I thought. “All the same, though, he sounds like an interesting man, but then, I have yet to meet an uninteresting Darcy.”
My impertinent remark failed to provoke any rejoinder from him as it would have in the past. A chill raised gooseflesh on my arms when I examined his face. Expressionless, the light had vanished from his eyes as surely as if one had doused a candle.
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The next morning, I awoke to what promised to be a day of perfect weather. A gentle breeze wafted in through the open window of my chamber, stirring the starched linen curtains. Although white clouds scattered across the blue sky, the sun shone through in abundance. We had encountered rain almost every day we had visited the country, and I welcomed a brighter interval.
Smelling the delightful aroma of rashers and sausages from below, I hastened to dress, unwilling to await the maid’s assistance. When I entered the dining room, I was surprised to see Georgiana and Mr. Darcy finishing their meal. Their well-dressed appearance gave every sign that they were obviously going out.
“I see that you do not delay in meeting your uncle,” I said after morning greetings were exchanged and I sat down across from Georgiana.
“We do not go to meet Uncle Peter,” she announced. “Wills is taking me to meet Lord Killaine at Castelaine.”
“Oh?” I looked in his direction.
“Lady Killaine expressed a desire to know my sister, and we made arrangements to meet at one o’clock.”
“Tell me, have you learned whether your grandmother’s relations yet dwell in these parts?”
“She has two nephews and their families living in the area.”
“And shall you visit them while you are in Ballymeghan?”
“I do not see the need or have the inclination.” He rose from the table and strode from the room without another word.
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My spirits had dampened upon seeing that Mr. Darcy’s mood had not lifted. He appeared much like a man uninterested in anything or anyone. I knew only too well that severe disappointment ruled his outlook. He was drowning in final acceptance of what could never be changed.
After the Darcys left the cottage, I visited with Aunt Gardiner at her bedside for some time. Once again, yesterday’s journey had robbed her strength, but she assured me that a day in bed would put her to rights soon enough. I told her of our companions’ expedition for the day, never hinting that anything was wrong. Fortunately, she was too tired to see through my cheerful performance as she would have had she been herself.
When she had finished her breakfast and the maid had taken the tray below stairs, she was ready for a nap.
“Why not take a stroll, Lizzy? The village seems safe enough, and I know that you are yearning to free yourself from walls. Do not stray too far, though. None of your three-mile rambles, mind you.”
I smiled and agreed, promising to return within an hour or so. Although I remained worried about Mr. Darcy, once I stepped out into the sunshine, the quaint little village lifted my spirits, and I looked forward to discovering its charms. Not much larger than Meryton, it contained a small public house with a store on one side. A limited collection of bonnets had been placed behind the glass, and I noticed several women entering the shop while two men loitered outside the pub. As I passed by, I stopped short when the publican swept dirt out the entryway. He bobbed his head and begged my pardon, but I gave him a smile to signify no harm had occurred.
I walked down to the end of the street, having seen most of what there was to offer in the village other than the church sitting prominently at the opposite end of the main road. The bridge we had crossed upon reaching Ballymeghan lay in the other direction, and I set off to examine the River Bandon below. I was delighted to find the water as clear as any I had ever seen in Hertfordshire and, even more splendid, a well-worn path that ran alongside for some distance.
I trotted across the bridge and scrambled down the bank. On the path, I stopped to watch the trout jump. Perhaps my uncle and Mr. Darcy might enjoy fishing there once Mr. Gardiner concluded his business and joined us. The thought of Mr. Darcy’s dark temper rose before me, and I feared that it would take more than fishing to brighten his perspective. I shall not think about him, I told myself and continued to follow the path.
Around the bend, the walk widened. A part of it diverted off, leading up an incline to a small cottage. I smiled, thinking how lovely it would be to live there and awaken to the mist rising on the river as the morn dawned over the mountains. I spied a patch of wild daisies a short distance ahead, closer to the river’s edge, and spent no little time choosing the yellow and white blooms to make a bouquet I might take back to my aunt. At length, I sat down in the soft, green grass and felt content to watch the reflection of the clouds on the surface of the water.
