Pemberley Chronicles

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Elizabeth had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Having first asked after his friend’s health and been assured it was improving, though slowly, she continued, “Richard, there is a matter I must discuss with you.” Her voice indicated the seriousness of her concern, and Richard was immediately attentive, thinking it involved the health of some member of the family or household.

  “What is it, Cousin Lizzie? I shall be happy to help in any way.”

  “It is not help I need, Richard; rather it is information, for I am quite bewildered by a certain situation which I am unable to understand. I need to ask you to be completely honest with me. Will you?” Richard, still unaware of the core of her concern, looked more puzzled than ever but, convinced of its seriousness agreed immediately.

  “Of course.”

  “Well then, when Cassy and William go off to the music room, I shall follow them, leaving Darcy and Sir Thomas in here. Please come with me; we can talk undisturbed there.” After coffee was served and the gentlemen settled into comfortable chairs by the fire, as Elizabeth had predicted, William and Cassandra went to the music room, carrying the music Richard had brought them. Richard could tell from his cousin’s expression that she was worried, but he had no idea what was causing her anxiety.

  Elizabeth’s first question took him completely by surprise. “Richard, are you aware that your friend Paul Antoine is falling in love with Emily?” Before he could respond, she continued, “For many months now, I have observed him in her company, both here and elsewhere; so frequently are they together whether by coincidence or design, I cannot say, but it is quite clear that they are very partial to one another. Neither of your parents has said anything to me, but I shall be astonished if they are unaware of it.” Richard’s face betrayed both his surprise and some obvious distress. Elizabeth expected him to respond, and when he did not, she persisted, “Richard, I have asked you for the truth, because I must know, if only because I dearly love your sister and feel responsible for her since she lives here at Pemberley. Please tell me, what is the true situation? I am convinced they are in love or soon will be. Has Paul confided in you? What are his intentions and his prospects? If they marry, how will they live?” Richard hesitated for a moment before he spoke.

  “They cannot marry,” he said, in so firm a voice that Elizabeth was shocked into asking, “What do you mean? Is there some impediment?”

  “Yes, and they are both aware of it. They may well care for each other; I am sure they do, but they both know there is no question of marriage.” Richard’s face and voice were so grave that Elizabeth feared to ask her next question.

  “Why? What has he done?” she had dreadful visions of the young Frenchman as a fugitive from justice perhaps.

  “Nothing,” replied Richard, “Paul has done nothing wrong. But he cannot marry Emily or anyone else, because he is ill; he is dying of Tuberculosis and unlikely to survive the next Winter.” This time, Elizabeth was quite unable to speak. She sat down on a couch at the far end of the room, her mind racing wildly, glad of the distraction of William and Cassandra’s trying to make music at the piano. She had known that Paul was not very strong. He was pale and had seemed to cough so much recently, but Tuberculosis had never entered her mind. When she spoke, her first thought was for Emily.

  “Does Emily know all of this?”

  Richard nodded gravely. “Yes, she has always known, and so have my parents,” he explained and went on, “I lived with Paul’s family when I was in Paris, completing my medical studies. They treated me as if I was their own son. Paul was studying too—to be an apothecary. Even then, he had signs of a weak constitution, and it was deemed that he was not strong enough to study medicine, though he was certainly intelligent enough to do so.” Richard’s voice was low, and Lizzie strained to hear him, “When his father died, he left most of his fortune to Paul; his sisters were all well-married and settled in the country. His mother, who herself had a very delicate constitution, begged me to look after him. She knew that Paul was not only in poor health, he has a kind and unsuspecting nature which may easily fall prey to crooks and charlatans. I promised her that I would do everything I could, not just because we were as close as brothers, but also out of appreciation for their kindness and generosity to me. Not very long afterwards, I had completed my studies and was preparing to return home, when Paul’s mother died. Being quite alone in Paris, he asked if he could accompany me to England and work as my assistant. He asked for no salary; he has plenty of money of his own and offered to pay for a share in the practice.”

