Echoes of Pemberley (2 page)

Sean turned to his new friend’s smiling face and tried to regain his composure. “It’s just . . . well, to be honest, I was expecting braces, plaits, and freckles. You know . . . a little girl. Not . . . not . . . ”

“Don’t be drawn in by the pretty face, mate.” Rick took a drink and glanced cautiously at the girl. “The little miss has a reputation. Word is, when she was a tyke, she made her nannies cry and frightened away piano teachers. People say she only got worse after that daddy of hers died.”

“
Great
,” Sean groaned more to himself than Rick. The news made him reconsider his cider, and he swallowed another healthy gulp. His Aunt Rose hadn’t mentioned crying nannies or frightened piano teachers, and furthermore, she spoke of Catie Darcy as if she were a child. Of course, to Aunt Rose she would be. He was nineteen, and the woman still referred to him as her sister’s boy. He was no longer a boy, however, and Catie Darcy was certainly
not
a child.

Warily, Sean looked at her once more. It was a pretty face, prettier than any he had encountered thus far. The last one, Patricia, a graduate student who wore more makeup than his mother liked, had taken his virginity and left him smoldering in the remnants of a lust that shamed him when he came home late and met his mother’s eyes over her knitting. Her disapproving looks didn’t stop him though — Patricia did. She found another inexperienced undergrad plaything and shooed him away like a bothersome fly. But he had learned from it. As to
what
he had learned from it . . . well, he was still figuring that out.

Swallowing slowly, he looked at Catie Darcy again. It was a good job, and the wages would easily see him through next term. He would ignore the pretty face and make the most of Catie Darcy’s infamous temperament. He’d been around horses all his life and had dealt with his fair share of spoiled, high-spirited fillies before. Granted those were of the equine variety, but surely there couldn’t be much difference. All he had to do was to stay focused on his job, keep charge of the situation, and try not to get kicked in the head. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder who the other Coke was for.

* * *

Alone at the table, Catie Darcy sipped at her Coke while she waited for her best friend Audrey, who was now officially late. She had probably stopped to chat with every other person on the street, Catie thought resentfully as her solitude grew more and more uncomfortable. The daughter of a politician, Audrey Tillman was naturally friendly and extremely talkative. She was popular at school and, like her councilman father, well-liked in Ashridge.

The door clanged open, and Catie breathed a sigh of relief. “What’s the matter?” Audrey asked as she sat down. “There’s a festival going on outside, and you look like you’re at a funeral.”

“I would’ve been at yours had you been any later,” Catie snipped. “Did you see my brother out there anywhere?”

“He and Sarah and the twins were heading this way when I came in. Why?”

“Good.” Catie looked thankful. “I’m bored and ready to go home.”

“Home!” Audrey exclaimed. “But the festival goes on all day!”

“Like I said, I’m bored. Plus, I didn’t get home from school until late yesterday evening and still have unpacking to do.”

“Only you, Catie Darcy, would leave a village festival to unpack.” As Audrey spoke, someone across the room gained her attention. “Who’s the dark-headed dreamboat at the bar?”

Catie’s eyes followed Audrey’s just in time to see the dreamboat turn away. “I don’t know — probably a tourist in town for the festival.”

“He was looking at you.” Audrey nudged her friend with a teasing smile.

“Everyone looks at me. Ashridge should charge a fee to gawk at Pemberley’s rich orphan. Maybe the village could raise enough money to replace that crumbling war memorial they’re always talking about.”

“God, Catie, stop being such a killjoy. Maybe he likes your looks.”

Before Catie could respond, her brother and his wife came into the Green Man, holding the hands of their five-year-old twins.

“Welcome, Mr. Darcy!” Bobby suddenly became animated. It was a long standing tradition for the master of Pemberley House to pop in at the Green Man on the day of any festival and buy a round of drinks for everyone. Clearly, Bobby was happy to have a packed house when Bennet Darcy arrived. “What’ll you have, sir?”

