A Peculiar Connection (39 page)

“You look positively lovely. May I be so bold as to suggest that marriage suits you?”

My aunt’s statement startled me from my reflection, causing me to blush and smile. “I am more than content.”

“Then, do I assume correctly that you and Mr. Darcy have made a love match?”

I nodded. “We have.”

She reached for my hand. “Your mother would be so pleased!”

“Do you think so?”

“Without a doubt. At last, you wear the name to which you were born. May you enjoy a long life as mistress of Pemberley.”

Although Eleanor Willoughby and I were still strangers in many respects, little by little, I was beginning to feel that we were truly related, that here was someone to whom I actually belonged. Would she one day be as close to me as my Aunt Gardiner?

][

Within a week of Aunt Eleanor’s departure from our townhouse, William announced that we would travel to Pemberley. I could not wait to return to Derbyshire. Although the mansion would be dressed in winter’s white by that time, I anticipated the warmth and loveliness I would find waiting within. The beauty of my new home was not all that called to me. I desired the tranquillity that soothed my soul each time I walked by Pemberley’s windows and viewed the prospect of the surrounding woods and groves. I could not grieve over Sir Linton’s death, yet I longed to escape all memory of its horror. I was eager to leave London behind.

Unfortunately, upon returning to Derbyshire, we were met with greetings even more grievous.

While we were in Town, a letter from Ireland had arrived at Pemberley stating that Father Darcy had died on the sixth day of December.

His passing was easy and peaceful,
Father Rafferty wrote. Within the packet containing the message, the priest had included my father’s rosary. I held it in my hand, noting that most of the beads were worn thin from his years of prayers.

“He died on your birthday,” William said softly.

I raised my eyes to his. “He died on the same day that my mother died.”

We both grieved Peter Darcy’s loss in our own way. William thrust himself into the management of his estate, keeping himself busy throughout the day. I took long walks all over Pemberley’s extensive grounds. I longed to plunge into the wood, but it was still quite cold. Snowfall had been less than usual that winter, but a sharp wind often arose without warning. My husband had asked me not to wander off alone, and I obeyed.

I thought of my father’s life. I thought of how events and people had conspired to rob him of the love of a wife and family, yet they provided him with a purpose he evidently found fulfilling. I thought of the good he had done, and I was proud of him. Then, I began to think how cheated I felt not to have known him longer. My spirits lagged, and I found the same melancholy creeping back into my moods that had beset me for so long during the past year. I had thought it all behind me, but once again, life had taken a bitter turn. And yet, for some strange reason, I could not weep over my father’s passing.

William was as loving and compassionate as I knew he would be. That first night, upon reading the letter, he had held me in his strong, comforting arms all night long, for I could not sleep. He had gone out of his way to provide me with time alone so that I might grieve in private, cautioning Georgiana not to intrude when I departed the house for my sojourns in the garden. After the first few weeks, he offered distractions, such as rides through the countryside, visits with neighbours, or even an invitation for my family at Longbourn to come, but I refused all of his suggestions.

At length, one day, William walked into my sitting room, where I sat alone, staring out the window. He said nothing, but strode through the adjoining door into my chamber, returning within moments carrying my new fur-lined cloak and hat.

“Come, Elizabeth, let us go out.”

“I do not wish to call on anyone.”

“Then, we shall not see anyone, but you will leave the house. Look without; we are graced with one of those rare days in February. The sun shines, the snow melts, and, best of all, the wind has disappeared.”

I protested, but he would have none of it, insisting that I rise from my chair while he fastened my cloak securely. He donned his long coat and hat and ushered me out the door. I was surprised to see the phaeton harnessed and waiting in the drive, its big yellow wheels still bright and shining. When I asked him our destination, he refused to say.

