Echoes of Pemberley (7 page)

Blushing and feeling half her age, Catie didn’t argue. She closed her book and quietly told Sarah good night before hastening out of the room, purposefully not meeting her brother’s eye as she passed him.

“Bennet, was that necessary?” Sarah asked in a reproachful tone once Catie was out of earshot.

“Yes, I believe it was.” He stepped back into the room and shut the door for privacy. “She was listening to my conversation with Mr. Sams this afternoon or eavesdropping would be the more proper term, and I do not wish to condone such behavior.”

“Your sister watches you more intently than you appreciate.” Sarah sat up in her chair. “What you take for prying I see as concern. A father should not be so quick to reprimand his children. He must be assured that they are truly deserving of his rebuke or it will become commonplace and lose its power.”

He grimaced ruefully and nodded. “You’re right. I could have handled that better, but I don’t want Catie to know of this Wesley Howell business. Explaining Wesley Howell to her will mean going into Cousin Mary’s whole sordid history. Mary Darcy Howell was a fine woman, Sarah, and I loved her very much, but she made some dreadful mistakes when she was Catie’s age.” Ben looked at Sarah very seriously now. “I need not tell you how impressionable my sister is. She would glorify the whole affair as some romantic tragedy —
Romeo and Juliet
or the like.”

“You can’t shelter her from the world forever, Bennet Darcy.” Sarah returned the serious look but then smiled despite her frustration, for how could she admonish a man for caring too much?

He smiled back. “I can for a few more years yet, my love, so you will just have to indulge me.”

She raised a brow in question. “And will our sons be subjected to such careful guarding?” He hesitated in his response so she took the liberty to answer her own question. “That is a double standard, Mr. Darcy, and rather sexist I might add.”

“I disagree,” he argued. “A sexist thinks a woman his inferior. I, on the other hand, believe that the female is to be valued above all things and should therefore be protected. It is not sexist, it’s male instinct. Like this conversation for example. My male instinct tells me I cannot win, and if I hope to hear my wife return my greeting at the breakfast table in the morning, I should go to my study before I say more than will be good for me.” She laughed, and he noted a twinkle in her eye. “Can I take your good humor to mean that you will be awake when I come to our bed, Mrs. Darcy?”

She grinned at him. “You can take my good humor to mean that I will return your greeting at the breakfast table in the morning. As for the reception you will receive in our bed . . . ” Her eyebrows arched again, only this time it was most definitely mischievous. “That, sir, is a question you will have to mull over as you finish your work.”

“I shan’t be more than half an hour,” he replied, sounding more the schoolboy than the master of Pemberley House.

Chapter 5

In the dark, Catie sat in her window seat thinking about the day until her eyelids grew so heavy that she was forced to give in to sleep. Yawning and rubbing her eyes, she moved to get down and clumsily banged her foot into one of the decorative panels that ran the length of the window casement, feeling it give way. “Bloody clod,” she berated herself as she turned on a lamp to investigate the damage.

She pushed the heavy curtain fully out of the way and saw a void. The panel wasn’t broken at all and slid off easily. Catie grabbed her torch and shone the beam inside the hole, and gasped. There was a book, bound in leather and very worn. She brushed away years of dust and thumbed through the pages. Several dried flowers and bird feathers floated out, freed after a long captivity. Then a picture dropped, which Catie caught up and rushed over to examine under her lamp. A handsome man and a pretty young woman were smiling back at her, frozen forever in the sepia toned snapshot. She turned the picture over and read:
Mr. Arthur Howell and Miss Mary Darcy, August 1919.
Below this was the word:
Lovers
, written in a flourished hand.

“Lovers,” she read aloud. Then she set the picture aside and opened the book to the first page.

The Personal Diary of Mary Elizabeth Darcy

15th of July 1918
Home, finally, the Season was a great bore according to Mother, and she fears for my prospects next year when I am presented. Everything it seems has changed since the start of this dreadful war! I spent the day walking the grounds, taking in the early blooms of summer. Father hasn’t arrived yet, but Mother is well and happy to be home.

For several pages the entries were similar, so Catie flipped forward until she found a passage that interested her.

Dinner Party at Pemberley 24th of July, 1918
My excitement can hardly be contained. Tonight I met a most handsome man by the name of Maj. Arthur Howell. He is almost ten years my senior and delighted me with lively conversation all evening whilst other men chose each other’s company to debate the best way to end the Great War. He is in Derbyshire for at least a month and is a guest of the Thompson family, whose respectably sized farm joins our land on the south side. He made several points to assure me he takes his strolls by the river just before dinner each evening. I will oblige his assurances with a chance encounter within the next couple of days.

I do, however, have an obstacle . . . Cousin Geoffrey, who follows me everywhere. His visit from Rosings Park will most assuredly last into next week. I must find a deterrent that will preoccupy a 13-year-old lad from the joys of vexing his 16-year-old cousin.

Confused, Catie reread the last two sentences three or four times. The only Geoffrey
she knew from that era was her grandfather. But why would he be
visiting
Pemberley?

“
Visiting
, humph,” she uttered absently.

Rosings Park. She closed her eyes and tried to remember. Catie was sure she had heard it mentioned before. Heavy-eyed as she was, however, Rosings Park and Mary Darcy’s diary would have to wait until tomorrow. Yawning, she reached over and turned off her bedside lamp and snuggled cozily under the covers.

Wearing my blue frock I walk to the library beside Grace, the tallest nanny I’ve ever had. The blue frock is my daddy’s favorite. He’s leaving today, and I wore it for him. She knocks, but I open the door and propel myself across the room to Daddy. I can see him putting his book and glasses aside to catch me. “Catherine!” I hear Grace scold from the doorway, but I am already on my daddy’s lap. Safe.