“A cider for me and Mrs. Darcy and something a little less concentrated for my boys.”

“A wee nip of the valley’s cider will put hair on the lads’ chests!” a patron called out from the other side of the pub.

“They’re Derbyshire lads, man!” Mr. Darcy called back enthusiastically. “They were
born
with hair on their chests!” This statement generated a loud racket of clanging glasses and shouts of approval. “A round of cider on Pemberley Estate, Bobby!” he shouted over the din. “And be warned . . . I don’t count the five hundred heads you billed me for last year!”

Laughing with his customers, Bobby waved off the gibe. The more hubbub, the more drinks he sold. He and Mr. Darcy gave each other a friendly nod as waitresses passed out the free cider, stirring a series of boisterous toasts and cheers.

“Thought you said this was called the
silent
valley,” Sean said, smiling into his mug.

“It is, mate.” His new friend laughed. “It is.”

Chapter 2

Pumping her legs hard, Catie brushed strands of hair from her face, careful to keep the speeding bicycle steady on the rough terrain. Recent storms had rutted the path, forcing her to avoid channels and ditches as she rode alongside the riverbank. Finally reaching the lake, sweating and winded, she let her bicycle fall and lay back on the cool grassy bank to catch her breath. The lateness of the afternoon created diamonds that sparkled and shimmered on the water’s rippled surface as the sun traveled slowly towards the dam. Beyond the glittering lake, she could see Pemberley in the distance — home.

Sitting in the rise of the valley, the old manor was as much a part of the landscape as the trees, hills, and sprawling grounds around it. The park itself, a mixture of formal gardens and thick woodlands, claimed almost five miles of a rambling river, boasted several ponds, a generously sized fishing lake, and a wide stream that meandered tranquilly in front of the home. Wiping her face with her sleeve, Catie gave the hall of her ancestors an appreciative smile and started home.

A rumbling growl of hunger persuaded her pace up the winding approach road, a thigh-burning incline rewarded by an easy descent to the house. Speeding through the courtyard, she circled around to the service entrance and skidded to a stop, sending gravel flying to clank against the kitchen window. As she leaned her bicycle against the wall, she heard the sound of pots and pans banging and clamoring inside. The lingering aroma of cooking was still thick in the air. Her shoulders slumped; supper had started without her.

“You’re late, Miss Catie.” Mr. Johnson, Pemberley’s cook, felt compelled to state the obvious when she stepped inside the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Catie retorted as she tucked the book she had been reading all afternoon under her arm and turned on the tap to wash her hands.

“I’d not dally were I you. Mr. Darcy’s been in a foul mood since the post came.” Mr. Johnson dried his knives as he spoke but looked up when Catie abruptly turned to him.

“The post?” she questioned, not able to hide the concern in her voice.

“Yes,” he replied as his usual frown grew significantly at the mess before him. “Look at my floor!”

Catie looked down and saw that her muddy footprints followed her to the sink. “Sorry.” She shrugged one shoulder, giving Mr. Johnson a lopsided smile. “But I shouldn’t dally . . . foul mood, remember.” She dried her hands, kicked off her shoes, and hurried up the service stairs to the summer breakfast room where her family had informal evening meals in the warmer months.

Approaching quietly, she could see Ben and Sarah sitting in their respective seats at each end of the table, with their sons, Geoffrey and George, between them. “The post,” she whispered. “Surely they haven’t come already.” Realizing her book was still tucked under her arm, she slid it out of sight on a hall table. She didn’t need Ben seeing one of her “rubbish romance novels” as he called them, especially if her report had arrived from Davenport that morning. Although she was sure she passed satisfactorily, no marks were ever high enough to please her brother.

As if mocking Catie’s apprehension, the room was alight with a comforting chandelier glow. “Hello,” she opened with great enthusiasm, hoping to make light of the hour. She was happy to see they were still on the first course. Not
too
late, she reassured herself. She received equally cheerful responses from all but Ben, who remained grimly silent.
Yes, they most definitely had come
. She took a cautious peek at him as a chilled summer butternut squash soup was placed before her, making her stomach rumble with gratitude.