  Elizabeth asked, “And at this stage did you know he had Tuberculosis?”

  “Certainly not. At that stage, he appeared to have a recurring respiratory problem, but that is not uncommon in Europe. Some months after our arrival in England, however, when his condition did not improve, I took him to see a colleague in Harley Street, and my suspicions were confirmed. He has a form of Tuberculosis—not the galloping consumption that afflicted Keats, but a slow death sentence nevertheless.”

  “Is there really no cure?” asked Elizabeth, shaken and incredulous. Richard shook his head, his voice sad, “If there were, many more lives would have been saved.”

  He proceeded to list a number of illustrious persons who had succumbed to the disease, from the young daughter of King George III to the great German composer Karl Maria von Weber, who had thrilled English audiences during a triumphant tour only to die shortly after he returned to Germany. “And of course, there are thousands of ordinary men, women, and children dying of this same affliction in England,” said Richard.

  “And is there nothing to be done to help them?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Very little when they live as most poor people do in unsanitary and crowded conditions, undernourished, and overworked.”

  “What about Paul?”

  “There is no cure for him, but we can do several things to prolong his life and make him comfortable. Fresh air, exercise, nourishing food, friendship and good company will all help. He did improve considerably last Summer, but since that accident on the Matlock Road, when he worked with me to help the travellers, he has not been able to shake off the severe cough he got as a result of the exposure.”

  “And your mother, father, and Emily all know about this?” asked Elizabeth, still incredulous.

  “Indeed, they do. Surely you do not believe that I would have allowed my family, my sister in particular, to remain in ignorance of the truth? How could I? It was quite plain that they liked him; he is a most attractive and likeable young man. Indeed, my mother loves him like a son. She will do anything to help him, but she knows there is nothing we can do for him except to give him all the affection and care we can, for as long as he needs it.” Elizabeth was concerned for Emily, who spent so much time with Paul.

  “Can she be in any danger of infection?” she asked.

  “Not unless she is careless, and I have instructed her well on the precautions she must take. She is healthy, strong, and sensible, which is her best protection,” Richard explained, adding that Paul himself was very careful not to place others at risk, particularly children. “You must understand that he will not visit Pemberley again, because he does not wish to place William and Cassy in any danger, nor will he visit the Fitzwilliams because of their young children. That is his decision. When he can no longer live on his own, I shall get a professional nurse to care for him; I would never place him in an institution.”

  Elizabeth was so shocked by Richard’s revelations as to make a swift response impossible. Her anguish heightened by the belief that Richard must have judged her to be hard and insensitive, she apologised for having broached the subject as she had done. “I am most sincerely sorry, Richard; I knew nothing of this. Had I known, I would never have questioned you as I did.” Richard tried to put her at ease.

  “Please do not distress yourself, Cousin Lizzie, how could you have known? You were quite properly concerned for Emily.”

  “Yes, and I did not spare
a thought for Paul. I am truly sorry.”

  Her contrition touched Richard, and he reassured her, “I see now that I should have told you and Mr Darcy, but for Paul’s sake we did not wish to tell too many people. Once the news got around, there was bound to be a change in the way people regarded him, and that would have caused him even more pain. Emily made me promise to keep it secret until she was ready to tell you herself.”

  Elizabeth realised that Emily would probably have done so soon. She asked Richard’s permission to tell her husband.

  “Of course. He must know why Paul will not be visiting Pemberley.”

  “And can you say how long it might be?” Elizabeth could not bring herself to utter the dreadful words, yet he read her thoughts. “No one can tell with any certainty,” he said, “A great deal depends on his ability to fight the disease. The weather is important, too. If we have a bright, warm Summer, it will help him. A cold, wet one, and he certainly will not see out the year.”

