by Jane Dawkins
In a perverse manner, however, my Mother’s behaviour did me a power of good. Rather than make me angry, the absurdity of her misplaced grief served to calm me. Mr. Darcy, too, benefited as much from my Father’s companionship, as from the exercise and fresh air, and was in far better spirits afterwards. Together, the three of us visited Cassie’s grave one morning. My Father was clearly much affected, demonstrating more real sorrow than my Mother’s rivers of tears ever could.
Dear Charlotte, how pleased I am that your growing Family stays healthy and happy. Even more, your letters have an air of contentment with life that gives me very great pleasure.
Pray, tell Mr. Collins how very much obliged I am for his prayers on my Family’s behalf. I must confess (between ourselves only, Charlotte!) that since Cassie was taken from me my relationship with God has suffered exceedingly; my anger and hurt render me quite incapable of forgiveness. I am therefore particularly grateful to Mr. Collins for his intercession on my behalf.
As ever,
E. Darcy
1818
Pemberley
Thursday, 8th January, 1818
Dearest Jane,
How thankful I was to bid farewell to 1817! How glad I am that the Christmas season is over at last! Enduring the festive season of good will when one feels good will towards nobody is an exhausting business. For Annie’s sake we wore brave faces, of course. On Christmas Eve, as a special treat, I took her with me to deliver poor baskets. She considered the morning a great adventure; for myself, it would have been better to have had the servants do it—the recipients of our largesse were so awkward in their thanks, not knowing what to say, whether to mention our loss or to ask how we fared. By the end of it all, I felt I should almost apologise for appearing at their doors, though I must own that Annie herself proved a happy diversion, especially if the families had Children of her own age. She is certainly not shy! Now Jane, be assured I do not sit here soaking in a warm tub of self-pity. I cannot think why I even mentioned the business with the poor baskets, but really cannot persuade myself to start this letter afresh.
Believe me, we are all making good recoveries. After a long discussion with Mr. Darcy, we both agreed that half-mourning (which should begin this month on the 17th) will be cancelled. This house has seen enough mourning; it must now be restored to the living. Poor Mrs. Reynolds is in shock! It was she who prompted our conversation by enquiring about the servants’ clothes and uniforms for the half-mourning period. When I gave directions to remove the coverings from mirrors and pictures and all other signs of mourning, and to order the servants to revert to their normal liveries, she was so distressed that I insisted she take a seat and a little wine. It took me a full half hour to persuade her that this decision had nothing to do with a lack of respect or affection for the dead, but everything to do with life and living, that without the everyday gloom of Pemberley in mourning, our hearts will mend very much sooner. A few tears followed: Mrs. Reynolds was as fond of Cassie as she is of Annie and feels her loss as deeply as any of us.
Now the poor woman has to explain our uncommon decision to the household (as well as to her counterparts in the houses hereabouts, I dare say), but I care not what they or anyone else thinks—our spirits are already vastly improved, which another six months of mourning could not accomplish. Even on this cold morning, to see the rooms bathed in sunlight again is a balm. My Husband walks with a more determined and sprightlier step, and set out hunting this morning with something like his old enthusiasm. He also talks of setting up a shooting party with your Husband and Mr. Daley. Jane, you have no idea what joy it gives me to hear him talk so! As for me, my heart is easier. I have instructed Mrs. Reynolds to do what she will with the mourning clothes and livery—I have no wish to see them ever again.
Mr. Darcy and I agree that this is the very best way to begin another year: letting the light into our lives again, spending more time in the present than in the unalterable past, and looking to the future with hope and optimism. All this was accomplished on the eve of the New Year, just the two of us before a good fire and perfectly at ease, at times in conversation talking of our resolution, at times in pleasurable silence.
And you were never far from my thoughts that evening, dear Jane—my present and future happiness will always depend in large part upon your own. May this New Year bless us all.
Affec.
E. D.
Pemberley
Monday, 29th June, 1818
Sir,
Miss Anne Elizabeth Darcy, aged four years, three weeks and a day, presents her compliments and regrets to inform you that, as a consequence of undue and unsanctioned horseplay in her Mamma’s sitting room (whence she is not allowed unless bidden) an inkwell overturned, its contents spilling upon her Mamma’s favourite chair. Miss Darcy also wishes you to know that she was confined to the nursery for the remainder of the day to practise her letters.
Miss Darcy’s Mamma would greatly appreciate if as soon as convenient you could arrange for a sufficient quantity of fabric in the very same shade of pale yellow silk to be sent to the upholsterer in Derby who carried out the original work on your behalf. She would be further obliged if you could advise the date when the material is expected to be delivered so that she may arrange for the chair to be taken to Derby.
Miss Anne Elizabeth Darcy deeply regrets the inconvenience this will doubtless entail, and by way of apology and compensation offers you the enclosed pansy, which she picked and pressed herself last spring, and which she trusts will be to your liking.
Yours &c.
Humphry Repton, Esq.