With everyone now in place and served, Ben sent the servant from the room with a slight nod of his head and waited until the pocket doors were pulled securely together before sharply questioning his sister. “Where have you been all afternoon, Catherine?”

She turned to him and her gut tightened. Her brother looked like he had been stewing for hours. Their relationship was a close and affectionate one, but on occasion she would unknowingly wade into the treacherous waters of his temper. “Why?” she asked cautiously as his knitted brow had more written on it than a few grades that didn’t meet his expectations.

“Why? I’ll tell you
why
! Because your riding lessons were to start today, and the instructor rang up from the stables and said that you never came round this afternoon. That’s
why
!”

Shutting her eyes tight with a wince of clarity, Catie’s memory was restored. “Oh,” she uttered stupidly.

“
Oh
?” he questioned, sitting back in annoyance. “Is that
oh
, I daydreamed my afternoon away and forgot or maybe
oh
, I was elbow deep in one of those
rubbish
romance novels and couldn’t tear myself away long enough for my lesson?”

Desperate, Catie cast a subtle but pleading look to Sarah, who took up the cause with the skillful diplomacy only a wife could possess.

“Bennet, could you not settle this matter later?” she put in smoothly. “The twins are eating, and I’m afraid all of this commotion is upsetting their digestion.”

Ben looked over at his young sons and, as if on cue, the two, round faces stared back at him with wide, grayish-blue eyes that matched his own.

Having his father’s attention, Geoffrey decided to speak up in support of his mother. “Yes, Daddy, we are eating and all this com . . . commo . . . What was it, Mummy?”

“Never mind, Geoffrey, your mother’s right,” Ben said quietly, giving his wife’s scolding eye an apologetic glance. He turned to his sister and stated with a somewhat humbled authority, “I’ll speak with you afterwards, Catherine.”

Catie nodded unenthusiastically at him and then gave Sarah a grateful glance. She hadn’t managed a pardon but the temporary reprieve was appreciated.

The rest of the meal went on without incident as Catie remained quiet in her own thoughts. Instead of eating, she moved food around her plate, having lost her appetite from the twinge of dread now lodged in her stomach. She was in for a sermon — a long one no doubt. Ben was determined that, when Catie finished Davenport, she attend Newnham, the all-female college of Cambridge University from which their mother had graduated. He would never neglect a ripe opportunity to lecture his sister on any defect of character that might keep her from being admitted. If only she had remembered that
stupid
riding lesson.

Lessons had been the bane of Catie Darcy’s existence for as long as she could remember. Piano lessons, flute lessons, tennis lessons, French lessons — the list was endless and demanding and kept her confined to the country each summer, which was just how her brother liked it. Losing both parents before his twenty-fourth birthday, Ben was overly cautious with his loved ones. Nervous Nelly, Sarah had often called him, but Ben’s grief had made him a wary man.

Catie Darcy may have been wealthy beyond comprehension, but her world was a sheltered one. The death of her beloved father in many ways had closed the green, rolling hills of Pemberley Estate around her like a grassy sea of solitude, and she, the lone survivor of a sunken ship. Nothing she had come from still existed.

On the way to Ben’s study, the same study used by generations of Darcy men, Catie strolled leisurely down the long, wide gallery of Pemberley. No need to hurry; the longer Ben cooled the better. The ornate hall housed the portraits of their ancestors, each one with a story of their own. Some were noble while others . . . well, others were quite romantic. Catie stopped in front of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy, hanging prominently side-by-side at the end of the gallery. Fitzwilliam’s gaze was ardent and looked left towards his life’s love, while hers, affectionately warm, flickered softy rightward in return. Their love was a legacy that had been passed down through the generations, a favorite story of the young descendant who stood before them.