Chapter 11

Eleven

A t first glance, Pemberley seemed just as a cursed estate should: dilapidated, ugly, overgrown. But then Jessabelle grabbed her brother's arm, squeezing tightly with one hand while she gestured out the window of the hired carriage with the other.

"What is that?" she demanded.

That, as it turned out, was a tree, a small cherry tree that bore the delicate pink flowers of spring. It made no sense in July, but neither did all the dead trees around it.

Wickham rubbed his arm. "I am sure it is nothing."

Jessabelle scowled but said no more, not about that or any of the other fledgling plants which had suddenly appeared to grace Pemberley's landscape, many of them out of season. Snowdrops sat beside roses, apple trees bore fruit and blossoms both, and the grass seemed to grow green and spread before their very eyes.

The door they entered seemed as it should, with rusted hinges protesting violently as they pushed their way in. But the air smelt cleaner, and the dust was— well, nothing was so very dusty in fact. The furniture was all upright, not tossed about as it had been in the wake of Jessabelle's fury. Wickham's unease grew as he followed his sister through the great house to the place where Darcy was imprisoned in his painting.

When they came to it, Jessabelle first gasped and then gave a low growl of what could only be rage. They watched while Darcy, now with Elizabeth Bennet at his side, strolled through the image, laughing and talking together. Wickham thought she might immediately lash out, but it was not her way. Jessabelle was nothing if not methodical.

"Follow me to the servants' quarters," Jessabelle ordered in a harsh tone, spinning on her heel. Together they strode through the great house, Wickham having difficulty matching his sister's pace, despite his longer legs. She did not speak again until they were going below stairs.

"Will they perceive our presence here?" he asked as they entered the kitchen.

Jessabelle laughed bitterly. "If there is one place we are sure to be invisible to the likes of those two, it is here."

"Miss Elizabeth is not like that," Wickham objected. "She is one of the very truly kind people among the gentry whom I have ever known and she?—"

He was interrupted by a scowl from Jessabelle that would have frightened any man.

"One of your conquests, was she? I had taken her as having a bit more sense, but then again, I suppose she would not be here if that were true. "

She looked about. Wickham followed her gaze, seeing a kitchen that looked as though the cook had left it only moments earlier. Pots shone, tables were wiped, and everything was neatly stored where it should be. She pressed her hands against each other, palm to palm and brought the steepled index fingers to her lips as she viewed it. With a sudden, violent motion, she upended a table that held several pots and pans, dumping them all to the ground with a loud clatter. Several dishes shattered.

Wickham startled but said nothing, merely watching her uneasily. Brimstone and hellfire were emanating from her eyes. He expected that more violence might ensue, but instead, Jessabelle grew calm.

"We must think, George, calmly and rationally, as the sensible creatures we are. We shall not allow that person to defeat us. No, no, it would not do, it would not do at all. We are better than they are, if not by birth, then by intellect, by cleverness, and by our ability to survive.

"None of this is anything to worry about," she said to the air as she paced. "No, no…this can be saved. No need to panic. No need at all."

"Miss Elizabeth seems to be rather taken by him."

"Of course she is," Jessabelle hissed, whirling suddenly and facing her brother, their noses nearly touching. "Stupid man! Tell me something I do not already know!"

"But not in love," he hastened to add. "Not in love with him."

"Perhaps not yet," Jessabelle said ominously, pacing once again. "'Tis only a matter of time. Already much damage has been done. Look around you. See what has come to pass in such a short time. She obviously likes him. She wants to spend time with him!"

Wickham quickly assessed his surroundings. Somehow, without even his notice, the kitchen had been again set to rights. The pots and dishes were again on the table, unbroken, unblemished, and stacked very neatly. It was a bit disturbing to him. Inasmuch as he knew of his sister's eccentric practices and of all she had done to his former friend, it was nevertheless unsettling to bear witness to it.

Pemberley is healing itself.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can it signify truly? Darcy is as neatly trussed as a Christmas goose. No amount of sweet words and hand touching can erase that."

"Fool." Jessabelle's rage had been spent for the moment. She sat, looking tired and far older than her years. "You clearly have no understanding of the strength given to a lover."

"I must admit I do not."

"Love is a contradictory condition," Jessabelle said wearily. "Whatever amount is given to one's beloved is returned tenfold to the lover. Giving away more yields a greater return."

She stared off into a point far distant. "Never is there more life within us than when we love someone with all our heart. Hatred is death. To love is to live."

Wickham did not ask the question which rose immediately to his mind: Where did that leave her with as much hatred as she had of the Darcy family? Was it she who truly bore the effects of her own curses? After all, Darcy might be trapped within a painting, but he smiled and laughed even so. Wickham could not recollect if Jessabelle had ever laughed with true pleasure at anything.

Wickham walked to the table and picked up a dish he believed was one which had been broken only minutes earlier. It was neatly mended, with no visible cracks or faults of any sort. He frowned, carefully replacing it on the table.

With great hesitation, he asked, "Did George Darcy love our mother?"

"That question has plagued me." After a moment, she said, "I believe he did. I believe he had that sense with her, the sense that he was alive, that he was invincible. I believe theirs was a passion which consumed, which burned, and which triumphed over nearly all."

"Nearly all?"

She straightened, a broad smile coming across her features. "Nearly all save for one—his life amid the ton . George Darcy could not marry his mistress, his love, and still move in the society to which he had been born, living the life he was accustomed to living. So he chose that life. He chose the estate and the earl's daughter and left my mother and me. And that is precisely what we shall offer to his son…and his lady friend."

"I do not understand you," said Wickham. "Surely, he has already lost enough?"

"Loss! Ah yes! Now I have it!" She clapped her hands together with malevolent glee. "This is what we shall do. Oh yes, the revelation of a love that is untrue…the pain of it will be perfection."

A stool was nearby, and Wickham sank onto it wearily. "What do you mean?"

"The curse is weakened, but it is not defeated." She pointed at him with one long, bony finger. "If one of them—either of them—chooses fortune and station over love, the curse will prevail over both. They will both be made broken-hearted and bereft."

Wickham had no idea how to respond, but none was necessary. Jessabelle paced and schemed, her spiteful delight terrifying to him.

"We shall offer a choice to each. To be freed from their terror, to go on as they once were—but at the expense of the other. My guess is that Darcy will yield as did his father before him."

"And then both remain captive?"

"Yes!" Jessabelle said with a satisfied sneer. "Yes, yes! The curse of love untrue! Oh how lovely, and how wonderful to have thought of it. Come now, follow me up to our old cottage. I must plan it all very carefully."

He rose, but before they left the kitchen, Wickham put his hand on his sister's arm. "Is it possible he has suffered enough? After all, it was not he who made this choice. He was not the one who banished you."

"But he did banish you," she reminded him. "In him is all the culmination of conceit and pride and disdain for those beneath you. He is the heir to arrogance and the ultimate price paid for sin."

"I suppose so," Wickham mumbled.

"Yes! It is so. Now, come on."