Chapter 5

Five

PEMBERLEY, SUMMER 1806

T wenty-two year old Fitzwilliam Darcy stared at the ledgers in front of him until the numbers fairly danced on the page and his eyes burned. There was so much to learn, to know about being master of Pemberley. He had always considered himself well-educated, but nothing could have prepared him for all of this.

Reynolds entered the master's study and cleared his throat. "Mr Darcy?"

Darcy did not respond, his eyes still trained on the lines of numbers.

"Mr Darcy?" Reynolds said again, this time more loudly.

With a jolt, Darcy remembered that name was meant for him now. Placing one finger on the page to hold his place, he looked up. "Forgive me, Reynolds. I am still unused to being called that. I expect it will be some time until I answer to anything but Master Fitzwilliam."

Mr Reynolds smiled gently. "We are all still adjusting to the untimely death of your father, God rest his soul, but I would not disrespect you and speak to you as though you were still a child."

Darcy returned his smile, but he did not feel any real pleasure. "Your patience with me is much appreciated. My father was not prepared to depart this earth, and with Mr Wickham gone now too… But you did not come to hear my complaints. What may I do for you?"

The butler frowned slightly. "There is a Mrs Younge here to speak with you."

"Mrs Younge? I do not believe I know anyone by that name."

"She tells me she knew you when you both were children."

Darcy's brow wrinkled as he sorted through the muddled fog of his mind, searching for recollection. A tenant? A woman of trade? And why has she rather than her husband sought me out?

"What does she want?"

"I cannot rightly say, but you should know she is connected to the Wickhams. Mr Wickham's sister was a Mrs Younge, and I believe this young lady would be George Wickham's cousin."

Finally remembering some long-ago scenes from his childhood, Darcy said, "No, I daresay she may well be George's sister . I have not seen her since—well, for almost a decade, but I do remember she went to live with Mr and Mrs Younge, both of whom have since died. She must call herself by that name now. Do you happen to recall why she left Pemberley? I remember her from when we were children, but she seemed almost to disappear once George and I went off to school. "

"It is likely that when the elder Mr Wickham was widowed, they wished for a female relation to have charge of her, to see to her proper upbringing."

"As I did with Georgiana." Darcy winced against the pain that brought.

He had not liked it when their father sent Georgiana to live with Lord and Lady Matlock, but—as he reminded himself repeatedly—it was for the best, even more so now that their father had died. Georgiana was forever getting into scrapes, unusual illnesses were common for her, and once her hair had fallen out completely! Darcy was sure he never heard of such absurdities as continually befell his poor young sister. His father had once declared that if he believed in such things as the cunning arts, he would have been certain dear Georgiana had a curse on her.

Reynolds interrupted his musings. "Will you see her, sir?"

"I shall," Darcy answered. "Show her in, but do send a maid to sit with us."

"She brought someone with her," Reynolds said as he departed the room. Moments later, he showed in Mrs Younge and her companion, an aged crone who looked like she might once have been a lady.

Darcy greeted her very properly, offering her a seat. The crone sank into a chair by the fire, staring at him in a manner most unsettling.

Mrs Younge fixed him with deep blue eyes, licking her lips. "Do you remember me, Fitzwilliam? Jessabelle."

He recoiled from the familiarity as well as the tone of contempt which accompanied it. "You may call me Mr Darcy, madam. And yes, I believe you are George Wickham's sister. Is that correct?"

"Maybe I am your sister." On that enigmatic remark, she rose from the seat she had so recently claimed, strolled to the window of the study, and looked down on his mother's garden below. "A veritable Garden of Eden," she remarked.

Discomfited by her attitude as well as her proclamation of being his sister, he said nothing. He only watched her perambulate about with occasional glances towards the crone, whose gaze remained peculiarly unwavering.

Suddenly, she turned, glaring at him. He drew back, seeing pure hatred on her countenance. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, feeling the prickle of his hairs standing on end.

"George Darcy is dead, is he?"

"Have you called to condole with me?" he shot back.

"Hardly." Her eyes glittered with spite as her lips curled into a sneer. "I hope he is rotting in Hell even as we speak."

Darcy's mouth dropped for a moment, then he recovered himself. He stood, summoning his most imperious air. "Reynolds will see you out. Do not call here again, I shall not?—"

Jessabelle raised her chin, her own imperious manner brought to fore. "Will you banish me just as he did? I am not surprised. Pride is the primary trait of any Darcy, is it not?"