I allowed my mind to drift, insensible either to time passing or to the sky darkening. Thus, I was taken by surprise when the heavy Irish rain began to fall. I jumped up and looked about for the nearest shelter. There was nothing under which to hide, for the trees had been cleared well back from the river. I shaded my eyes from the merciless downpour and saw the small overhang of the thatched roof on the cottage I had passed. Within moments, I ran up the slope and huddled beneath the tiny bit of protection, stretching my shawl over my bonnet to shield my face. With dismay, I watched the rain increase and drops collect on the ends of the straw roof above me before splashing down onto my dress.
“Good morning.”
I startled at the voice behind me and turned quickly to see an older man dressed in black standing at the door he had opened. Obviously frail, he leaned on a rough cane. I blinked when I realized he was a priest.
“I…beg your pardon, Father.”
“You had best come in, lass, before you catch your death.”
He opened the door wider and took a few steps back into the room. I hesitated, but he urged me to enter with a welcoming gesture.
“Sure, these summer showers catch us all out, even those of us who have lived here all our lives, much less a stranger in our midst. I am correct, am I not? You are not from around here at all.”
“I was picking blossoms down by the water.”
“Ah yes, the flowers never fail to tempt us away from the path we are on, as well they should. Come in and sit down until the damp chill dispels.”
He walked slowly to a chair beside the large fireplace in which a turf fire burned, warming the whole parlour. In truth, it could not be called a proper parlour. It was more like a single, large room with a bed at one end and a small table and chairs next to the window. Although sparsely filled, it was neat and clean, and I saw that the furnishings were worn but comfortable.
“Forgive the place, my child,” he said as he watched me look around his home. “I do little these days, but Father Rafferty will come along later to tidy up a bit and cook me a meal.”
He eased himself down upon the chair, and I saw that the bed had not been made, as though he had just risen.
“I am sorry to intrude. I had not anticipated the brunt of the rain.”
“Sure, my dear, but the stoop offers slight protection when water from Heaven truly falls. You had much better sit in here and tell me all about yourself. From your speech, I sense you have travelled a long way.”
“I have, from England.”
“England? My, my, that is a great distance. I was born in England, you know.”
“Oh? In what part, Father?”
“What part? Why, the prettiest part, of course—Derbyshire. Oh,
forgive me, for I have not introduced myself—Father Darcy.”
Darcy? Had I stumbled upon my uncle all on my own?
Amazement rendered me unable to observe the slightest civility and tell him my name. With the black clouds blocking the sun and dimming the already scarce light coming through the tiny windows, he rose to stoke the turf fire and to light a candle on the table next to his chair.
“Pray, sir, could you be Father Peter Darcy?”
“I am. Sure, and has someone told you of me? Step closer, child, into the light.”
I removed my bonnet and smoothed my frock before crossing the room. The priest held up the candle as though his sight had dimmed. He squinted at me, blinked several times, shook his head, and peered closer.
“Ah, if me eyes are not playing tricks again, or is it me feeble mind? I never know these days.” He inclined his head in my direction, and then, his mouth gaped open. He clutched at the arm of the chair and sank down upon it. “Eliz…Elizabeth? Is it you? No! She is dead. Do I see a vision?”
“I…am Elizabeth, Father. How did you know my name?”
“You cannot be! Child, who are you?” His hand shook with such violence that I stepped forward and took the candle from him. “But it is you, my…my own Elizabeth.”
His words frightened me. His ill health evident, I wondered whether the priest might collapse before me. What should I do? Whom could I call upon for assistance?
“Sir, I am Elizabeth Bennet.”
“No, not Bennet…Willoughby. You are Elizabeth Willoughby…Darcy.”
Elizabeth Willoughby Darcy! The old man does not make sense. I have no right to the name Darcy.
I took a step backwards. “I…I fear that you are confused, Father. My name is Elizabeth Bennet.”
He shook his head, and a tear slid down his cheek. “You are my Elizabeth, returned to me after all these years. You are come back from the grave.”
“Sir, you do not know what you say. You must be ill. May I fetch something for your distress?” I scanned the room, wondering where he might keep medicine.
