More Letters From Pemberley (10 page)

Dear Jane,

Thank you for the solace your words brought me. Can it really be that almost a year has passed since Cassie’s death? Time is very wayward, is it not, and plays devilish tricks upon us. You might tell me it all happened yesterday, or ten years ago—I could as easily believe the one as the other. From having wondered how to endure the endless hours and minutes of every long day, of a sudden we find ourselves one week away from the anniversary of one’s world coming to a devastating halt, only to find that life has continued after all: the seasons still come and go, crops are planted and harvested, fruits bottled and jellied, meat pickled and cured. Much to our amazement, we find that we are able to laugh again and enjoy life—hearts can indeed mend and are far more resilient than we expect them to be.

You ask how we plan to spend that day. Neither of us has spoken of it in those terms, though each knows it is in the forefront of the other’s mind. It appears that neither of us wishes to be the first to speak of it, as if by keeping silent, the day will never arrive! How strange we mortals are! The absurdity of human behaviour is a subject worthy of serious study, and if our Father had not had five daughters and a Wife in his care, he might have had more time to devote to such a laudable endeavour. (You see how I have successfully evaded answering your question!) In truth, though, apart from attending church and bringing flowers to Cassie’s grave, I know not how the day will progress. Should the day be fair, a very long, strenuous walk will be the very thing to occupy
me.
(I wonder if there are any books of etiquette on how Parents should properly comport themselves on the anniversaries of their Children’s deaths?)

Miss Annie plays at my feet with her Parsley, the only creature she finds amiable since she discovered the pleasure of shouting “No” at the top of her voice to all and sundry. Her Papa had been spared this spectacle until this very morning, and Miss A. quickly found herself back in the nursery instead of upon her Papa’s knee where she is wont to sit at breakfast. I suspect that sitting here with Parsley is a prelude to making amends with her Father, and perhaps we have heard the last of “No”—at least for today. Upon my request she removed her cat from the sofa and the only words I heard were “Yes, Mamma,” veritable music to my poor, deafened ears.

Ever yours,
E.D.

My dear Husband,

I know not whether you hear me when I speak. Mr. Brownley knows not how long it may be until you are with us again; indeed, he cannot fully assure me that you will ever recover. An honest man of integrity, he will not raise false hopes in me, yet much as we both admire his fine character and trust his judgment, part of me (and not a small part) wishes he were more willing to dissemble. He visits twice daily and twice daily his honesty does not allow him to utter the words my heart yearns to hear.

Yet I remain optimistic and so hopeful of a good outcome that I have resolved to keep a journal, this letter to you that, when you awake, you may know all that has happened while you were gone from us. A small writing desk has been moved into your bedchamber by your bed and here I sit with pen and paper. By this means I may also talk to you as always.

I cling to my belief that all
will
be as before, that
together
we will watch with pride as our Daughter (and any other Children we may yet be blessed with) grow into strong, fine people, and that in years to come it will be in our power to look back with gratitude upon many, many happy years spent together, years in which my regard and affection for you only increase.
I shall not be dissuaded from this.

Will you remember that dreadful day? (Such a conspiracy of fate that your accident should occur on the first anniversary of our darling Cassie’s death!) We brought flowers to her grave early that morning, stepped into the church to pray for her, then walked back to Pemberley, that long walk through the woods and alongside the trout stream which we have taken so often. It was a glorious, sunny morning and I recall saying that the sun should have better manners than to show itself on this sorrowful day. You replied that the sun was perfectly polite: how else could it console us but by its warmth? You were right, of course, and I made due apology to the sun.

Despite our long walk and a good breakfast, we were restless. Together we visited Annie in the nursery, where she amused us, quite unintentionally, with a recitation of “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.” It began well enough, then turned into “Sing a Song of Sixpence.” Realising her mistake, her efforts to extricate herself only succeeded in muddling her further. To spare her, you gently suggested she take a deep breath and begin again, slowly. “Yes, Papa,” she said, in her most serious tone, and taking a deep breath … then another … and another, she burst into a flood of tears—poor Annie was by now so completely befuddled, she had forgotten the first line! Lifting her onto your knee, you dried her tears and comforted her, took down the old
Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book,
found the rhyme and began to recite it, softly. Slowly she joined in and by the end her face was wreathed in smiles.

How Annie adores her Papa! She, too, visits you often. The questions are always the same:

“Is Papa dead?”

“No,” I reply, “just sleeping to get better after his fall.”

