Not Quite Darcy (26 page)

By midday, Mrs. Brown fell into a much deeper sleep, one from which she did not awaken in fits of coughing. It seemed strange to be off the laudanum dose timetable, but William was so exhausted that he soon fell asleep in his usual chair by his mother's bed. When dusk fell, he was still sleeping and the rest of the staff again reluctantly returned to their homes for the evening while Eliza brought the dining trays to the kitchen.

Though she hadn't been away longer than twenty minutes, when she reentered the sick room with a fresh pot of water, Mrs. Brown's breathing had taken on an eerie rattling sound that lifted the hairs on the back of Eliza's neck.

It was only a moment before the sound pulled William out of his slumber and to his mother's side. The strange rattling appeared to unnerve him as well. He clenched his jaw, as if in pain every time his mother inhaled.

He leaned over to wake her, to see if there was some kind of comfort he could offer, but she'd been lost to a very deep sleep for so many hours that it was clear that there was no hope of waking her at this point. Not any longer.

Tears freely fell down William's cheeks. He was never one for false bravery. “Eliza, what can I do?”

“Talk to her. She understands more than you realize.”

And so he tucked his head next to his mother's, his lips close to her ear, and began to speak to her of his love. How she had been the kindest mother that any boy could hope to have. How one day he would tell his own children of her grace and bravery. How he would carry her within his heart as long as his feet walked on the earth. And he wept, openly and unashamed. Eliza stood beside him, hand on the center of his back.

It wasn't until he began to sing in his mother's ear that Eliza lost it altogether. She could feel great heaving sobs building up inside her throat. For William, for his mom, she couldn't let the dam burst in front of them. And so she dashed out of the room and took refuge in the library, curling up in the corner chair and weeping, arms held tight around her stomach as if to hold the ragged edges of herself together as she purged her sorrow. She had to let it out so that she could be there, and be strong for him. Mrs. Brown's unnerving rattling breathing reached through the walls to pull at her heart and drown out the sound of her weeping.

When the rattling sound stopped abruptly, at first she froze in mid-sob. Not quite able to process what this meant, while at the same time understanding it perfectly well.

And then she ran to them—to him. He remained much as she had left him, his head tucked in next to his mother's ear, but his arm was now around her shoulder, his body shaking with silent sobs. She moved behind him and placed an arm around his shoulder.

It was a long while before his weeping began to subside, and then she said, “I think she's gone now, William.”

When he didn't respond, she pulled gently at his shoulder. “There's nothing more for us here. Please, come with me.”

She was terrified he might resist, but nothing good would come of this—and perhaps he knew it too, for he rose at her urging, bending down to tenderly kiss his mother's forehead, before softly saying, “Good night.”

He then leaned over to his mother's nightstand and stopped the pendulum of the small table clock before following Eliza out into the hall.

“William, should we call someone? The doctor or… I don't really know how things are done in this time.”

“In the morning I will send for the undertaker. And family will descend. Not just Uncle Thomas, no. Aunts and more relatives than we can fit. For tonight, we need to draw the curtains and stop the clocks throughout the house. Oh, and mirrors. We need to cover them as well. There should be mourning cloths in the back of the linen cupboard.”

After a brief search through the linens, Eliza located a neat pile of cloth made of dull black material. She handed half of the stack to William and made her way downstairs, covering the few mirrors there, pulling the drapes and stopping the large grandfather clock in the parlor. When she returned upstairs, she found that William had done the same for the upstairs. He was just drawing the drapes in his bedroom as she entered.

William gave her a look of dread. “I should return to Mother's side. It is not proper to leave her unattended.”

“Do you have to?”

“It's what is expected.”

“But William, sitting with her body all night wouldn't be comforting to you. It would just be…awful. Can't we do ‘those things that are expected' tomorrow?”

He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“Tonight, can't we do what's best for you? You know your mom would have insisted that you do the thing that caused you the least amount of pain.”

He stopped and considered her words.

She stepped toward him and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Just sleep here, William. Please. Tomorrow will have trials enough, I think.”