A cackle, high-pitched and watery, came from the corner, causing Darcy to startle. The crone was apparently amused.

"I have no idea who you think you are to me, madam, but I assure you, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such nonsense. Do you want money? Is that it? Trying to present yourself as someone entitled to something of the estate?"

This time the crone hissed at him.

"You would like that, would you not? Then you could rob me of my inheritance just as you did George."

"George was fairly compensated for?—"

She interrupted. "Not every problem can be solved by paying to make it go away. I have no wish to watch the son recreate the sins of his father. My time is now, and the day is upon me. I have prepared for this for many, many years and can only deeply regret that your father will not have his share."

She came across the room, her eyes—large and bluish-violet in colour—never leaving his countenance. She was a beautiful woman and yet, in that beauty was a terrifying coldness, an evil that somehow turned beauty into something ugly.

"No one has ever wanted me, not my natural father, not the Wickhams, not the Younges, who thought me too wicked to tolerate. Sent off again at seventeen to yet another cousin, but in the last, I proved victorious. I was thought wicked, so I decided to be wicked and learnt the power of wickedness from the only person in my life who hated George Darcy as much as I did."

Jessabelle directed a smile at the crone, who cackled with seeming approval. "The former Miss Elizabeth Parham from Pendle Hill in Lancashire."

Darcy shook his head. What any of this had to do with him, he could not say. "Fascinating. But I must insist that you?—"

"My friend is adept in the cunning arts," she added, her smile menacing.

Darcy laughed, despite his growing unease. "Would you have me believe that woman performs witchcraft? A dangerous assertion—people have swung for less. In any case, I do not believe that sort of silliness. Pemberley has always been a God-fearing home. Now, if you will excuse me, I must insist you leave."

He strode rapidly to the door, intending to call for Reynolds or a footman, anyone who could remove this person and her nonsense from his study. Yanking open the door, he gasped as he nearly fell over Reynolds, lying prone on the floor just outside of his door.

"Reynolds!" Darcy dropped to his knees, feeling the man's throat to determine whether his heart still beat. Something in the texture of his flesh, the already-cooler temperature of his body, told him what he needed to know.

Bile rose in his throat, and for the first time, he felt real fear. Are these women mad? What have they done to Reynolds? Have they killed anyone else? Would they kill me?

Darcy rose and slowly turned to observe Jessabelle examining Reynolds's corpse with no little satisfaction on her face.

Turning to the crone, she remarked lightly, "That went quickly, did it not? I had expected he would be able to return to his quarters before he died."

"You can never tell with those incantations," the crone replied, just as easily as if they discussed bread making rather than murder.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You wish to kill me too? Do not think it will go unanswered. Every caller is written in a log and once the magistrate knows?—"

"We are not going to kill you," Jessabelle replied scornfully. "You might wish for death, but it will not be granted you. And do you know why?"

Darcy simply glared at her, feeling his heart in his throat.

She smiled. "My aunt Younge—God rest her soul—was the very model of piety. There were no books, no song, no laughter in her house—only the Bible. Nonetheless, although I had little else to occupy me, I learnt hardly anything of it save for this: an eye for an eye."

"I have done nothing to you," he managed to say. "I do not know you and have done nothing to deserve your hatred."

"You Darcys have always thought yourself so superior, looking down on those beneath you from the lofty heights of your kingdom." She shook her head. "Eleven years since the day I learnt the truth about my mother and your father."

"My father loved my mother, and that is the only truth I care to hear."

"An innocent babe and all of you scorned me, sent me away, made me feel my lowliness. I have paid for our father's sin and wish only for my brother to join me in my misery."

Darcy suddenly realised that if he could not make her leave, then perhaps he ought to leave himself. Why stand there like a fool and await whatever revenge this woman thought to lay on him?

"I am not your brother and my only misery is being in the same room with you. Furthermore, I refuse to hear more of your lies."

He spun on his heel, but found himself suddenly in near-darkness. Vertigo struck him, and he stumbled, turning back round to her. His last glimpse was of something which glinted in Jessabelle's hand.

"Loneliness and abandonment," Jessabelle said. "Exposed to the derision of the world. Pray, do enjoy seeing how that shoe fits."