Echoes of Pemberley (23 page)

Catie sprang up cheerfully. “Thanks, Sarah!”

“Catie,” Sarah said softly, taking the girl’s hands into her own. “You know . . . I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

“Yes, I know.” She squeezed Sarah’s hands reassuringly and rushed off, her mission accomplished. On her way out, Catie broadsided her brother on his way in.

“Catie, watch where you’re going!” Ben dislodged his sister from his chest.

“Sorry, Ben,” she apologized, giggling, as the two fell into an impassable side step of each other. Ben finally stopped, took his sister by the shoulders, and gently moved her to one side. “Er . . . sorry again,” she said without giggling this time.

“It’s all right, Sis, just slow down.” Patting her shoulder, Ben sent her on her way.

Catie had been weighing heavily on Ben’s mind of late. The afternoon he had left her crying in her room troubled him still. In all of his years as a doting brother never had he been as severe with Catie as he was that day. Not a minute went by that afternoon that he didn’t think guiltily of her sitting alone, crying in her room.

The morning she came to him in his study, he would have liked to wrap her in his arms and apologize for being such a brute. But he didn’t. “A history of sound discipline has served England for centuries, Bennet Fitzwilliam.” His grandfather’s voice rang hard in his ears. Ben’s life had been one of structure and obedience. Whether at home or school, his father or grandfather, a prefect or teacher, Ben Darcy had had a typical English upbringing. He had learned to toe the line.

His father had been whimsical, followed his fancies and where did it get him? He died, basically killed himself in his recklessness, and left his already motherless children fatherless as well. Ben’s jaw tightened as the resentment rose suddenly and then receded, as predictable as the tide.

It wasn’t his father’s fault, he told himself. Catie’s tears had wrenched him since her arrival home from the hospital. Those first days of her life at Pemberley, crying out for a mother who would never come, caused a much younger Ben to heave his supper one night. He had to harden himself to those cries early on. He had to be her rock, not some weakling that spilled his supper over a crying baby. He would make her strong, capable of taking on whatever else this cruel world had to throw at her. He would see to it that she was the Darcy his mother and father would have wanted — would have raised themselves had they lived to do so.

Sarah was right. Catie
was
growing up, becoming a woman. Her very appearance was evidence of it. Seeing her as the perpetual little sister, her brother had not noticed Catie’s maturity for the most part until Mr. Ledford’s indecent actions made him wake up and take notice.

“What is going on with her hair, Sarah?” Ben asked approaching his wife.

“Whose hair, darling?” Sarah responded somewhat distractedly, never looking up from her work.

“Catie’s hair, she wears it down constantly now. Why would she be doing that?” He glanced worriedly in the direction of Catie’s departure.

Sarah shrugged. “She probably just wants to look a little older.”

He frowned. “Whatever for?”

Annoyed, Sarah again stopped her work and rested her gloved hands on her hips. “Did you come all the way out here to discuss your sister’s hair, darling?”

“No, of course not, I came out here to discuss your luncheon.”

“Oh . . . ” Sarah cried excitedly. “Have you decided to speak?”

“Certainly
not
, I have come to speak to you concerning Catie.”

“
Catie
?”

“Yes . . . I . . . I . . . ”

“You what?”

Ben was dead serious. “I believe in the not-so-distant future my sister may start to develop an interest in . . . in
boys
, Sarah.”

She snorted and laughed at the same time, quickly covering her face with a glove in embarrassment.

Ben scowled over the enjoyment being had at his expense. “May I ask what is so amusing?”

Sarah cleared her throat and tried mimicking his sincerity. “Ahem, It’s just . . . I mean . . . yes, darling, I must concur,
not
so distant at all.” Then with some difficulty in keeping a straight face she added, “As a matter of fact it could be upon us before we even realize it.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” Ben agreed and went into a long explanation about how it was his responsibility to make sure that Catie was well situated in life — that she marry well and, in order for her to do so, needed to be exposed to the
right
group of young men. Gone were the days of ceremoniously presenting England’s young — and, of course, well-born — debutantes at Court, announcing their release into society. Therefore, he argued, it was their duty to unceremoniously bring Catie forward. And what better occasion to begin that process than at the garden party.

“But, Bennet,” Sarah said. “Catie will have an eighteenth birthday party to come out. And you certainly are no help. You abhor society unless it’s the Grand National or a country hunt ball.”

“And what, may I ask, is wrong with a hunt ball?”

“You abhor society, your sister abhors hunting, as does your wife,” she mumbled the latter quietly under her breath, but he heard her.

“Forget hunt balls.” He made a face and shook his head. “It’s up to the parents nowadays to manage these things, always has been really. They have the most influence after all. Your comments about the Hirst boy got me to thinking about it all. We need to take the control here, Sarah. You and I need to delicately start the process.”

“And what is it you expect me to do?” Sarah asked, alarmed.

Ben leaned in as if he were revealing the plan to some great caper. “During your luncheon use your female tactics to hint that Pemberley would
especially
like to have in attendance the sons, grandsons, and nephews of . . . well, there’s no delicate way to say it...
desirable
families. Make it clear that Catie will be seventeen soon. Old enough to start . . . you know . . . socializing with lads.” He presented an adamant finger. “Supervised, of course; there’ll be no shenanigans to be sure.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Should I get references on these
lads
or will any one of England’s big-eared, buck-toothed blue bloods do?”

“Sarah Darcy!” he exclaimed. “How could you speak of your fellow countrymen in that manner?”

“And how can you put your sister on the block like one of your thoroughbreds?”

“I am doing no such thing! I just think it is time Catie started being introduced to the
right
pool of young men.”