Sloane Street
London
Pemberley
Thursday, 9th July, 1818
Dear Jane,
Thank you for the solace your words brought me. Can it really be that almost a year has passed since Cassie’s death? Time is very wayward, is it not, and plays devilish tricks upon us. You might tell me it all happened yesterday, or ten years ago—I could as easily believe the one as the other. From having wondered how to endure the endless hours and minutes of every long day, of a sudden we find ourselves one week away from the anniversary of one’s world coming to a devastating halt, only to find that life has continued after all: the seasons still come and go, crops are planted and harvested, fruits bottled and jellied, meat pickled and cured. Much to our amazement, we find that we are able to laugh again and enjoy life—hearts can indeed mend and are far more resilient than we expect them to be.
You ask how we plan to spend that day. Neither of us has spoken of it in those terms, though each knows it is in the forefront of the other’s mind. It appears that neither of us wishes to be the first to speak of it, as if by keeping silent, the day will never arrive! How strange we mortals are! The absurdity of human behaviour is a subject worthy of serious study, and if our Father had not had five daughters and a Wife in his care, he might have had more time to devote to such a laudable endeavour. (You see how I have successfully evaded answering your question!) In truth, though, apart from attending church and bringing flowers to Cassie’s grave, I know not how the day will progress. Should the day be fair, a very long, strenuous walk will be the very thing to occupy me. (I wonder if there are any books of etiquette on how Parents should properly comport themselves on the anniversaries of their Children’s deaths?)
Miss Annie plays at my feet with her Parsley, the only creature she finds amiable since she discovered the pleasure of shouting “No” at the top of her voice to all and sundry. Her Papa had been spared this spectacle until this very morning, and Miss A. quickly found herself back in the nursery instead of upon her Papa’s knee where she is wont to sit at breakfast. I suspect that sitting here with Parsley is a prelude to making amends with her Father, and perhaps we have heard the last of “No”—at least for today. Upon my request she removed her cat from the sofa and the only words I heard were “Yes, Mamma,” veritable music to my poor, deafened ea
rs.
Ever yours,
E.D.
Pemberley
Friday, 24th July, 1818
My dear Husband,
I know not whether you hear me when I speak. Mr. Brownley knows not how long it may be until you are with us again; indeed, he cannot fully assure me that you will ever recover. An honest man of integrity, he will not raise false hopes in me, yet much as we both admire his fine character and trust his judgment, part of me (and not a small part) wishes he were more willing to dissemble. He visits twice daily and twice daily his honesty does not allow him to utter the words my heart yearns to hear.
Yet I remain optimistic and so hopeful of a good outcome that I have resolved to keep a journal, this letter to you that, when you awake, you may know all that has happened while you were gone from us. A small writing desk has been moved into your bedchamber by your bed and here I sit with pen and paper. By this means I may also talk to you as always.
I cling to my belief that all will be as before, that together we will watch with pride as our Daughter (and any other Children we may yet be blessed with) grow into strong, fine people, and that in years to come it will be in our power to look back with gratitude upon many, many happy years spent together, years in which my regard and affection for you only increase. I shall not be dissuaded from this.
Will you remember that dreadful day? (Such a conspiracy of fate that your accident should occur on the first anniversary of our darling Cassie’s death!) We brought flowers to her grave early that morning, stepped into the church to pray for her, then walked back to Pemberley, that long walk through the woods and alongside the trout stream which we have taken so often. It was a glorious, sunny morning and I recall saying that the sun should have better manners than to show itself on this sorrowful day. You replied that the sun was perfectly polite: how else could it console us but by its warmth? You were right, of course, and I made due apology to the sun.
Despite our long walk and a good breakfast, we were restless. Together we visited Annie in the nursery, where she amused us, quite unintentionally, with a recitation of “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.” It began well enough, then turned into “Sing a Song of Sixpence.” Realising her mistake, her efforts to extricate herself only succeeded in muddling her further. To spare her, you gently suggested she take a deep breath and begin again, slowly. “Yes, Papa,” she said, in her most serious tone, and taking a deep breath … then another … and another, she burst into a flood of tears—poor Annie was by now so completely befuddled, she had forgotten the first line! Lifting her onto your knee, you dried her tears and comforted her, took down the old Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book, found the rhyme and began to recite it, softly. Slowly she joined in and by the end her face was wreathed in smiles.
How Annie adores her Papa! She, too, visits you often. The questions are always the same:
“Is Papa dead?”
“No,” I reply, “just sleeping to get better after his fall.”
“Will he be awake tomorrow?”
“Perhaps, Annie.”
Then she asks to be lifted up to kiss your cheek. At bedtime, after her usual prayers for everybody, she asks God would He please take special care of her Papa that night. If in so doing He has insufficient time to watch over herself and Parsley, she will understand. By this time, Parsley is curled up on her bed dreaming of good mousing on the morrow and quite unconcerned whether or not he is watched over.
I have digressed and will return now to that awful day, that awful anniversary. Strangely, I do not recall clearly how the rest of the day was spent, though we dined as usual and attended Evensong. It was simply a day to be endured, a day of happy memories, sad memories, bitter, angry thoughts, some tears, and perhaps a very small measure of acceptance of the unacceptable.
Following Evensong, you declared a need to pay a call on Mr. Bailey, a tenant of yours whose sheep were sick of some mysterious malady.
