A Peculiar Connection (7 page)

“Has the evening’s refreshment relieved the strain of travel, Elizabeth?” He spoke softly so that he would not interrupt Georgiana’s concert.

“The meal was delicious, and one could not ask for more pleasing entertainment.”

“But you are weary, are you not? I see fatigue in your eyes. After she finishes this song, you must retire.”

“I would not shorten Georgiana’s enjoyment. Pray, do not ask her to stop on my behalf.”

“There is always the morrow when she may play as long as she wishes while I show you the house in detail. I know Mrs. Reynolds gave you and the Gardiners a tour last summer, but I wish for you to see the house through my eyes. Shall we say after breakfast, around one o’clock?”

“If you wish.” I was more than eager to explore the great house once again and especially with one who knew it intimately. Georgiana and I soon retired to our chambers, and I fell into the luxurious, soft bed with grateful surrender.

][

The next day, we began our tour in the kitchen, a curious choice in my mind, but one I soon understood. Mr. Darcy knew each of the downstairs staff by name along with their responsibilities, including Mrs. Soffel, the cook, who ruled her domain with a sharp tongue. She barked orders to the lower servants like the best sergeant-at-arms before she realized the master had invaded her kitchen.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a curtsy. “I didn’t see you there, sir.”

“Quite acceptable,” he responded. “I recall as a lad you ordered me about in that same tone of voice.”

She blushed bright red. “I never, sir. Well, perchance…but only when you snatched cookies before they cooled.”

“And burnt my tongue as a result. They were well worth it, however.”

“Aw, go on with you, sir.”

As we walked from room to room, I could see in what esteem his servants held him. It was evident their deference was heartfelt and not prompted by duty alone. I recalled Mrs. Reynolds’s words from last summer: “He is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived.”

We worked our way up the floors, and I wondered anew at the splendour therein. Its understated elegance extended from the architecture to the perfectly selected furnishings. I could not find a single item I would change if I were mistress.

You shall never be mistress of Pemberley,
I reminded myself.

“And I suppose Mrs. Reynolds showed you the gallery, did she not?” Mr. Darcy asked.

“She did, but I would welcome a closer view.”

He led me up the grand staircase, pointing out paintings by Italian and Dutch artists that lined the wall. In the great hall, my eyes travelled immediately to his large portrait. I thought it exceptionally fine. The artist caught his face in a benign expression, and he smiled in a manner I had sometimes observed before when he looked at me. Mr. Darcy began naming various relations, but I confess I only half listened, for I could not tear my eyes from the only face whose features were known to me.

“I believe you will find this likeness of interest.” He had walked a number of paces ahead while I lingered behind. “Elizabeth?”

I coloured, hoping he had not caught me out and hurriedly joined him. “And who did you say this gentleman is?”

“My…our father.” He drew near and spoke softly, even though it appeared we were alone.

I raised my eyes to observe the subject of the painting. Mr. Darcy resembled him in many ways. They possessed the same chin and turn of countenance. Although the man’s hair in the portrait had turned silver, it fell across his forehead in curls much like that of his son.
My
father—I searched his eyes attempting to recognize some part of me therein.

“I can see you, but I fail to find myself in his image,” I murmured.

“His hair was dark like yours when he was younger.”

“Dark hair is common enough. I confess I cannot see any connection.” I cast my eyes on the full-length portrait of a woman hanging next to that of Mr. Darcy Sr. “Is that your mother?”

He nodded.

“She was a beautiful woman, much like Georgiana.”

“Yes, my sister inherited her blue eyes and fair colouring.”

“And you have her dimples.”

“Do I?”

“When you smile. ’Tis one of your best features you might exhibit more often.”

We walked on down the hall while he named grandparents and various relations on his mother’s side of the family. Then he stopped in front of a portrait of a young man and woman.

“These were our father’s parents—your grandparents, Elizabeth—James and Siobhan Darcy.”

“Siobhan? Was she Irish?”