She eased the shirt from his shoulders and pulled back the covers. He climbed into his bed as if by autopilot.

“Would you like me to stay?” she asked.

“More than you can imagine.”

So she blew out the gas lamp, let her dress slide to the floor and climbed into his bed and his arms. He tucked his head under her chin and wrapped his arms and legs around her in a tangle as she stroked his disheveled hair soothingly, as if her loving touches could reach through to his mind to ease his regrets and sorrow.

And just as she slipped past the edge of consciousness, that little black bird that had been chasing through her dreams every night came swooping down again, calling out to her with Lancaster's affronted tone.

“The attic, Miss Pepper? The attic? Your actions are most disconcerting. You may try to stall, but be assured, there will be a reckoning on this matter.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

William woke well before dawn to find Eliza curled up in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder. A contented sigh escaped him, just the heartbeat of a blissful moment, before reality washed over him and he remembered that his mother lay cold and still, just on the other side of the library. His instant of forgetfulness was brief, replaced by an emptiness that yawned open inside his chest and pushed at his walls. He slid quietly, guiltily, from Eliza's arms.

He slipped on his dressing gown as he watched his Eliza, lost in dreams. She looked so innocent, so childlike, when she slept. The temptation of just succumbing to her arms was so strong. To let the coming events simply unfold without him. But who would protect her in that? If he were to do nothing? His mother's death was going to pour out a tidal wave of change and Eliza would sink in those unfamiliar waters. She would look to him in the coming days—they all would. In all his life, he'd never felt less up to a task.

After quietly unlatching the library door, he lit a small gas lamp and settled in at his desk. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a stationary set and pen, ready to begin the first of an endless list of tasks that death demanded of him. His hand remained uncooperative, however. Absently, he watched the reflection of the gas flame flicker shadows across the blank pages, lost in the patterns. The coming days unfolded before his mind's eye—much like a play.

The first to arrive would be the undertaker with his embalming table, his arsenic, his mercury—pumping poisons into his mother. Then the household staff would be sent into a frenzy of activity, sorting the out-of-town relatives into bedrooms and placing the overflow with kind neighbors. And the stream of widow women from the parish would flow steadily to his mother's room—sitting vigil until the funeral.

In the unholy tide of grieving family and friends, he'd have not a moment for his Eliza. He'd need to call the staff to stay at the house—boarding Dora and Mrs. MacLaughlin in the attic rooms, along with Eliza. He knew he was a weak man to need her so, to crave her compassion, but that didn't change the ache he felt at the thought of being without her.

And yet—that would be only the beginning of their parting. For a single man to be living in a home with a lone maid would be absolutely unheard of. Eliza was an innocent in the ways of society and was unaware of the coming storm of change. Another wave of guilt washed over his head. She looked to him, trusted him, with her heart, her future and yet he was just as adrift as she when it came to navigating these unfamiliar waters.

That wasn't even the worst of it, he knew. He was still torn about believing her regarding her mission, but if it truly was complete, her time with him would be at an end. The thought of it was too painful for either of them to mention, but all the same, he feared a reckoning with Lancaster might be looming.

He was so lost in their troubles that it wasn't until she called his name that he realized she'd entered the room. His Eliza, all buttoned up in her black maid's uniform, standing beside him. He looked up at her with gratitude and swiveled his chair so that he might lean his forehead against her stomach. She anchored him there, tenderly, her fingertips threaded through his hair, soothing him.

They remained like that for a few moments before he pulled away to meet her gaze, hoping he didn't look half as disoriented as he felt.

“What can I do to help, William?”

“Most of these tasks I must attend to myself, my love. I've to send out notices to family by the first post so that they can arrive for the…for her…funeral. It's just that I don't quite know how to say it. I've got the addresses all written down but the words elude me.”

She stood behind him, her hands placed reassuringly on his shoulders. “Well, let's see what you have so far.”

And since his letters consisted of a pile of blank paper, she caressed the back of his writing hand. “Let's start with ‘Dear Uncle Thomas' and see what happens after that.”