Once we were securely seated and the fur rug wrapped around us, he flicked the reins, and we drove away from Pemberley. I could not help but recall our previous ride in that conveyance a year before. Much had changed since that occasion but not Mr. Darcy’s driving. Again, we careened down the road at a speed that robbed me of breath, and I was forced to cling to him for dear life. This time, however, I had not the slightest hesitation in hanging onto his arm.

When my husband turned up the path leading to Bridesgate Manor, I began to protest that I was in no mood to visit with Mrs. Denison or the admiral.

“That is good, for they are not at home. I have it on good authority that the family journeyed to Town on Tuesday last.”

“Then why are we here?”

He refused to answer my query but drove around the circular path that led to the back of the house. Servants, who were obviously acquainted with the master of Pemberley, held the horse while we climbed down from the phaeton. Mr. Darcy spoke briefly with the steward, who nodded and led us through the back garden. He pointed toward a slight incline some distance from the grounds and left us to my husband’s pursuit. I followed him quietly, having given up asking questions he would not answer. We walked through a stand of trees that opened upon a glade, containing a single gravestone.

I caught my breath. “William, is this where my mother is buried?”

“It is.” He took my hand and guided me until I reached the stone bearing her name.
Elizabeth Willoughby Darcy
. I fell to my knees and traced the letters with my fingers.

“It was here all along,” I said softly. “If only we had found this grave last year—”

“Yes.” He knelt beside me, taking my hand in his.

For some reason, I felt peace descending upon my spirit. There, in that quiet haven, fixed evidence existed of the mother I never knew.

“How did you know to bring me here, that I needed to see her grave?”

“Because I know you.”

I turned to see his eyes upon me…eyes filled with love and understanding. What had I ever done to deserve such a good man?

Once again reaching out to the stone, I retraced my mother’s name. “William,
Darcy
was not always here, was it? Did you have it added?”

He stared into my eyes. “Why not? It was her name.”

We sat there for some time until I was ready to go, thinking we would return home. Instead, William turned the horse off the road and onto the narrow path leading through the wood. Within a short time, we arrived at the Catholic chapel.

“Will you go in with me?” he asked before descending from the phaeton. When I nodded, he jumped down and then lifted his arms to assist me.

Inside the building, the familiar odours of incense and old wood greeted us. We were the only visitors, and after William saw me seated in a pew, he walked to the side of the sanctuary, knocked on the door, where he was met by the priest, and entered the sacristy.

I gazed at the altar and the statue of the Madonna and Child. My eyes lingered on the Celtic cross on the table. I could see my grandmother lighting candles, fingering her rosary, and praying for forgiveness for having worshipped in the Anglican Church. I saw a young Peter Darcy and then Elizabeth Willoughby as they embraced the Catholic religion. I saw the devoted couple as they stood before that altar and vowed to love each other forever. I saw my father prostrate on the floor, pounding his fist into the slate, pouring out his anguish when he thought my mother dead.

And finally, at long last, I began to weep. Great, painful sobs escaped from deep within as though they had been locked away for eternity. I wept for the past that had been stolen from me, for what had been, and for what could never be again. I mourned the loss not only of my parents, but of the childhood I might have known. I mourned the loss of the person I might have been. I mourned the loss of the person I had thought myself to be. I mourned the injustice that had caused these souls such pain, and I mourned for the loss of innocence and hope that I had suffered.

And when, at length, my weeping subsided, I mourned no longer.

I felt William’s presence beside me, unaware as to when he had joined me. I looked down to see his dear, strong hand holding mine. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he gently wiped the tears from my face.

“I have something to show you,” he said softly.

I rose and followed him to the sacristy, wondering why he should lead me there. Inside the small room, he introduced me to the priest and then indicated that I should sit at a table. Before leaving the room, the priest placed a large open book in front of me.

William pointed to the page containing writing, but I could not make it out. I attempted to decipher what he wished me to see before realizing it was not written in English.

“I cannot read Latin, William.”

“Look closely. I believe you will see names that you recognize.”

