Echoes of Pemberley (20 page)

Although the letters were more than forty years old, their condition was excellent, likely the result of being preserved inside the window casing for so long.

For the most part, the content of the correspondence was pretty much what one would expect between mother and son. But then Catie chanced upon the reason for Ben’s strange comment to the cigarette smoking man named Sams. “ . . . I’ll be bloody well damned to the devil before I let Pemberley fall into the wrong hands again!
”
The “again,” at least, now made better sense.

Apparently after Mary’s father died, Arthur Howell stood at the helm of Pemberley House. That is until he drank himself to death. Having the wealth of the Darcy empire at his fingertips but never having been taught restraint had led to a destructive outcome both for Arthur Howell and Pemberley Estate. His and Mary’s marriage had seemingly not been a good one . . .

4 April 1945
Pemberley Estate, Derbyshire, England

My Dearest Son,

Other than the abundance of Victory Gardens planted throughout the estate grounds, Pemberley is all but destitute. The fields are barren, the house is understaffed, and your father has left us almost bankrupt. I met with the solicitor today, and I am grieved to inform you the inheritance your grandfather intended for you has been drank, gambled, and squandered away. I have contacted Cousin Geoffrey at Rosings Park, and he has promised to help save Pemberley from ruin.

My only solace is that your weak constitution has kept you out of this dreadful war. It seems Pemberley’s weak constitution has kept her from being conscripted into service as well. Although some of the acreage has been used for training grounds, the house itself was not deemed usable. A dying master and disrepair has kept Pemberley from being of much use to her country. I do not know whether to be grateful or ashamed.

Your Loving Mum

Catie remembered studying the Second World War. The Blitz, rationing, Victory Gardens and yes . . . many country estates were converted during the war years for institutional use, barracks, schools and such. She couldn’t help but think of the Pemberley she knew today in comparison to the one Mary described. Arthur Howell’s hands were the
wrong
hands indeed. Catie now theorized why her grandfather had to sell Rosings Park. Possibly it was the only means to save Pemberley House from ruin brought at the hands of Arthur Howell.

“Poor Mary,” Catie murmured, wondering how they went from summer lovers to near destitution. It was not the “happily ever after” she had dreamed of for Mary and Arthur.

If Bennet Darcy had hopes of educating his sister on the evils of man,
his sister had, in one day, been inundated by just that . . . the evils of man. From the perverse and abusive Mr. Ledford to the pillaging of Mary Darcy’s virginity and fortune by Arthur Howell, Catie’s education had begun indeed.

* * *

Barging was not in Sarah Darcy’s nature, but barge she did into her husband’s study. “Why did you not tell me Mr. Ledford had a gun?”

Ben sighed heavily in disgust. Though part of his disgust was born from the fact that gossip had the tendency to spread like the plague, the rest was for himself. He should have told her already. “Try not to get upset, Sarah; I was going to tell you.”

“When?” she demanded. “And is it
true
. . . did Catie shield the Ledfords’ child from being shot?”

“What!” Ben came to his feet. “Where did you hear that?” Only he, Catie, and Mrs. Ledford knew the particular details.

“It seems Mrs. Ledford boasted to Clark Ferrell all the way to her sister’s house how young Miss Darcy put the infant’s life before her own. Is it true, Bennet? Did that madman fire at Catie?”

Clark Ferrell, Ben repeated irritably to himself, committing to memory that he needed to have a word with that man.

Sarah waited, but before she could get her answer, the Darcys were notified that the police had arrived and were waiting in the front parlor.

“I am coming along.” Sarah glared at him insistently. “If you will not be forthcoming with me, at least I can be assured you will not perjure yourself with the authorities.”

“Fine . . . fine,” Ben said, daring to put an arm around her in comfort. “But do calm yourself, dear. Remember, Catie and I are both unharmed.”