  Later that night, Elizabeth told her husband of her conversation with Richard. After the initial shock and expressions of sorrow, Darcy was silent and thoughtful. When he spoke, it was with a suggestion. “I shall tell Richard tomorrow that should he need a place for Paul to stay, where he could be cared for conveniently, he is welcome to use the house at Littleford, on the property we have donated for the hospital. It is a clean and comfortable place and would probably suit them well. A couple of our men could help with the daily chores. It’s the very least we can do.” Elizabeth was struck by his compassion and concern. Noticing her distress, he put his arms around her to comfort her. “I know how you must feel, Lizzie. I am truly shocked and saddened, but we cannot begin to understand their sorrow. There can be no situation more tragic than theirs. I can only wonder at their selflessness. I doubt I should have been able to bear similar misfortune with such courage.” Elizabeth agreed, adding quietly, “How little we know even those closest to us. I have known Emily since her childhood, yet never did I dream that she was capable of such deep feelings and so much fortitude.”

  The following morning, after breakfast, Mr Darcy walked with Richard to the carriage that was waiting to take him to Lambton. Before they parted, he advised Richard that he could use the house at Littleford for Paul, whenever he wished to move him from Birmingham. “I am truly grieved by this news, Richard, both for your friend Paul and for Emily, who has become so much a part of our family here at Pemberley. It grieves me that she has suffered alone and we, in our ignorance of this unhappy situation, have been unable to help in any way. I want you to know that if there is anything I can do, if we can assist you in any way at all, you must feel free to ask. As soon as you wish to use the house at Littleford, my manager will see that it is made ready, and any help you require will be provided, for as long as it is needed.” Expressing his profound gratitude for the generosity of his host, Richard declared that he would like to move Paul out of Birmingham as soon as possible.

  “Birmingham does him no good at all; it’s too polluted and crowded. The air here is fresh and sweet; exactly what he needs. Moreover, Paul will be most enthusiastic about the hospital, and if I can persuade him that I need him here, to keep a watch on the project, it will give him something to do.” Having expressed his gratitude once again, Richard departed, eager to acquaint his mother and sister with the excellent news about the hospital as well as Darcy’s generous offer of the house for Paul. In spite of his sadness about his friend’s condition, Richard felt his spirits lift as he contemplated Darcy’s kindness. Having spent much of his adult life studying in Edinburgh, London, and Paris, Richard had not had the opportunity to become closely acquainted with Mr Darcy, depending largely upon the judgement of his parents, whose affection and praise for him were unqualified. His own observation of Darcy’s actions on the day of the accident to the coach and his present compassionate behaviour confirmed this. For his part, Darcy, who had felt deeply unhappy on hearing the news about Paul Antoine, was glad to be able to help.

  Later that week, Elizabeth went to Lambton to visit her aunt. It was apparent that Richard had told his mother about his conversation with Elizabeth, because the two women hardly needed words to express their feelings. Both had been through much soul searching and agony, and it was not easy to speak of the concerns they shared. But they had too much affection for each other to let anything come between them. Elizabeth’s own love for Emily and her aunt’s unhappy sense of helplessness in the face of her present sorrow brought them together. Mrs Gardiner was contrite, “I am sorry that you were left in ignorance for so long, my dear Lizzie; it was only that Emily would have it so, and since it was not my secret to divulge, I could not speak of it to you, even though I have longed to do so, many times.” Elizabeth, whose affection for her aunt far outweighed any unhappiness she may have felt at being excluded from her confidence on this matter, assured Mrs Gardiner that she understood perfectly well Emily’s wish to have as few people as possible made aware of Paul’s illness and her own feelings for him. As Darcy had pointed out, in such circumstances, the knowledge that a wide circle of family and acquaintances, not all of whom were equally sympathetic, were privy to a situation of which they had not the fullest understanding could be unbearably harrowing. Elizabeth told her aunt that she above anyone knew how a person’s misfortunes could be magnified and used by others to denigrate an entire family. She recalled Mr Collins’ unpleasant little letter gloating over Lydia’s elopement and its consequences for the rest of her family. Clearly, Emily would have been anxious to avoid anything similar.

