The Pemberley Chronicles (44 page)

Some time later, Jane made to rise, and this prompted a more general movement, as Bingley rose to accompany her. A sudden gust of wind caught Elizabeth's scarf and made her shiver as the oak leaves, russet and brown, showered down around her. Helping her up, Darcy said, "That was the first really cold gust of wind we've had all day," and Caroline, putting on a wrap, agreed.
"I'm afraid it looks as though our glorious Autumn weather is finally ending." It was a remark she would recall again and again. Another cold gust, more leaves rustled down onto the grass, and everyone was ready to go indoors.
As they approached the house, walking in groups or as in the case of Mrs Gardiner and Jane, driven in a little phaeton, Jonathan was standing in the drive, with a young man not much older than William. Elizabeth did not recognise him, nor did Darcy. But young Isabella Fitzwilliam did. "It's that horrid Lindley fellow, Mama, his father has a farm at Bakewell, and they breed horses. They enjoy showing off."
"I wonder what he wants," said Elizabeth.
Isabella obliged again, "They ride down by the river; I have seen them there together. He has probably come to show off a horse. Tom the elder brother is a real wild one, always racing the horses along the roads and jumping the hedgerows." Still, puzzled, Elizabeth looked around for William.
She called out to Jonathan, "Jonathan, is William with you?" but before he could reply, the Lindley boy moved right out into the drive and answered for him, "William and Edward have ridden up into the woods with Tom, my brother."
"What?" Elizabeth could not believe her ears.
"What horses are they riding?" Darcy asked, and the boy replied with a degree of boastful pride, "Why ours, of course. We were taking them out for a gallop. They wanted a ride." On hearing his words, Elizabeth flew to her husband's side.
"William doesn't ride unfamiliar horses; he is not at ease with them and makes them nervous and skittish!" she cried.
By this time, Richard and Cassandra had come up and joined Jonathan, who was looking very anxious indeed. Darcy, meanwhile, had asked for a couple of horses to be saddled up. He was going after them, with one of his men. Caroline and Fitzwilliam, who had lingered by the lake, arrived in time to hear Darcy call out to one of his stable hands, "We had better take along an extra horse." Caroline was bewildered and worried; she had not heard where Edward had gone and with whom. She appealed first to Elizabeth and then Jane for information; neither could satisfy her. Jonathan confessed to being unhappy about William's and Edward's riding Tom's horses, but he had not been able to dissuade them in the face of so much encouragement from the Lindley brothers.
"They were in the saddle and gone in no time at all," he said, worrying that they had not yet returned, in spite of repeated assurances from Lindley that they would be all right, because "Tom is the best rider in the county." Bingley, an excellent rider himself, was less worried, "I expect they'll be back soon," he said, but all the women were troubled, none more than Elizabeth, who shivered as the wind rose. Cassandra ran upstairs to get her mother a warm wrap, as Richard followed Darcy to the stables, asking to be allowed to accompany them. "In case there has been some trouble, you could do with a doctor," he said, and Darcy, clearly relieved, agreed.
Minutes later, with the North wind gusting more strongly, they were saddled up and gone, leaving behind an anxious group to straggle into the house. The sun was setting on a scene that had changed utterly in the space of an hour; a day filled with happy optimism had ended in a mood of apprehension--even dread.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

No coward soul is mine

A

S THE TIME CRAWLED
by with no news, and darkness fell, shrouding the house, the small group of mainly women and children had either fallen silent or spoken in whispers, standing about or crowding

together by the fireplace in the saloon, as if to draw comfort from each other. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam paced restlessly in the hall, while Mr
Gardiner, his face heavy with concern for the two boys, sat with his wife, trying
desperately to give her hope. Not knowing made matters worse; the uncertainty
adding another fearsome element to their waiting. The two women most
afraid--Elizabeth and Caroline said little. Gripped by cold fear, they sat
together holding hands and occasionally failing to suppress an impatient cry as
more time passed without result. Jane, ever the loving and caring one, tried to
urge them to take some refreshment and was rebuffed. "How could one think
of food?" scoffed Caroline, turning abruptly away, and even Elizabeth, always
sensitive to her sister's gentle, good nature, covered her face with her hands,
unable even to contemplate it at such a time.