In the small parlor, Senior Officer Hardy, a fiftyish man of great girth, waited for Mr. Darcy with Officer Conner, lanky in his youth and new to the force. Connor fidgeted, uncomfortable with the fine surroundings, but stood tall and still when Hardy cleared his throat, warning his young protégé to the sound of approaching footsteps.

Greetings out of the way, Ben offered the officers a seat and settled across from them. Then, without preamble, he recounted all of his dealings with Mr. Ledford, including the earlier morning incident, which he assumed started the trouble between Ledford and his wife.

Sarah listened in complete shock alongside Rose, who had brought in Mr. Ledford’s weapon so it could be turned over to the police.

All now seemed finalized in Ben Darcy’s mind, but Officer Hardy, who was painstakingly thorough, wanted to speak to Mr. Darcy’s sister. “ . . . and your sister, Mr. Darcy,” Hardy continued, as he flipped a page in his notes. “Is she available to give an account?”

“She is.” Ben gave a single nod. “But I was hoping she could be spared from speaking with the police.” He breathed deeply. “Officer Hardy, allow me to be direct. I have no interest in pursuing this matter with Mr. Ledford, and he will not be returning to my property, of that I can assure you.”

Officer Hardy turned uneasily to the younger officer. Mr. Darcy was a local magistrate, a principal and affluent member of the community, but not speaking to all the witnesses was certainly against protocol. He was clearly hesitant but relented to Mr. Darcy’s request. “Please understand, Mr. Darcy, if anything else arises in this case, it will be imperative that I speak to Miss Darcy.”

“Yes, of course. I thank you for your understanding, Officer Hardy, my . . . ” Ben paused, emotion had finally got the better of him, but he spoke deliberately through it. “My sister is at a very impressionable age, and the less that is made of this . . . well . . . the better it will be for her.” Ben stood, stepped away, and found a trinket on the mantel that needed readjusting.

Always the keen observer, Rose hastily but politely, saw the officers out. Knowing Ben needed a few minutes of privacy with Sarah, she closed the doors to the parlor and left the two alone.

* * *

Waiting for her supper, Catie read through Thomas and Mary’s letters fairly rapidly, as there was only a handful. Thomas apparently was in Africa less than a year when he contracted and succumbed to malaria. Whatever “weak constitution” his mother was referring to must have made his recovery impossible.

In reading, she learned that a religious mission is what took Thomas to Africa. Catie discovered Thomas Howell was a man of strong faith. His untimely death was a shame — a waste of a life with true purpose. From his letters, she thought she would have liked to have known her distant cousin, the man who should have been the current master of Pemberley instead of her brother.

The last letter his mother sent to him was sent back to her unopened. Evidently it arrived too late. Catie held the unopened envelope up to the light as she considered and reconsidered whether to open it or not. Fate intervened, at least for now, for Annie had returned with food, and Catie was suddenly violently hungry. She tossed the unopened letter into a scatter of other distractions that had entertained her throughout the afternoon and sat at her writing table to eat.

Annie had strict instructions from Rose to make sure Miss Catie ate properly. The earlier sandwich had been picked at; only the biscuits had received proper attention. Catie rolled her eyes. “I swear that woman creates full time occupation for herself by monitoring what I eat!”

Annie smiled at the complaint and started out, but Catie stopped her. “Where are you going? Aren’t you supposed to make sure I eat?

“I have a few other things to do before I leave tonight,” Annie said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“But . . . can’t you stay for a few minutes?” Catie asked, not really wanting to eat alone. Annie hesitated, so she implored further, “Please stay, Annie. Was your father
never
impossible?”

Annie chuckled and took an empathetic step back into the room. “All men can be impossible, Miss Catie. Fathers, brothers, and, since I have been married for almost a year now, I can attest to you that husbands can also be quite impossible.”

“Then I shall
never
marry!” Catie stated boldly and started to eat.

Annie laughed. “We are not such easy creatures ourselves, remember. The secret to a good marriage is the ability to tolerate each other’s difficult ways. One day soon a young man will catch your eye, and no matter how
impossible
he may be, you’ll be blind to his imperfections.”