“But he lives the far side of Lambton!” I protested, “and look at the dark clouds in that direction! It will be nightfall by the time you return. Surely tomorrow will be soon enough? Or have Barford go if it is such an urgent matter. I beg you to reconsider.”
“My love, it is midsummer and will be light for hours yet,” you soothingly replied. “In truth, Barford or I could go tomorrow, but this sad anniversary has left me so restless that I welcome the opportunity to go, however thin the excuse for my journey may be. A good ride will give Major some much-needed exercise, and will do much to restore my spirits, I assure you.
“As for the weather, was it not you, dearest Wife, who chastised the sun only this morning? If it should rain at all, it will likely be only a brief summer shower, which will be most refreshing and I shall welcome the soaking. Come now, a smile before I set out. Upon my return, let us have a late supper, and then perhaps you will give me the pleasure of reading aloud some lines of Mr. Cowper, or Mr. Crabbe, if you will—but wait … wait. Some lines of Mr. Cowper’s come to me now which I think you will find à propos:
“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
“What say you, dearest Lizzy?” you asked with a smile of self-satisfaction at your cleverness.
What could I say? How many times did we read Light Shining Out of Darkness after Cassie first became ill? How many times have we read it together during the past year? How often have I read it alone when nettlesome feelings threaten to overwhelm? How could I deny you? It would have been the act of a more selfish Wife than I to have protested further. Much as I wanted you by me, I know that the very great comfort and solace we have in each other cannot reach to those deepest places in our hearts, where reside feelings which mere words are insufficient to describe rightly. I understood your need and, much as I wish that what followed could be undone, I do not regret your decision to set out, nor will you ever hear from my lips any scolding words on the subject. You may depend upon it.
What did follow some two, or perhaps three or more hours later was a storm the likes of which I have seldom witnessed: high winds and heavy rains, jagged forks of lightning and cracks of thunder loud enough to waken Annie. I rushed to the nursery to comfort our Daughter. Parsley had disappeared. Nurse’s face was blanched with terror, ’tho’ she made a valiant attempt not to show her fear before Annie for which I was thankful. It was some time before I felt able to leave them. Though the storm still raged, Annie, exhausted, eventually cried herself to sleep in my arms and somehow slept through the night. Insisting that Nurse take a restorative glass of wine, I explained that since you had probably taken shelter from the storm and would thus not return until much later after it had passed, she should rest quietly; that I would look in on Annie often while I awaited your arrival.
Settling myself in the library (the place I feel closest to you when you are from home—have I ever told you?) I closed my eyes and fell to thinking about our darling Cassie. My reverie was interrupted constantly by the sound of falling trees and thunder so that when the knocking began, I first thought it was the storm still raging outside. As the sound became more insistent, I realised that this was some other commotion and got to my feet just as the library door opened to reveal Mrs. Reynolds. Thinking the storm had likely frightened her, I stepped forward to comfort her.
“Come, come, dear Mrs. Reynolds,” I began. “Please, sit down and calm yourself. It will be over soon. Let me fetch a glass of wine to help settle you.”
“No, no, Ma’am, Mrs. Darcy, it’s not the storm—well, it is the storm—but it’s not me—it’s the stable boy, Tommy Nutt.”
“Mrs. Reynolds, calm yourself, I beg you,” I said. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you rightly. Are you telling me that Tommy Nutt is afraid of the storm?”
“Yes, Ma’am—no, Ma’am. What I mean is that young Nutt is here
.”
“Here, Mrs. Reynolds? How do you mean, here?” (By this time, you may suppose, I was in a state of complete confusion.)
“At the front door, Ma’am—or rather, in the hallway—I had him take his boots and coat off, though, Ma’am. It’s about Major and he says it’s urgent.”
“Pray tell young Nutt that Mr. Darcy is from home and that I will tell him to go to the stables upon his return. Tell him to do his best meanwhile and—” At this moment, I recalled that you were riding Major and felt my heart sink faster than a stone in a pond.
“Bring him here quickly, Mrs. Reynolds. There is not a moment to lose.”
“But he’s soaked through, Mrs. Darcy. And in Mr. Darcy’s library, Ma’am?” Her voice trailed away as she looked around the room.
“Mrs. Reynolds, I don’t care if he should cause a flood, I must see him this instant—no, never mind.” With that, I ran from the room to find the lad standing in a puddle of water, turning his hat round and round in his hands, very ill at ease.
“Beg pardon, Ma’am,” he said, gesturing uncomfortably at the water on the floor, lowering his eyes as he spoke.
“No, no, please, reassure yourself, it is of no consequence. Now, please tell me about Major. I must know.”
As I was saying this, my mind had leapt ahead, hoping he was about to tell me that, after all, you had decided to take another horse—that Major in a fit of pique at being left behind had broken loose and trampled the rose garden—or run amok in the storm—that since Mr. Darcy’s favourite horse was at large, Mr. Darcy would want to know immediately—anything but the harsh reality of the truth I dreaded to hear, which was that Major had come home alone a short while ago, frightened out of his wits and making such a commotion in the stable yard that Tommy Nutt had heard him even above the roar of the storm.
