Portraits of Pemberley Page 2

  Elizabeth swallowed a sigh and leaned back against the comfort of the heavily padded carriage. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had made it plain what she thought of Elizabeth and her family long before she had wed her nephew. Even though nearly a year had passed, it was unlikely that they would be aimable. A simple truce would be enough, but Darcy was right, there was plenty of time to think of that later. For now, London was on the horizon. Although only a short distance from her childhood home, Elizabeth had never truly seen to the national capital. Even when she and Darcy had taken their wedding trip to the continent, they had departed from Portsmouth, in Cornwall. London, in all its grandeur, had been bypassed until now. Raising the window shade, Elizabeth tried not to gawk as they rolled through the crowded streets. Never before had she seen so many people in one place. Even when they had been in Paris, there had not been such a crush, nor had it smelled as bad. The previous evening’s rain, when mixed with horse droppings and busy merchants moving their wares, the pungency was nearly overwhelming. Putting a scented handkerchief to her nose, Elizabeth could hardly wait until they arrived at their destination. The Darcy family, in possession of a comfortable townhouse in a fashionable square, were in no need of public lodgings. Despite the assurance of many fine hotels, Elizabeth always preferred the privacy of home. Even now, as the carriage stopped before a tall storied brownstone, she knew the strange would soon become familiar as she adjusted to yet another aspect of her new life. But there was something about this house that chilled her. The tall windows, reflecting the sun’s rays, mirrored the street, allowing no passerby to see inside. It was as if the house was hiding something sinister. Seeing her trepidation, Darcy patted her hand in reassurance.

  “Its not Pemberley, but still has all the comforts, plus a few extras. Before my father passed, he saw to the fitting of indoor plumbing. A true luxury in the city.”

  Elizabeth only raised an eyebrow as she chuckled under her breath. It seemed that there was nothing that her husband could not acquire at will. Taking his arm, she alighted and entered the cool dark hall. Having recently been opened and aired, the place shone with polish and smelled pleasantly of beeswax. Although she could not deny it’s architectural beauty, Elizabeth felt a strange unease as Darcy took her upon a tour of the house. Noticing her discomfort, Darcy paused in his narration of the previous function of each room and bid her rest for a moment.

  Having just entered what had surely once been his mother’s morning room, Elizabeth hated to appear ungrateful, but it was difficult to hide her emotions. The house was so different from either Longbourn or Pemberley. Letting go of his arm, she walked slowly about the chamber, casually touching furnishings as she went. There were no gentle signs of use that bespoke the love of a home. Each detail was perfection, but it was as if someone had taken special care to preserve it as a shrine for the dead, but taken away all the things that gave evidence to their existence. Only the large portrait of Anne Darcy, hanging over the empty fireplace showed any personal effect. However, even that serene visage displayed no emotion. When was the last time anyone lived here?

  “You hate it don’t you?” Darcy asked with a tone of humor that surprised her.

  “I…I would not go so far as to say “hate” …but…”

  “My mother hated it too. She refused to live here, said it made her skin crawl, as if someone or something was always watching her. But my father was adamant about maintaining a London residence. He believed her to be fanciful due to pregnancy… with me. Father ordered her favorite decor and hung that portrait to have a small piece of mother here, but it did little to change her mind. Afterwards, she made excuses not to leave Pemberley. If it looks untouched, it is because it has been. I don’t believe that I have stayed here more than half a dozen times since father’s death, and then only for a day or so.”

  “Then… why keep it at all? Surely someone else would appreciate it more?”

  “I suppose I never gave it much thought, assuming that when I married it would be needed.”

  “Will we be spending that much time in London?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. I always assumed that most ladies would want to do the season every year.”

  “Round after round of parties? While I enjoy the occasional ball, constant entertainment is not for me. I much prefer the quiet of the country.”

  Relief flooded Darcy’s features. He had worried a bit during their wedding trip about Elizabeth’s affection for being surrounded by people. She seemed to command attention wherever they went, with people flocking to converse or send invitations. It was not that he was a jealous man, but he too desired a quieter sort of life. Having grown up in a house bursting with people, he feared she would be lonely. Smiling, he rose and offered his arm once again.

  “Well then, Mrs. Darcy, I suggest we finish our tour so you know what you are giving up. Once our business with arranging an artist is finished, I shall see about selling the place. Perhaps the money can go to something we would both enjoy…. have you any aversions to the seaside?”

  “None whatsoever!”

  “Maybe a cottage by the sea would be preferable to London… and definitely smell better!”

  ~Four~

  The prospect of selling the London residence did little to settle Elizabeth’s mind as she struggled to sleep that evening. Her dreams were filled with images of Isabel Darcy running along the front lawn of Pemberley to a waiting horse. However, when she met the means of her escape, the beast refused to move. If that were not bad enough, Elizabeth kept imagining her own face staring down from the gallery wall, wearing the same Renaissance gown as Isabel. Rising, she tried to shake off what had to be the foolishness brought on by too much wine, Elizabeth took a candle and went below. With only the barest company of servants in residence, there was no one at the night watch post in the entry hall. Padding through, she made her way to the kitchens in search of a snack. However, she was not alone in her nocturnal ramblings. A dull glow of light emitting from beneath the green baize door announced the presence of others. The voices, muffled at first, grew clearer as they simultaneously rose in volume. One man and one woman, argued fiercely, believing they were in privacy. Pausing her steps, Elizabeth blew out her candle and pressed herself against the wall. should the door suddenly open, she did not want her presence known. If it were a simple domestic argument, it would be embarrassing to have the new mistress aware of personal business. Unfortunately, it was no marital squabble under discussion, but alone, in the night was no time to interrupt. She would listen carefully before deciding what to do.