Annie’s speech restored a smile to Catie’s face, and Annie warmed to see it. The girl had actually grown on her over the last couple of years. There was a tender side to Catie Darcy with which few were acquainted.

Annie stayed and talked while Catie ate a hearty portion of creamed potatoes and roasted chicken. When she finished, Annie said her goodnights and left with the tray as Catie moved back to the bed.

The warm meal and hot bath were starting to have the effect Rose had predicted. Fighting heavy eyes, Catie found a cool place on her pillow and let her thoughts drift to Mary, Arthur, and Sean Kelly.

What was Sean doing right then? Did he know she had been sent to her room? Her eyes shut tight with embarrassment at the thought of it — most likely. She had missed her riding lesson; surely Rose would have told him why. She envisioned him alone at the gardener’s cottage, his big smile and blue eyes the color of cornflowers. Finding peace in the vision of him, Catie soon drifted off to sleep.

* * *

By the time the Darcys reemerged from the front parlor, supper had been served to Catie and the twins. George’s fever had faded, and he and Geoffrey were watching television. After looking in on their sons, Ben and Sarah crossed the landing to the family’s bedrooms.

The sight they encountered on the other side of Catie’s door made them shake their heads in unison. Every light in the room was on, and the floor and bed were scattered with papers, magazines, and crude sketches of horses. Sound asleep amidst it all was Catie. It looked as though she had been in the middle of some very important business and simply passed out.

Sarah took up the job of settling her into the bedcovers, while Ben loosely brought the scatter on the bed into an unorganized pile. Amongst Catie’s clutter was Mary Darcy’s unopened letter to her son, Thomas. It went unnoticed by Ben and was haphazardly stacked with the rest of the papers on Catie’s bedside table.

Gazing upon Catie’s sleeping face, Sarah frowned regretfully. “Oh, I hate she’s fallen asleep already.” Sarah had been raised in a home where you did not go to bed with matters unfinished and had convinced Ben to speak with his sister tonight.

“This is between brother and sister, Sarah; don’t worry yourself. We’ll iron out our winkles in the morning.”

His wife nodded and smiled at the sleeping girl. “I do hope we have a daughter this time, Bennet.”

“Sarah Darcy!” Ben feigned surprise. “Are you with child?”

Sarah raised a mischievous eyebrow. “For a man who claims to have knowledge of everything that goes on under the roof of Pemberley, surely you are mindful of your own transgressions, sir.”

“Oh! A transgression you call it!” he said a little too loudly, which caused a cross look to spread over Sarah’s face and a finger to be brought to her lips.

“Shhh, you’ll wake her.”

Ben stood tall, folded his arms, and narrowed his eyes. “You may have as many children as you wish, Mrs. Darcy, as long as you give me sons. No daughters — I forbid it.”

Sarah chuckled quietly. “So am I to understand that you have taken up the high office of determining the gender of our children? I’d say that’s a pretty big leap for a mere self-proclaimed pew sitter like yourself, Mr. Darcy.”

Together they turned off the lights and left the room in each other’s embrace. “So, um, do you fancy a little transgressing, Mrs. Darcy?” he asked as he closed Catie’s door softly behind him.

Sarah tilted her gaze up at him with a seductive sparkle in her eye. “I don’t believe that is the proper use of that word, Bennet.”

“Oh, you’re quite right!” he said softly, grinning wolfishly. “There will be nothing proper about it . . . let me assure you.”

Chapter 13

Talking to tombstones had been a long-abandoned, childhood habit of Catie’s. But there she was, lying flat on her back on an ornate bench, staring at puffy white clouds, speaking at ease with the dead.

“He doesn’t want me to have a mind of my own, Dad. I am never to question his authority or think for myself. He tells me to grow up and then sends me to my room like a child. And Daddy.” Catie sat up and looked at her father’s headstone. “I am
far
too old to be sent to my room!”