Jenny, whose anguish matching that of her mistress showed in her harrowed
face, busied herself getting the younger children upstairs, fed, bathed, and bedded down. When there had been no news from the search party for over an
hour, Mrs Gardiner wondered aloud whether someone else should not go out after them. Fitzwilliam and Bingley had been discussing just such a proposition and were about to walk down to the stables for their horses, when Will Camden, who had been silent all evening, spoke up, "It will be of no use for any one unfamiliar with the woods, to go out there at night. It would be too dangerous. But if one of you will follow me, I am willing to go. I know these woods well." Fitzwilliam immediately agreed, and the two of them set off for the sta
bles, leaving Bingley back at the house.
They had only been gone a few minutes, when Jenny was heard calling from
upstairs, where, with Mrs Reynolds, she had been keeping watch at a window
that offered a clear view of the drive. "There's someone coming up from the
bridge," she called, and in a trice, Elizabeth and Caroline were at the front door,
with the others close behind. As the horse approached, it was clear there were
two men--Jack, the groom, was riding, with the stable hand walking beside the
horse. The women at the door rushed out into the cold and surrounded them.
Their desperate questions came all at once, creating a babel of sound; neither of
the men was able to answer. It was Jenny's husband, John, who intervened and
got the men inside first, and as the others followed them in, he asked the groom,
"What is it, Jack, tell me, where is the Master, and what has happened to the
lads?" The young stable hand was sobbing, and even the groom's face was contorted with shock. They were cold. A hot drink helped as they sat before the
fire, and then, slowly, painfully, the tale was told.
There had been a dreadful accident. On one of the bridle paths in the
woods, a horse had stumbled and fallen, breaking a leg and tripping up the animal following, which then appeared to have lost its footing and rolled into a
gully with its rider, young Master Edward. As a scream came from Caroline, the
boy broke down, and the groom had to take up the tale. Both horse and rider
had been killed instantly. It had taken over an hour to rescue the boy, but to no
avail. He must have been dead at least an hour before they had found him.
Elizabeth stood by, panic-stricken, unable to ask about her son, as Caroline's
heart-rending pain filled the room, and her mother rushed to her side. Then
Jenny, feeling Elizabeth's anguish, asked, "And Master William?" The groom
shook his head as his tears fell.
"It seems his horse must have bolted, because Master William had been
thrown on to the path, striking his head as he fell. Dr Gardiner was with him
the instant we found him, and so was my Master; the doctor tried everything he knew, but he passed away within a few minutes of our finding him. Oh Ma'am, I am so sorry. I feel it as if he were my own. It would never have happened with one of our horses!" he cried. Elizabeth turned away and wept, her body shaking with the violence of her grief. As they asked more questions, and the terrible tale unfolded, it became clear that only Tom Lindley had survived, with a broken leg to show for it. Reaction ranged from anger and rage to despair, as the entire family contemplated the loss of two of their dearest and best. Caroline and Elizabeth embraced and wept together. They were comforted by Jane and Mrs Gardiner but remained inconsolable. Mr Gardiner, despite his
pain, persisted with the questions.
"Where are Dr Gardiner and Mr Darcy?" he asked. He was told that they
had contacted the authorities at Matlock and were waiting for a vehicle to
transport the children's bodies, which had been carried up to the roadway. Jack
could not contain his grief and sobbed all through his story. The stable hand sat
on the floor, his head in his hands, unable to believe what he had seen. He was
the son of one of the farmers, born on the estate; in all his life, he had not experienced anything like the tragedy that was unfolding at this moment. The sound
of approaching horses and a cry from Elizabeth alerted them to the arrival of
Richard and Darcy. As they came indoors, Mr Darcy, his face dark and drawn,
went directly to his wife, embraced her as she sobbed, and took her upstairs,
where she could vent her grief in private. Jane helped Fitzwilliam and Mrs
Gardiner take Caroline to a room that had been prepared for them, where she
continued to weep for hours, despite the efforts of her family to comfort her. In spite of her pain, Elizabeth was determined to discover exactly what had
occurred. Though her husband tried to persuade her to rest awhile, she would
have none of it, asking about every particular of the accident that had taken her
child's life, wanting most of all to know if William had suffered much pain and
had he recognised his father, when they found him.