Of course she began with the one that caused him the most trouble. It was who she was meeting the greatest foe fearlessly and head-on. He forced pen to paper and after a time his hand began to fly across the page—words adding onto words until the stack of blank sheets gradually thinned out.

The slam of a door echoed from downstairs. They both jumped.

“And so it begins,” he mumbled. They listened as the familiar sounds of Mrs. MacLaughlin bustling about in the kitchen echoed up the stairwell. Her footsteps thudded into the dining room before stopping suddenly. She'd likely seen the stopped clock or the covered mirror.

William heard someone let out a stifled groan and it took a moment before he realized that the sound had come from him.

“What?” Eliza asked.

“The next few days will be trying, Eliza. Please don't forget, in all of it, that I love you.”

“And I love you, William.”

She loved him.

Somehow, the wonder of her words found a path through the fog of pain. He tried to think of something to say, but could only swallow the huge lump in his throat.

“I
do
love you, you know.” Eliza smiled at him tremulously. “Have for a while now. I just couldn't say because of…reasons.” She reached out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I know things seem pretty grim right now, but I have to believe that eventually, it'll be okay. You'll be okay.”

Mrs. MacLaughlin's heavy tread sounded in the hall and he turned to look at Eliza, to burn her image into his mind like a tintype.

“And
we'll
be ‘okay,' Eliza?”

Her smile widened, her green eyes full of grace and understanding. “We'll be okay,” she repeated.

He wanted desperately to believe her. He truly did.

Two days later

He glanced at the clock in the corner of the library, out of habit, forgetting for a moment that the hands were still stopped at seventeen minutes past eight—the time of his mother's death. They would remain like that for a long, long while to come.

Letting out a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair and reached for his tumbler of whiskey. It wouldn't help. It wouldn't be enough. There wasn't enough whiskey in the world.

He missed them. It was a simple as that. He missed his mother and he missed his Eliza with a physical ache. It was as if an invading creature had torn out his heart before setting up home inside his chest.

But Mother was gone. What remained of her was just a room away, waiting to be placed into the ground the next day. And Eliza? Only one floor above him in the attic, but she might as well be in Yorkshire or California for all that he was able to be with her.

His house was bursting at the seams with relatives. Though he could pass Eliza in the hallway and catch her eye for a moment, the part of them that was “them” was well out of his reach and he was helpless to find a way back to it.

He couldn't bear how much he missed her. He longed for the barest glimpse. And although he knew he'd be better off sparing himself the pain, he couldn't resist the pull of his bedroom. To look at his bed, their bed, where they had lain wrapped in one another's love.

Opening the library door that led to his room, the gas lamp flickered dimly across the floor of his room.

Had he been holding his breath? Hoping to see her beneath the bed covers, her body curled in that U-shape which fit against him so perfectly? Fool. A tidy coverlet, two pillows. Elizaless, as he knew it would be. And…and a small black pouch, at least, it looked like a pouch, no larger than his fist and drawn up with a ribbon, neatly placed upon “her” pillow.

He rubbed his eyes and then looked again. No, he wasn't that drunk. It was still there.

Gingerly, he picked it up and brought it back into the well-lit library, closing the door to his room firmly behind him. He tugged open the drawstring and his eyes fell upon a shining bit of gold color. When he tipped the pouch up, the contents slipped into his open palm: a long lock of Eliza's hair, bound with a pink ribbon. He lifted it to his face to breathe it in. A faint rose scent filled his senses.

William smiled. His first in days.

Good god, how he'd needed this—the barest touch of her. How had she known how much he needed this now? What had he done to deserve such a miracle of a woman? Eliza would find this type of gesture…how would she say it? Corny. Sappy. Hopelessly romantic. But it was her way to him through all of this, and she'd taken it.

And his way to her? What was that? 

Clutching her token in his fist, he wove slightly as he made his way back to the cluttered mess that his desk had become since his mother's death. As he sat down, he took another deep swallow of whiskey, emptying the glass.

If only he could just damn what people would think and make his way to her. She was just one floor above him, for the love of God, crammed into that little room with Dora. He could bash down the walls, to hell with their concerned looks, their propriety and his future. He'd damn it all and just take his Eliza in his arms. Did she need him now, half as much as he longed for her?