“Will he be awake tomorrow?”

“Perhaps, Annie.”

Then she asks to be lifted up to kiss your cheek. At bedtime, after her usual prayers for everybody, she asks God would He please take special care of her Papa that night. If in so doing He has insufficient time to watch over herself and Parsley, she will understand. By this time, Parsley is curled up on her bed dreaming of good mousing on the morrow and quite unconcerned whether or not he is watched over.

I have digressed and will return now to that awful day, that awful anniversary. Strangely, I do not recall clearly how the rest of the day was spent, though we dined as usual and attended Evensong. It was simply a day to be endured, a day of happy memories, sad memories, bitter, angry thoughts, some tears, and perhaps a very small measure of acceptance of the unacceptable.

Following Evensong, you declared a need to pay a call on Mr. Bailey, a tenant of yours whose sheep were sick of some mysterious malady.

“But he lives the far side of Lambton!” I protested, “and look at the dark clouds in that direction! It will be nightfall by the time you return. Surely tomorrow will be soon enough? Or have Barford go if it is such an urgent matter. I beg you to reconsider.”

“My love, it is midsummer and will be light for hours yet,” you soothingly replied. “In truth, Barford or I could go tomorrow, but this sad anniversary has left me so restless that I welcome the opportunity to go, however thin the excuse for my journey may be. A good ride will give Major some much-needed exercise, and will do much to restore my spirits, I assure you.

“As for the weather, was it not you, dearest Wife, who chastised the sun only this morning? If it should rain at all, it will likely be only a brief summer shower, which will be most refreshing and I shall welcome the soaking. Come now, a smile before I set out. Upon my return, let us have a late supper, and then perhaps you will give me the pleasure of reading aloud some lines of Mr. Cowper, or Mr. Crabbe, if you will—but wait … wait. Some lines of Mr. Cowper’s come to me now which I think you will find
à propos:

“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

“What say you, dearest Lizzy?” you asked with a smile of self-satisfaction at your cleverness.

What could I say? How many times did we read
Light Shining Out of Darkness
after Cassie first became ill? How many times have we read it together during the past year? How often have I read it alone when nettlesome feelings threaten to overwhelm? How could I deny you? It would have been the act of a more selfish Wife than I to have protested further. Much as I wanted you by me, I know that the very great comfort and solace we have in each other cannot reach to those deepest places in our hearts, where reside feelings which mere words are insufficient to describe rightly. I understood your need and, much as I wish that what followed could be undone, I do not regret your decision to set out, nor will you ever hear from my lips any scolding words on the subject. You may depend upon it.

What did follow some two, or perhaps three or more hours later was a storm the likes of which I have seldom witnessed: high winds and heavy rains, jagged forks of lightning and cracks of thunder loud enough to waken Annie. I rushed to the nursery to comfort our Daughter. Parsley had disappeared. Nurse’s face was blanched with terror, ’tho’ she made a valiant attempt not to show her fear before Annie for which I was thankful. It was some time before I felt able to leave them. Though the storm still raged, Annie, exhausted, eventually cried herself to sleep in my arms and somehow slept through the night. Insisting that Nurse take a restorative glass of wine, I explained that since you had probably taken shelter from the storm and would thus not return until much later after it had passed, she should rest quietly; that I would look in on Annie often while I awaited your arrival.

Settling myself in the library (the place I feel closest to you when you are from home—have I ever told you?) I closed my eyes and fell to thinking about our darling Cassie. My reverie was interrupted constantly by the sound of falling trees and thunder so that when the knocking began, I first thought it was the storm still raging outside. As the sound became more insistent, I realised that this was some other commotion and got to my feet just as the library door opened to reveal Mrs. Reynolds. Thinking the storm had likely frightened her, I stepped forward to comfort her.

“Come, come, dear Mrs. Reynolds,” I began. “Please, sit down and calm yourself. It will be over soon. Let me fetch a glass of wine to help settle you.”

“No, no, Ma’am, Mrs. Darcy, it’s not the storm—well, it is the storm—but it’s not me—it’s the stable boy, Tommy Nutt.”

“Mrs. Reynolds, calm yourself, I beg you,” I said. “I have not the pleasure of understanding you rightly. Are you telling me that Tommy Nutt is afraid of the storm?”

“Yes, Ma’am—no, Ma’am. What I mean is that young Nutt is here.”

“Here, Mrs. Reynolds? How do you mean, here?” (By this time, you may suppose, I was in a state of complete confusion.)