  “I heard him myself! The house will be sold. Then what will we do then? You need to get everything out of here immediately!” the female demanded, fear accentuating her shrill tones.

  “Calm down, it will be weeks before that happens. Besides, once the house’s history is known, no respectable person will want to buy it. No member of the ton will live in a place where a murder took place, however covered up. Just leave it to me. We will be here for a long time. Until then, it will be business as usual.”

  This voice, the deeper timber of a man, was cultured and bespoke education. When she had been presented to the staff, only one man had been present. Introduced as James, he had not spoken, but the gnarled elderly gardener hardly fit the confident orders she now heard, nor did she recognize the female as any of the women.

  “You better be sure. If we’re found out, it will be the gallows for us both,” snapped the female.

  “Shush, I know what I am about. You just do as I ask.”

  The glow suddenly extinguished, followed by the echo of footsteps and gentle closing of a door. Although no further conversation was heard, Elizabeth feared the possibility of a person remaining behind and quickly retraced her way back to the main bed chamber. Darcy, sound asleep and oblivious, snored slightly and muttered her name, reaching to the empty space beside him. It would be of no purpose to wake him. The conspirators would be gone by now, but Elizabeth would remember the sound of the
ir voices if heard again.

  *****

  Elizabeth, having not found her sleep until nearly dawn, rose to a late morning sun shining through the windows. For a moment, she forgot where she was, the strangeness of the chamber not registering in her memory. Rubbing her eyes, as if to hasten a lucid state, the details of last night came flooding back. Unfortunately, her husband was nowhere to be seen. A small table near the window was laid with a single breakfast, the chafing dishes still steaming and awaiting her now growling stomach. Upon the empty plate lay a folded paper.

  “Well at least he left a note…” she murmured aloud with disappointment, but slipped from the bed, glancing at the mantle clock as she did. It was nearly eleven, no wonder he had risen. Pouring a cup of tea, she unfolded the note, revealing the now familiar hand.

  Dearest,

  I must attend to some rather mundane business at one of my bankers. We can go to the art museum when I return.

  D

  Elizabeth refolded the paper, pressing it beneath her nose for a moment afterwards. A faint trace of his shaving soap lingered. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and easily saw Darcy’s face in her mind. If only they might share nothing but pleasantries, what a marriage it would be! Unfortunately, last night was beginning to also replay in her head. Who were those people? Now, in the light of day, Elizabeth regretted her reluctance to expose her presence. Personal safety had overridden rash behavior. Secure in her person, but mystified as to what sinister deeds were surely going on at the Darcy townhome in their absence. Mildly irritated that she must wait to tell him, Elizabeth picked at the breakfast, staring out the window at passing carriages until a soft knock was heard at the chamber door.

  “Mrs. Darcy?” a timid voice asked.

  “Please enter, I am awake,” she replied and drained her teacup.

  Not having acquired a lady’s maid, Elizabeth hated the need to have a stranger attend her, but for the moment, it could not be changed. Growing up in a house filled with women, such things had not been necessary. A sister was always available to do up buttons and arrange hair. The door opened slowly, and a pale face, nearly obscured by loose wisps of mousey hair, smiled at the new mistress.

  “My name is Clara, Mrs. Winston sent me to see to you.”

  Seeing her trepidation, Elizabeth beckoned the young girl closer. She guessed her age to be somewhere near that of her own youngest sister, Lydia, but without any of the guile. Elizabeth immediately decided to befriend the maid. An ally in a house of strangers would be welcome… as well as informative. Servants often knew far more about what transpired in a household than the masters.

  “And I shall have great need of your assistance, do come in. Mr. Darcy has an outing planned for later. My hair is a fright and I have not the slightest idea as to what to wear. As I am not from London, I will rely upon your opinions.”

  To this, Clara blushed and smiled, showing an array of small crooked teeth. It was the first time that she had been given the responsibility of attending the mistress of any house. Having been recently engaged as a general housemaid, Clara had dreams of one day rising even so far as to be housekeeper. Unfortunately, she was rather clumsy. Dropping costly items had resulted in more than one dismissal. Finding a position in the Darcy household was a miracle in itself, she was not about to ruin her sole chance at redemption. Swallowing her fear, Clara curtseyed and nodded, but said nothing. Silence was to be her greatest challenge. It was a condition of her hire, but as a person who loved to chatter, it would be difficult.

  “Privacy… and the ability to hold one’s tongue. That is what we hold to be of the greatest importance here. It comes first and foremost, as one of your duties. If I hear otherwise, you will be sacked immediately… and without references. Am I understood Clara Smedly?”