I questioned him with my expression but did as he instructed. There, among all the foreign words, I saw the names
Peter Darcy
and
Elizabeth Willoughby.

“The answer we sought this past year was right here,” William said. “For with many other words and phrases, this entry states that your parents were married by Father Timothy Ayden in this parish on the First day of March in the year of our Lord 1791. If I had only known last year that your mother had become Catholic, I would have found the answer right under my nose.”

“Thank you for finding it now,” I whispered. “It gives me a feeling of serenity to see it written down, much like touching my mother’s gravestone.”

I sat there no little time, gazing at the priest’s handwriting from more than twenty years past. William waited patiently, and when I rose at last, he asked me whether I was ready to return home.

I shook my head. “Pray, take me somewhere new. I need to see a part of this country that I have never seen before.”

][

We rode for miles, my William and I, down roads I had not yet travelled and through countryside I had never seen, and still, we remained in Derbyshire, according to my husband. At last, he reined in the horse, causing the phaeton to stop. I was amazed at our destination, for we had left the main road and struck out through paths not clearly marked. I had realized that we were climbing, but until I looked back, I had not the slightest idea that we had ascended to such a height.

“If we venture farther, we shall have to walk. Shall we?” he asked, and I agreed, of course.

The landscape had turned barren, without grass or trees nearby. Instead, we climbed up a portion of huge stones flat enough to walk on, yet leading higher and higher. At length, when I began struggling to catch my breath, William suggested that we content ourselves with the view. I turned to glance over my shoulder and was surprised at how far we had climbed. I walked to the jagged edge of the cliff upon which we stood and looked down.

“How deep the valley lies below us!”

William joined me and took my hand in his. “Do not stand too near the rim.”

I found myself entranced by not only how tiny the stream below appeared, but by the absolute terror the thought of falling produced in me. I had never feared heights, but then, I doubted that I had ever before climbed to such an elevation. We stood there, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

At length, William spoke. “Where are you, dearest—wading in that stream below?”

I shook my head. “Nowhere near that pleasant.”

He frowned. “Then where? I hoped to distract you from your grief.”

“You have,” I assured him. “It is just that—”

“Just what?”

“Standing on the edge of this precipice makes me think of life itself.”

“Indeed? In what way?”

“It takes but a step to encounter disaster. A single event can change an ordinary day into a day of tragedy.”

“I suppose,” he said, removing his hat. “By the same reasoning, however, a single event can make a horrid day into one more lovely than can be imagined. It is all in how one chooses to look at it.”

I released his hand and knelt down, continuing to gaze at the scene far below.

“I understand what you are saying. One must be hopeful in one’s outlook, but William, what do I do with this fear that continues to beset me?”

“Of what fear do you speak?” He placed his strong hands upon my shoulders and brought me to my feet.

“The fear that I have lost my faith. The fear that no matter how much we love each other or how good our life together is or how much we try…out of nowhere, on a day that begins in all innocence, something may come along to make the life we know disappear as easily as a vapour dissolves into nothing.”

He turned me around and took my face in his hands.

“Elizabeth, you have experienced a series of shocks in the past fourteen months that would fell the strongest of faiths.”

“As you have.”

William shook his head. “Mine does not compare with yours. I was never told that I am not who I thought I was, that my parents were not the parents who gave me birth, that the name I had worn all my life was not my own, or that my truth was altered through no fault of my own. And I did not discover my father only to lose him within a matter of months. You have endured more than you should have, Elizabeth, but you have survived. If your faith is weak, give it time. I believe it will grow strong again.”

I turned away, gazing at the scene far below once more. “But how, William? How will my faith ever take root anew?”

“By looking up.” Tenderly, he lifted my chin. “You have spent far too long staring at what lies below or looking over your shoulder, watching for what may or may not creep up from behind. Feast your eyes on all that lies ahead of us.” Holding his arm aloft, he gestured toward the hills.