“I’ll bring her to you before I leave, Grace,” Daddy says. Lying against him, I can feel the words as well as hear them.

“Yes, sir,” she answers, and the door closes.

“Grace thinks you’re handsome, Daddy!” I sit up and announce.

He laughs. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod. “But Nanny Rose is in love with you. Will you ask her to marry you, Daddy?”

“Have you been planning my happiness in romance for long, my child?” He bounces his knee, and I giggle.

“Don’t leave, Daddy.” I lean my head on his shoulder.

“I shan’t be gone for long, Catie Bug.” He pats me and I snuggle even closer. “Tell you what. I’ll escort you to church on Sunday . . . fair enough?”

I shake my head, and he laughs again. “A woman who can’t be pleased. I see I’ve cut out the work for some young man one day, eh?”

“Who will tell me a bedtime story?” My voice is pouty. He’s never coming back home again. There is a knot in my tummy that tells me so, but I shan’t listen to that knot.

“What if I tell you a special story now? Will that do, dearest?” He softly pats me again.

“Tell me about Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth.”

He smiles. “If you like, but it is such a pretty day I thought you might like a walk in the garden.”

I shake my head again. “Story.”

“All right, all right.” He chuckles. “A true romantic you are, my child, maybe the last of your lot. Let’s see, then. A long time ago at Pemberley House there lived a young master by the name of Fitzwilliam Darcy. He was betrothed to his cousin, Anne de Bourgh. Anne was the daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mistress of Rosings Park and the young master’s aunt.

“But he didn’t love Cousin Anne did he, Daddy?”

He shakes his head. “No, Catie, he didn’t. Anne was a sickly, homely child who rarely left the house. Not a good match for our noble Fitzwilliam, for he was a hale and hearty lad. But it was a time when few people married for love . . . ”

“Will I marry for love?” I ask.

“I shall personally see to it, Catie.”

“Who do you think I will marry?”

“I don’t know his name but I say fervent prayers for him every night.”

“Daddy!”

“Right, where was I? Oh, yes . . . Once on a visit to a close friend in the county of Hertfordshire, our handsome Fitzwilliam met Elizabeth Bennet. She was the most beautiful creature the young Darcy had ever seen, but he ardently fought any feelings for her.”

“But why?”

“Listen, Catie Bug, and I’ll tell you.” He settles me with a soft stroke over my head and continues.
“
Elizabeth was a kind, gentle, respectable woman, but unfortunately had few connections and no money to speak of. It may be hard to understand today but our Fitzwilliam was bound by tradition and society to marry within his set.”

“But he loved her, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Catie, he loved her very much. His affection for Miss Elizabeth was strong and his heart was hers.”

“So he disobeyed his aunt and married Miss Elizabeth. Right, Daddy?”

“That he did. To the great shock of Lady Catherine, Fitzwilliam went against her. He refused to marry Anne and instead made Elizabeth Bennet the mistress of Pemberley.”

“And they lived happily ever after!” I add enthusiastically.

“Mm-hmm, the couple was very happy. They lived out a long life here in this very house and were blessed with two strapping sons, William and Geoffrey. Geoffrey was your great-grandfather many times over.”

I smile up at him, but Daddy is gone and suddenly I’m in the chair alone. “Daddy!” I cry out, looking all over the library. “Daddy, where are you?” I run to the library door but I can’t reach the handle and start banging my fists against the door. “Daddy, come back, come back!”

Catie opened her eyes. “Daddy, come back,” she whispered and shut her eyes again against stinging tears, trying to keep him in her memory for a few seconds longer. But he was gone. Sniffing, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “
Rosings Park
. . . Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park. Now I remember.” She pushed back the covers to go wash her face.

The sun came in brightly through the break in the curtains and cast a warm streak of light across her floor which she stepped over on her way to the bathroom. Catie turned on the hot water, checking its temperature every few seconds with the tips of her fingers. “Good Lord, a person could grow old waiting for hot water in this house,” she grumbled. When the water began to grow warmer, she wet a washcloth under the tap and brought it to her face. Looking at her image in the mirror, she began to wash, slowly at first, but then she started to scrub. She scrubbed harder and harder until her skin began to burn.

“Catherine, stop that!” Rose said as she took the cloth from Catie’s hands. “For heaven’s sake, child, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” Catie looked down and shook her head.

“Come and sit.” Rose put an arm around her and led her from the bathroom. Catie sat down on the edge of the bed as directed while Rose pressed her cheek to her forehead.

“I’m not sick, Nan,” Catie protested, her skin still a bit rosy from the assault.

“Then why, dear, were you trying to scrub your face off?” Rose asked.

Catie shrugged. “No reason.”

Frowning suspiciously, Rose straightened and announced, “I’ll go and fetch the castor oil then. There’s no better cure for constipation.”

“Rose!” Catie jolted up, looking appalled. “I’m not constipated!”

“Then tell me what is ailing you.” She took Catie’s face in her hands.

Catie stared into Rose’s narrow grey eyes. Still youthful, they sat above glowing high cheekbones. Rose Todd had a face that could look kind or ferocious, depending upon her mood. At the moment she was somewhere in between. “I dreamed about Daddy.” A tear slipped down Catie’s cheek.

“The one you’ve had before about the plane crash?” Rose sat next to her now and pulled Catie tightly against her chest.

“No,” she replied softly. “I dreamed about the day he died, when we were in the library just before he left. He was there and then he was gone, and I couldn’t find him.”