In answer to the first, Darcy said that to the best of Richard's knowledge,
it was unlikely William had suffered much; the fall and consequent blow to the
head would surely have caused him to become unconscious, a state from which
he had appeared to emerge only fitfully, when they had found him. To her second, more difficult question, Darcy answered truthfully, but with great sorrow,
that William had not spoken at all, but, when Richard was tending him,
appeared to recognise him. When his father had held him as he lay on the grass, Darcy had kept hold of his hand until he had closed his eyes for the last time. Darcy honestly believed that his son had known him then and was comforted by his presence. For Elizabeth, every detail brought more tears, and one burst of grieving was so passionate that Darcy feared she would injure herself. Going out of the room, he sought out Jenny and Jane and begged them to sit
with her awhile.
Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Gardiner, feeling for both their daughter and their
niece, were torn between the two of them but not wanting to intrude upon
Darcy and Elizabeth, contented themselves with waiting in the long gallery
until Darcy emerged. He saw them and went to them at once. He had spoken
with no one since his return an hour or more ago. The Gardiners warmly
embraced him and expressed their sorrow, and Darcy acknowledged their
shared agony, for had they not all suffered terribly tonight.
They asked after Elizabeth, and on being told that Jane was with her, Mrs
Gardiner asked if she may go in to her, too. "Please do, I am sure Lizzie is longing to see you," urged Darcy, who then walked to the end of the gallery with Mr
Gardiner and stopped as they reached the point where the portraits of the two
Darcy children hung alongside the splendid painting of his sister--Georgiana
and his favourite portrait of Elizabeth--in a striking emerald green gown.
While Cassandra's portrait had captured her vivacity, William's was characterised by a pensive expression, with a half smile on his lips. Even at fourteen,
there had been a special quality about him, which his mother had recognised as
she encouraged his interest in music and art.
Unlike Edward Fitzwilliam, who was occasionally wilful and difficult,
William's was a gentle, sensitive nature. That he should have been destroyed in
the pursuit of crude excitement, urged on by a stranger to ride a horse he could
not possibly have known well enough to control, was the supreme irony.
Standing before the portrait, Darcy was silent, heartsick with sorrow. Mr
Gardiner stood a few paces behind him, unwilling to intrude but keenly feeling
his pain.
Charlotte Collins approached; she seemed deeply shocked. Her family had
survived the death of Mr Collins, a husband and father, but the death of a child,
one as dearly loved as William, was inconceivable to her, and she felt their loss
deeply. Her obvious distress moved Darcy, who had always held her in high
esteem. "If there is anything I can do, Mr Darcy, please let me be of some use. Eliza and you have been so good to us, I cannot bear to stand by and see your
pain. Rebecca and I are here and ready to help in any way."
"My dear Mrs Collins--Charlotte--I thank you from the bottom of my
heart and on behalf of Lizzie. Your kindness is truly appreciated. Perhaps if you
would speak with Mrs Reynolds and Jenny, they will know exactly what needs
doing, and I am sure they would welcome your help, as would Lizzie. Please go
to her," he said, quietly. She held his hand in hers for a moment and saw the
tears in his eyes, as she turned and walked away. Charlotte, whose goodness of
spirit had permitted no hint of envy, had rejoiced when her best friend had married Mr Darcy, even before she learnt how remarkably happy their marriage
was. Since then, she had herself personally seen the generosity and kindness that
Elizabeth had spoken of, and on the death of Mr Collins, she and her children
had been recipients of it. That such a tragic blow should have befallen them
seemed to her to be deeply unfair. All night long, the women kept vigil with
their bereaved sisters and friends. Hardly anyone slept, except fitfully, from
sheer exhaustion.