“At the front door, Ma’am—or rather, in the hallway—I had him take his boots and coat off, though, Ma’am. It’s about Major and he says it’s urgent.”

“Pray tell young Nutt that Mr. Darcy is from home and that I will tell him to go to the stables upon his return. Tell him to do his best meanwhile and—” At this moment, I recalled that you were riding Major and felt my heart sink faster than a stone in a pond.

“Bring him here quickly, Mrs. Reynolds. There is not a moment to lose.”

“But he’s soaked through, Mrs. Darcy. And in Mr. Darcy’s library, Ma’am?” Her voice trailed away as she looked around the room.

“Mrs. Reynolds, I don’t care if he should cause a flood, I must see him this instant—no, never mind.” With that, I ran from the room to find the lad standing in a puddle of water, turning his hat round and round in his hands, very ill at ease.

“Beg pardon, Ma’am,” he said, gesturing uncomfortably at the water on the floor, lowering his eyes as he spoke.

“No, no, please, reassure yourself, it is of no consequence. Now, please tell me about Major. I must know.”

As I was saying this, my mind had leapt ahead, hoping he was about to tell me that, after all, you had decided to take another horse—that Major in a fit of pique at being left behind had broken loose and trampled the rose garden—or run amok in the storm—that since Mr. Darcy’s favourite horse was at large, Mr. Darcy would want to know immediately—
anything
but the harsh reality of the truth I dreaded to hear, which was that Major had come home alone a short while ago, frightened out of his wits and making such a commotion in the stable yard that Tommy Nutt had heard him even above the roar of the storm.

Are you surprised that your Wife did not fall into a faint at this dreadful news? Quite to the contrary, she coolly took command, instructing Nutt to ride to Barford’s house and tell him to form a search party, which should set out towards Lambton by way of Mr. Brownley, whose services might well be required. Nutt should then return and tend to Major. Mrs. Reynolds meanwhile roused the household and set the kitchen to preparing hot drinks for the rescuers and plenty of hot water. A fire was lit in your bedchamber, bandages were brought, salves and ointments fetched, brandy set out, the bed warmed—everything which could be thought of was made ready for your return. In truth, we were all glad of the occupation to fill the long hours waiting for news.

By this time (I know not the exact hour) the storm had thankfully abated, though the rain continued steadily through the night. With nothing left to do, I took myself to the nursery where Annie slept contentedly with Parsley once again beside her. Their storm was over; my own storm clouds were gathering strength. (I hear you saying, “My dear Lizzy, you read too many novels and become fanciful.”) Perhaps, but this is the way I remember the events of that night and shall record them faithfully here.

Towards dawn the party arrived. “Barford, Mr. Brownley, is he alive? Does he live? Is he badly hurt?” I cried, rushing to the door.

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mr. Brownley. “He breathes, but has lost consciousness and a good deal of blood, I fear. I have given instructions that Mr. Darcy be taken to his bedchamber immediately. Allow me to make my examination, then we will know more, Meanwhile, I beg you to remain calm and hope for the best.” With that, he ran up the stairs, leaving me to wait once more.

At last Mr. Brownley reappeared with better news than I had expected: a simple break of the right arm (which he has re-set and which he expects to heal without problem); a badly sprained right ankle; various lacerations (which have been cleansed, and will require no further treatment so long as no infection sets in); much bruising (in particular to the ribs) and a severe concussion. It is this last which gives us cause for anxiety. For a day or two we could be thankful that you were thus spared much pain and discomfort, but tomorrow will be a full week …

It is late and your nurse reminds me of my promise to Mr. Brownley this evening to retire early and rest “… else I shall have two patients at Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy. Once your Husband awakens, you will need all your strength and resources for some time to come.”

But first I must write down Mr. Cowper’s lines which I find myself reciting silently several times daily—one verse of which was part of our last conversation and is thus especially dear to me. For over a year they have become entwined in our lives and so belong here in this chronicle. Bless dear Mr. Cowper for his solace!

Light Shining Out of Darkness

God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,

And works His sov’reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace;

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding ev’ry hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flow’r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

Good night, my dear Husband!

Sunday, 26th July, 1818

Yesterday, not knowing that I had slipped into the bedchamber behind him, I overheard Mr. Brownley muttering to himself, concerned that bleeding within the head might be causing the delay in your awakening, and wondering if you would be in your right senses if you did finally awaken—might it not be a better thing never to awaken at all?