“Catie is a sensible girl, Ben, and perfectly capable of choosing her own suitors. I would hate to think I had picked you out of such a
small
pool of prior chosen eligibles. Her inheritance alone will guarantee that she is well situated in life. Really, Ben, the days of parents intervening in such matters are long gone.”

“Let me remind you that Catie doesn’t receive a penny of that inheritance before her twenty-fifth birthday. Until then, I hold control of her trusts. Surely, Sarah, even you can see how vulnerable her pending wealth will make her to every blackguard in England.” Ben sighed heavily but wasn’t to be defeated. Lowering his voice to a convincing tone, he added, “It is just as much our responsibility to guide her through this as it is to see that she’s properly educated, is it not?”

To this Sarah could make no feasible argument. Furthermore, her prior conversation with Catie (not that she would be sharing any of that conversation with her husband) was proof in itself of their young sister’s growing need for parental guidance in the social realm. So she agreed.

Satisfied with his success, Ben glanced about to make sure the gardeners were well out of sight and lovingly kissed his wife. “Just out of curiosity, my love,” he said, pulling back and flashing a charming grin down at her. “Just how large was that pool of eligible young men you chose me out of?”

To this comment Sarah slowly removed one of her gloves, with care and deliberateness pulled each finger loose, and started whacking him with it. Arms raised in defense, Ben scurried out of the orangery, laughing. He was rather pleased to have gotten the best of her . . . for once.

Chapter 15

When Maggie Reid received word that Mrs. Darcy would like to speak with her concerning a position at Pemberley, her father was elated. Mr. Reid knew the Darcys to be an exceptional family to work for and was sure his Maggie would be happy with them. Maggie, however, wasn’t quite as elated as her father was. A shy girl, Maggie had rarely been out of the county of Derbyshire and never a night away from home.

A learning disability, which went undiagnosed until her early teens, made school almost impossible for Maggie. She could read, but not well, and only when she was forced to.

Just four years old when her father lost his legs, the bulk of Maggie’s life was spent caring for him. Her mother worked long hours to provide for Maggie and her younger sister, leaving Maggie to run the house and nurse her crippled father. But she didn’t mind this. Like her grandmother, Maggie had an appetite for the craft of healing and spent many hours learning the elderly woman’s remedies. She knew that a hot boiled potato would treat corns. She had committed to memory all the medicinal uses of purple sage. Each month when the doctor called on her father, Maggie would fetch instruments from his bag. The black and chrome tools were heavy and solid in her hands. Maggie loved the feel of them. If she’d had the ability to learn properly she would have chosen a career in nursing, but that was a dream she abandoned years ago with the difficult, and sometimes shameful, experiences at school.

Maggie accepted the position. She would be an upstairs maid.

She was apprehensive as she rode her bicycle to the grand manor, which she had only seen from a distance. It wasn’t the work that caused her concern. Margaret Reid had never shirked a chore in her life. It was Catherine Darcy. Granddaughter to the locally hailed Geoffrey Darcy and Lord Byron Sumner, Miss Darcy’s lineage was as impressive as the thoroughbreds in Pemberley’s stables. To Maggie Reid, Catie Darcy was everything she wasn’t — rich, well educated, finely dressed, but most of all . . . self-confident.

On the day the Darcys came to visit, Maggie had watched Catie Darcy through the window for some time before her father called her. Maggie immediately noticed the girl was very much like her brother, prideful in her appearance with a distinct air of superiority.

Maggie hated to admit it, but she possessed more than a small degree of envy for Pemberley’s young miss — not because of the girl’s wealth but rather her abundant self-confidence. Maggie had never held herself as straight and proud as Miss Catie did, shoulders back, head up, and looking the world directly in the eye. If she had that level of confidence, Maggie thought, nothing would be out of reach. Possibly not even a career in nursing.

It started to rain, and Maggie pedaled faster.

It was a dreary, wet afternoon in England’s midlands. Outside, peonies and roses sagged with the weight of the tiny puddles that gathered on their petals, while inside, Catie sat in her room, answering letters to schoolmates. A small rap on the door interrupted her.

“Yes,” she responded, and Rose entered with Maggie Reid.

Catie lifted her head, and her eyes instantly met with Maggie’s.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Maggie Reid since the day she and Ben rode away from the Reids’ cottage. Not only was Maggie Reid in possession of her mother’s name, but she had a story that went along with that name. Catie shared no story with her mother, except of course how she died giving birth to her.

Adding to the insult, Margaret Darcy was the first person to ever hold Maggie. Catie had imagined her mother cooing and talking sweetly to the newborn. Maggie had felt Margaret’s motherly touch and heard her consoling voice.
God, she resented Maggie Reid
.

“Will it be an inconvenience if we put your clothes away, miss?” Rose asked formally since she was training Maggie.

Giving Maggie a hateful stare, Catie shook her head.

As Rose directed Maggie, she spoke tenderly to the girl, patting Maggie’s back and shoulder reassuringly. Catie watched the two intently, and it quickly became more than she could bear. Maggie Reid may have received more attention in life from Catie’s mother than Catie was to ever have, but Maggie Reid most definitely was not going to get affection from Rose.

“That is
not
where my socks go!” she said, outraged.

The sudden outburst caused Rose and Maggie to turn to her. “Miss Catie, that is where your socks have gone since you were an infant,” Rose replied, trying not to sound too admonishing.

Catie looked Rose squarely in the eye, ignoring the warning look she was receiving. “I don’t care where they
have
gone, everything is
most
inconvenient for me, and I plan to rearrange it all!”