  Mrs. Winston’s words still rang in her head. The old housekeeper terrified her. Clara would speak only when spoken to and reveal nothing. Until now, that had been easy, as the house had been relatively empty. Only at night, when strange sounds and voices carried, did she wonder at what transpired in the dark hours. But now, in the bright of day, with a lovely new mistress before her, Clara’s mind tumbled as she hastily chose her alliances. Mrs. Darcy was the first person to treat her like a human being, asking instead of ordering. Biting her lower lip, a habit she could never manage to break, Clara made her decision.

  “Indeed, Madam. London is a cruel place, especially among the ton, but you shall outshine them all… with my help of course.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth agreed. It was all too apparent that Clara needed a friend just as much as she.

  ~Five~

  Fitzwilliam Darcy sighed heavily as he sat before his solicitor. Having had a pleasant morning reviewing accounts and investments, he had fully expected the task of arranging the sale of the townhouse a simple matter. However, the more Arthur Grandby told him about the property’s less than mundane history, the more he questioned his father’s sanity in its purchase.

  “Oh, it is without question that your father made an excellent deal in terms of finances. His offer was very low and the property is of considerable value now… however…the fact remains. A murder took place there.”

  Darcy had read the file of police reports and newspaper clippings that accompanied the deed to his townhouse with disbelief. While it could be argued that what went on behind closed doors was no one’s business, when it resulted in murder it became the stuff of gossips, open to the wagging tongues of the entire city. Had the death been a result of a duel or some other act of honor, he would have brushed it off as colorful history, perhaps even an enticement to a potential buyer. Unfortunately, when the truth was scandalous, the association could be damaging. What possessed his father to buy a house in which a prostitute had been murdered. And not just killed, but dismembered most gruesomely in the master’s chamber? It was no wonder that his mother had refused to live there. Stranger still, that he had never heard about it. The drawings had produced a slight shudder when he thought of having slept in the very room just yesterday. How was he going to tell Elizabeth? She already hated the house. Perhaps he should see about a suite of rooms at the Royal Crest hotel. Pondering his next move, Darcy did not hear the solicitor as he defined the sale process.

  “Excuse my distraction, this is a bit of a shock,” Darcy said by way of apology.

  “The death must be disclosed to any potential buyer…in detail. It may be that the property will not sell at all. I hate to be indelicate… but is there a financial need to sell?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just don’t see the point in keeping a place that is hardly ever used. Besides, my wife hates it. I would never have put much stock in a woman’s intuition, but now, I can see some credence to the adage. However, this puts any potential sale in a different light.”

  “Ah… I see… well, my congratulations on your marriage sir. Just send word on your decision. With the growing numbers of foreigners looking for properties in London, there may be some who don’t mind the history. I have heard that many Americans are fascinated by such things. Perhaps one of them will want it?”

  To this rumor, Darcy only laughed sardonically and took his leave. It was long past time that he returned to Elizabeth. He would tell her everything, but perhaps not until after a good dinner and the promised museum excursion. She had looked so angelic as she slept that morning that he had not wished to disturb her. Despite being married nearly a year, he never seemed to tire of looking at her and thanking whatever divinity that had intervened to make her accept him. Taking his leave, Darcy chose to walk the few blocks that lay between them. A bit of air was required to clear his thoughts, plus, the time, while adding to his absence, would possibly provide the words to explain the dilemma.

  Upon arrival, Darcy found his wife dressed for their outing, but in deep conversation with one of the maids in the smaller parlor. Having not seen the young woman before, her name escaped him. Thinking her to be new in the household, he chose to keep his presence conc
ealed until they concluded. Not one to eavesdrop, Darcy studied the architecture in the hall. Ironically, he decided that he did not care for the décor either. In the past, the house had been used like a hotel. The stays had been short and without the need to entertain. If he had to be completely honest, only the formal rooms were remotely familiar.

  “The sooner it is gone, the better,” he muttered aloud as the sound of Elizabeth’s heeled shoes gave way her presence behind him.

  “There you are. I was just going over a few things with Clara.”

  “Clara?... oh, the maid. I trust she is to your liking? If not, we can engage another.”

  “She’s perfect… a bit young, but I got the impression that she has already seen much of this world and not all of it good.”

  “That is all too common. The most we can do is be kind to our employees. Are you ready to go? I expect our tour to take some hours.”

  “Shall we be back for dinner? I have not left any instructions with Mrs. Winston…”

  Again, Darcy realized his neglect of the household. As a bachelor, he never concerned himself with such, leaving his valet to sort out late meals if needed. Now, with a wife to consider, many of his old habits needed changing. Pulling the bell cord, they waited for a servant to respond, but no one came to their call. The house was eerily silent for noon, when it should be bustling with activity. Frowning, Darcy yanked the cord again, listening to the echo of the bell from the force of his hands. This time, frantic footsteps revealed a breathless Clara. Bobbing a curtsey, she nervously shifted from one foot to another as she waited for the master of the house to speak.

  “Clara, where is Mrs. Winston?” Elizabeth queried. Having risen so late, she had not seen anyone but Clara either.