“To the core. As a young man, my grandfather sailed to County Cork and spent the summer there with friends from Cambridge. He fell in love with Siobhan MacAnally, the daughter of a landed family that harked back for generations. Her father forbade the marriage, but they eloped anyway. She gave up her entire family to marry my grandfather and return to Derbyshire with him.”

I frowned. “Gave up her family? Did they never reconcile?”

Mr. Darcy shook his head. “It could not be done. Her choice was entirely insupportable.”

“But surely, one would not disinherit a daughter simply because she loved an Englishman.”

“It was not just nation but religion that separated them. Our grandmother was Catholic, and our grandfather, of course, was not. She was required to renounce her religion and rear her children as Protestant. In truth, Father said his parents attempted to hide all traces of her former faith once they settled in England.”

“Of course. Her husband would have endured persecution if she did not. How difficult it must have been for her.”

Mr. Darcy walked on a few paces, stared at the floor, and lowered his voice even more. “Few know this, but Grandmother continued to practice her faith in secret.”

“In secret?”

“In public, she attended services with her husband and children at the village church, but whenever possible, she stole away to visit a priest who maintained a small Catholic church just past the edge of the wood. He tended a small flock that clung to the Papist belief. The church remains to this day.”

“And did your grandfather know?”

He nodded and smiled. “My father said his father permitted it because he loved her. He found it hard to deny her anything even though his own family was not at all pleased that my grandfather married beneath him.”

“Beneath him? I thought her family prosperous.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Irish and Catholic? ’Twas unacceptable. Besides, Grandfather married her without her father’s consent. She came to him without a dowry. Yes, I would say he married below his station, but then, he married for love.”

His eyes met mine, and for one unguarded moment, it was as though I caught a glimpse of his soul. Almost immediately, however, he cleared his throat and marched on ahead. “That is sufficient for today. I shall not bore you with more family history. Let us walk on to the opposite wing of the house. I want you to see the ballroom.”

I had to hurry to catch up with his long stride, but not before I turned and looked into the green eyes of Siobhan Darcy once more. I felt a chill run down my spine when I recognized that they were mine.

][

By nightfall, Mr. Darcy had exhibited the entire great house, save the attics. We agreed to postpone those for a day when we had adequate time to devote to our quest. I was pleased to know he had not abandoned his offer to search for knowledge of my birth. I had feared it might have been simply a scheme to entice me to visit Pemberley.

A welcome break in the weather occurred on the morrow, and we enjoyed four glorious days of sunshine. Mr. Darcy took advantage of it to show me the grounds. Even covered in snow, I could see the gardens were outstanding and that I had experienced only the briefest of tours during my visit the previous summer. The stables were filled with thoroughbreds, and he took pride in naming each horse’s forebears—all superior pedigrees, I am certain, had I known anything about breeds. He was surprised when I informed him that I was no horsewoman, and he assured me that riding lessons would commence as soon as the weather permitted. I met his declaration with the same enthusiasm I would have exhibited had he served me a beaker of pickle juice.

On what proved to be the final day of clear weather for some time, Mr. Darcy announced at the breakfast table that he would take Georgiana and me on a ride in his phaeton. She clapped her hands in delight, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“A phaeton?” I asked. “Will it not be rather crowded with three passengers and cold as well?”

“Oh no, Elizabeth,” Georgiana declared. By that time, we had progressed to addressing each other by our first names. “The wind has disappeared, and the sun is out today. We can fit if we squeeze close together. Tucked under a rug, we shall be quite cosy.”

Sipping my tea, I raised my eyes to observe Mr. Darcy’s reaction. He appeared completely satisfied with the idea, unconcerned with any discomfort such intimacy might cause. Well, if he could sit close beside me without problem, I should do as well.
After all, he is your brother,
I reminded myself. I quickly swallowed the remains of my cup, but in so doing, I choked and coughed to the point that I was forced to excuse myself from the table.

A half hour later, I descended the stairs and saw the phaeton waiting at the side entrance. Attached to a beautiful white mare, the shiny green conveyance with its huge yellow wheels looked like something out of a painting, even down to the bells hanging around the horse’s collar. My sister carried a white muff and wore a fur coat and hat. Mr. Darcy had swathed his neck with a flannel scarf, but he frowned when he saw my plain wool coat and bonnet.