Early the next morning, the dark carriage bearing the undertakers arrived,
beginning the funeral procedures that must move inevitably to their awful conclusion. Caroline and Elizabeth wanted only to see their sons, but that had to
wait until the formalities were completed and their bodies could be prepared
and laid out at last. Ironically, all the exciting promise of their young lives being
snuffed out, their mothers could look forward only to this last dreaded
encounter with their beloved children. Stunned and incredulous, Elizabeth contemplated how swiftly the days of bright, unalloyed joy had ended, bringing
home a bitter harvest of tears.
Some days passed before arrangements for the funerals were complete.
Friends and relations around the country had to be informed and allowed a reasonable time to attend. Mr Bennet and Sir William Lucas came, despite their
advancing years, making the long and uncomfortable journey. Mary and, surprisingly, Lydia, but not Wickham, came with them, the latter having travelled
overnight from Norwich, where they now lived. Lady Catherine sent words of
sympathy; William had found favour with her at an early age, but she was prevented from attending by her daughter's illness. Her emissary, Charlotte's daughter Catherine travelled in style, arriving in one of the best carriages from Rosings,
attended by a personal maid and escorted by Lady Catherine's librarian. Many of the Gardiners' friends and Fitzwilliam's political colleagues
attended, and the church was filled to overflowing, well before Dr Grantley,
who had travelled from Oxford with Georgiana, arrived to conduct the service.
Georgiana's distress was almost as great as that of her brother and sister.
William had been a special favourite of hers. Men and women from the villages
and estates in the neighbourhood had come to stand along the roads and fill the
churchyard at Pemberley, where several generations of the Darcy family had
been buried. Here, in illustrious company, the two young cousins would be laid
to rest, before a vast number of mourners.
Arriving at the church, unexpected, having travelled all the previous day
and through the night was Emily Gardiner. Elizabeth and Darcy caught sight
of her as they were leaving the church. She ran over to them, and her face crumpled as she and Lizzie clung together. "Emily, dearest Emily, when did you
arrive?" asked Elizabeth, when she could speak.
"Richard sent me an express as soon as it happened. I had to come." "And Paul?"
"He insisted that I leave at once. The servants and Signora Cassini will look
after him for me. But Lizzie, my dearest Cousin, what can I say?" her eyes filled
with tears, which spilled down her cheeks. "William and Edward, both our beautiful boys, gone! Why? I have not ceased to question, but I can find no answer." Darcy and Elizabeth were touched by her heroic journey, by coach from
Italy and packet boat across to Dover and post again to Lambton, where
Richard had met her and conveyed her to the church. She had slept little and
eaten hardly at all, until she reached the inn, waiting impatiently to get to
Pemberley, desperate to reach her sister and cousin and discover how this terrible thing had happened. She wanted, too, to comfort them, knowing how much
it would be needed. Her own sorrow, suffered for the most part alone, except for
the constant support of her brother Richard, had prepared her for sharing their
grief. That she continued to carry in her heart the grinding agony of caring for
a dying husband gave her a sensibility which Jane, whose life had been, mercifully, free of such pain, could not know, even though her tender heart was filled
with compassion for her sister. Shared sorrow created a bond deeper than shared
happiness, it seemed, and Elizabeth found herself looking for Emily again and
again, to sit with, to talk to and weep with, when she could no longer hold back
her tears, as thoughts and feelings welled up inside and overwhelmed her. There grew quickly between the two women a relationship born of their
understanding of each other's sorrow, seeming to eclipse even Elizabeth's most
tender bond with her sister. In spite of their deep affection and Jane's efforts to
console her bereaved sister, Elizabeth found it difficult to accept that her own
life had been shattered, while Jane's remained complete and secure, untouched,