  Having spent sufficient time to reassure her aunt of her love and willingness to help at any time, if help was needed, Elizabeth left to return to Pemberley, where she sought out her cousin Emily, finding her in her favourite spot, an alcove at the far end of the library. She had a book of poems in her hand and a notebook on the desk in front of her, but it was quite plain that she had not been reading or writing at all, for her eyes were red with weeping, and her note paper was covered with meaningless scribbles. When Elizabeth approached her, she tried vainly to smile but failed as her feelings spilled out with her tears. Elizabeth put her arms around her and held her awhile, “Emily dearest, I have just come from seeing your mother. I know from her, and from Richard, how things are. Please do not blame your brother; it was I, in my ignorance of your situation, who questioned him on Saturday night and demanded to be told the truth. It was concern for you, my dear Emily, that led me to ask him. I was afraid you would be hurt,” and as Emily shook with the violence of her sobs, Elizabeth went on, “I did not know how much pain you were suffering already. I am sorry, Emily; I did not mean to pry or intrude upon you.”

  When she was able to speak coherently, Emily reassured her cousin that she had not resented her concern. Richard had made it clear that Elizabeth’s motives in asking had been completely estimable and free from censure. Emily felt she owed Elizabeth an explanation for not having confided in her earlier, but it was for Paul’s sake, she said. They had not wanted him to be conscious of the curiosity and, even worse, the pity of everyone he met. Elizabeth took her cousin’s hands in hers and asked very gently, “Do you love each other, Emily?” Emily’s voice was quiet but very firm.

  “Yes, we do. But we also know the consequences of our present situation. Oh Lizzie, I know I could help him, but there is so little time,” she said, and again, she could not hold back her tears. Elizabeth struggled with her own feelings as she held her cousin close. It was plain to her that while the young couple may have spoken of their feelings to each other, Emily was in no state to speak of it to anyone else. Embracing her once more and assuring her that she was always available, should Emily need to talk or sit with her, and praying for some comfort for both of them, Elizabeth left, still feeling helpless and unhappy.

  Some days later, Emily came to Elizabeth to ask if she could borrow some linen for the house at Littleford, since Richard had written to say he was bringing Paul home on Saturday. Not only was Elizabeth h
appy to oblige, she insisted on taking Emily to the house in her carriage, where they accomplished a great deal, working together as they prepared it for its new occupant. The loving care with which Emily performed all the little tasks was not lost on Elizabeth; she also had a more fatalistic composure, which made Elizabeth’s heart heavy with sadness.

  A month or so after Paul Antoine moved into the farm cottage at Littleford, Richard, with the help of an architect from Derby, produced a plan for a simple cottage hospital. The necessary approval and paperwork having been obtained by Mr Darcy’s manager, Mr Grantham, building was planned to begin in the Summer. Paul had been overjoyed at the news of the generosity of Mr Darcy and Sir Thomas Camden, whose donations of land, materials, and labour had made Richard’s dream a reality. He was excited to be present when the first sod was turned, even if there was no certainty that he would still be there when the hospital welcomed its first patient. Unwilling to admit defeat, he made Emily promise that she would cut the ribbon on the day. It was a promise she gave without question.

  While Spring had promised much and delivered little, being alternately wet and windy or windy and dry, Summer arrived in a blaze of glorious sunshine, which summoned everybody out of doors. Darcy, Elizabeth, Cassandra, and William left for an extended holiday in the Lake District. It was a journey undertaken mainly because Elizabeth had declared that she could not believe it was possible for anyone to live so close to such an area of renowned natural beauty and not visit it. “I can no longer make excuses when every stranger I meet tells me of the magnificent beauty of the Lakes, but I am dumb for never having seen them. I feel such a barbarian!” she had complained.