“Do you have no fur?”

“My coat is adequate.”

He shook his head and ran up the stairs two at a time, calling for a servant. I followed Georgiana outdoors. She climbed up into the vehicle with aid from a servant and urged me to join her, but before I could, Mr. Darcy returned with a fur hat and cape.

“Exchange that bonnet for this hat,” he demanded. “I shall not have you catch your death.”

When I hesitated, he untied the ribbons himself. Before I knew what had happened, he handed my bonnet to the maid, placed the warmer covering on my head, and then wrapped the cape around my shoulders.

“Whose garments are these?”

Georgiana smiled. “They are mine. Wills, we must see to a more suitable wardrobe for Elizabeth.”

“Yes, we must.”

“No,” I protested. “I shall not accept—”

“’Tis better than coming down with a chill, is it not?” He raised one eyebrow while he completed tying the bow under my chin. I shivered slightly, uncertain whether it was caused by the weather or the intimate nature of Mr. Darcy’s concern for me.

Stepping up into the carriage, he held out his hand to assist me. “Now, let us arrange the blanket, and we shall be off.” He sat between Georgiana and me and securely tucked the warm throw around each of us. I held my breath as he leaned over me, his head so close that his hair brushed against my cheek. “Warm enough?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” Georgiana announced. I could manage nothing more than a nod.

Not even a hair could have squeezed between us, and I became keenly aware of the warmth of his leg touching mine.
This is a mistake,
I thought. But how was I to escape? Before I could think of an excuse, Mr. Darcy flicked the reins, and the great horse picked up her heels and trotted off. The cold wind fanned my cheeks, and I gasped to catch my breath. How fortunate that I could blame the elements for the rosy colour of my countenance.

That day, I discovered Mr. Darcy had a passion for driving fast. We had scarce left the outskirts of the park before he urged the horse into a brisk gallop. Georgiana squealed as we rounded a corner and laughed gaily when I protested.

“Do not fear, Elizabeth,” she cried. “Wills is an excellent driver. He will not allow us to spill.”

I held on in terror, for I had not the confidence she possessed. Unknowingly, I grabbed the side of the phaeton with one hand and Mr. Darcy’s arm with the other. Within moments, he turned the conveyance to the left as we rounded a sharp curve, consequently causing both my companions to swerve to my side. Once more, his face appeared alarmingly close to mine. I felt his breath warm on my cheek and heard him chuckle before we turned back onto a straighter path.

“You are welcome to hold on, Elizabeth, but when you clamp my arm that tightly, it does hinder my driving somewhat.”

Immediately, I withdrew my hand from his arm, shocked that I had touched him unawares.

“Do take care,” Georgiana cautioned. “I fear you frighten Elizabeth.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of course not,” I lied, straightening my spine and sitting as tall as I might. Within moments, he rounded another curve, and I found myself clinging to him with both hands. I heard him laugh softly in spite of Georgiana’s gleeful screams.

“You are incorrigible, sir,” I declared. “You drive like Jehu!”

At last, to my great relief, he slowed the horse to a gentle trot. I reached for my hat to make certain it did not sit askew and pulled the cover back into place, for it had slipped loose in all the twists and turns. I felt my heart beating furiously and took a deep breath of the cold, frosty air. The remains of my breath hovered about like miniature clouds.

“Shall we drive by Lady Margaret Willoughby’s house?” Georgiana asked. “It lies directly around the next bend in the road.”

Within a few moments, we came upon a large manor house set far back from the road, surrounded by the forest. It almost appeared a part of the wood, for what park surrounded the house was untended, allowed to grow wild, obviously abandoned.

“That is Bridesgate Manor,” Mr. Darcy said.

“Is her ladyship away, for it appears vacant?”

“Oh, Lady Margaret no longer lives there,” said Georgiana. “She died years back before I was born, did she not, Wills?”

He nodded. “Since her son had died before her, the estate passed to her grandson, and he has let the house to a family named Denison. I hear they shall take possession by Lady Day.”