And what if he couldn't? What if he was unable to find his way to her now that his mother was gone? What would become of her in this world that was beyond her understanding?

What if she left him?

He removed his suit jacket, drunkenly folding it into a kind of pillow before placing it on his desk and resting his head upon it. Since he was unable to find any comfort in his bed without her, he'd settle for sleeping in the library again. Comfortable, it was not, but it was preferable to the whirlpool of ache that his room had become without her.

Eventually the whiskey took over and pulled him into a restless kind of almost-sleep, her lock of hair clutched tightly in his fist.

The funeral was a haze. Uncle Thomas had insisted on various particulars and William didn't have the will to stand against him. What difference would it have made? His mother was gone.

After a few brief words were spoken at the misty graveside, the black-clad mourners climbed back into their carriages and returned to the Brown home. The staff had prepared food, and cozy fires brightened the downstairs rooms that had been filled with floral arrangements for the occasion. William endured by backing into a corner, seeking desperately to be just invisible enough that the multitude might decide to pass him by altogether.

The crowd didn't leave him alone, of course. Well-wishers seldom did. They all pressed in again with more words of advice, telling him things that comforted him the least. Telling him it was for “the best.” Telling him that she was in “a better place,” whatever the hell that meant. And his mask stayed firmly fixed as he mumbled polite responses.

He caught only the briefest glimpses of Eliza––accepting floral arrangements and setting a tray of cakes up in the dining room. Unable to speak to her, to hold her, for all intents and purposes, she might as well have been half a world away. So he gripped the black pouch a little more tightly, nodded in the appropriate places and continued to say the things he ought and not the things he meant.

He went through the facade society demanded of him, but all the while he longed for her. Eliza. She knew nothing about how to function in society while knowing all about the things that really mattered: how to ease him with just a touch, how fingers were preferable to spoons when dining on peaches, how to protect loved ones armed only with rice pudding.

Cavendish, Perry and several other gentlemen from the Alexander Club arrived to pay their respects. They shook his hand and murmured a few words of condolence. It was kind of them to make the effort.

When he felt gentle pressure on his arm, he looked up hopefully, expecting to see Eliza, only to see unfamiliar brown eyes beneath a perfectly coiffed hairstyle. It took him a moment to recognize the face. Jennie Jerome. Lord Randolph Churchill stood at her side.

“Mr. Brown.” Jennie nodded in his direction. “We saw the announcement in
The Times
. Please accept our sincere condolences.”

“You're too kind.” William nodded toward the pair. He couldn't help but think that his mother would have been delighted to find that Lord Churchill had attended her funeral. What a wonderful irony that the Brown family's most impressive social connection had been achieved through the maid.

“I had hoped to see Eliza,” Jennie said.

“I could try to find her, if you wish,” William replied. The truth was, they wouldn't have been able to avoid seeing Eliza several times since arriving. She had been greeting everyone at the door and had taken in the coats and umbrellas. She'd been the one setting out the trays of coffee and food. Though they had interacted with her, they hadn't seen her at all.

“No, please don't disturb her,” Jennie shook her head. “I shouldn't wish that. I simply wanted to thank her again—for, you know, what happened on the night of the ball.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.” William nodded at Lord Churchill.

Jennie raised her hand to hold Lord Churchill's arm and William saw it—the flash of an engagement ring.

“I see that congratulations are in order,” William said.

Jennie blushed and cast a quick glance to the man whose arm she was holding. “Randy and I only knew one another for three days prior to our engagement. It is causing quite a stir. But after the events at the ball, he felt rather insistent about it.”

Lord Churchill shuffled his feet. Discussing such private matters was quite undone, especially by the upper classes. Nevertheless, with such an American as Jennie as his intended, he had little choice when it came to discussing such intimacies. He harrumphed and adjusted his collar. “Well, Jennie, I shouldn't bother about what others think. I'm of a mind that our time on this planet is somewhat limited in length, therefore, we should strive to utilize our time to the utmost.”