Chapter 7

Seven

JULY 1812, DERBYSHIRE

D readful or not, the Gardiners would take Elizabeth to Pemberley. To Elizabeth, it sounded wonderfully fantastical: a grand home left to decay and ruin by a young master who had absconded for parts and persons unknown.

When Hannah arrived with their breakfast that morning, Elizabeth attempted to press her for more details on the young man's disappearance but learnt little beyond what she already knew: Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was the only son of the house and had disappeared shortly after his father's death in the year six.

"Did not seem the sort at all," Hannah remarked. "Very upright, serious young lad, brought up to know his duty and his place. Treated the servants well, paid his bills…then one day, just gone."

"Did no one search for him? Surely, he must have relations or friends who knew what became of him?" Elizabeth asked.

"It seems that most who knew him were resigned to the loss of him," Hannah replied, plainly discomfited by the subject, and so Elizabeth left it.

I shall just have to see for myself , Elizabeth thought, sorting through the things she wished to take with her that day. She had with her several reticules, and as she opened one, an object fell out. Elizabeth laughed, seeing it.

"What is that?" Mrs Gardiner asked, having just entered her niece's bedchamber. "Is it yours?"

Elizabeth smiled, picking the item up off the floor where it had fallen. "I suppose it is now."

The object was an opera glass, finely made with an ornate blue covering. It had been once the possession of a wealthy lady, used at the theatre to spy on her neighbours while ostensibly viewing the stage. It opened to reveal a hidden compartment in which there were a lady's salts as well as a place for scent, or powders. A very handy object, though not of much use to Elizabeth within the confines of Meryton. She had brought it with her on the trip with her aunt, hoping against hope that she might encounter some need for it.

"It has a rather circuitous provenance. This was a possession of Mr Wickham, but he lost it to his friend Mr Denny during a game of cards last winter."

"Wagered during a game of cards?" Mrs Gardiner frowned slightly at that. Her disapproval of gambling was well-canvassed.

"I would daresay, Aunt, that we ladies can scarcely fathom the diverse objects which are laid down for credit at the card tables. In any case, it was wagered to Mr Denny who thought little enough of it to lose it to Lydia."

Mrs Gardiner shook her head. "That is hardly proper. Your sister ought not to accept gifts from gentlemen, even when she wins them."

"I could not agree more. But there is nothing to be gained in telling her so, not when my father cannot be troubled to check her," Elizabeth replied, turning the opera glass over in her hands and admiring the engravings on it. "As it was, Lydia did not much want it regardless. She was willing to let me keep it in exchange for a yellow ribbon I had embroidered with blue flowers…and so now it is mine."

Mrs Gardiner took it and examined it more closely a moment or two before handing it back. "What will you do with it?"

Elizabeth used her finger to open one of the small compartments. "I have not the faintest idea. I confess I really just liked the look of it. Secret compartments and the capability for spying make it irresistible to me."

"This might have been of great use to you in your younger days. The games you invented! Always in a tree, examining this or chasing that! It would have been a short time until you were chasing a band of pirates through the West Indies or spying on Napoleon—at least in your own mind, that is."

Elizabeth chuckled at this characterisation of her young self. "I suspect you are quite right." She tucked it into her reticule "Well, it will accompany us today to Pemberley. Who knows what manner of secrets or intrigues we might find that will benefit from closer examination?"

Tedious waste of a day , Darcy thought from his perch. For the millionth time in the incalculable duration of his immurement, he walked all about, pushing on this and pressing at that, trying to extricate himself. As it had been so many times before, it was completely fruitless, a futile endeavour.

Nevertheless, he went through his rituals. What else did he have to do, after all? He searched for cracks in the sides or holes in the bottoms. He ran his hand over the material, looking for a tear, a loose thread, anything at all. He kicked, he poked, he prodded, and he scratched to no avail. All about him was right and tight, and he was as neatly bound as ever he had been.

He then spent some time looking out, examining the desolation. It was a particularly devilish sort of revenge Jessabelle Younge had contrived for him. In some odd way, he had to applaud her for nothing, nothing at all, could have hurt him so much than to see Pemberley, once a jewel, be laid to waste bit by bit. It was excruciating torture to see all he loved slowly wasting away, while he was helpless and afraid and unable to do anything at all for it.

Will I ever be released? He wondered that often. Now he understood the lesson she had been trying to teach him. He had been taught to look meanly upon the world and now the world was mean before him. He had had an excess of pride, of disgust in those beneath him. That, too, had been cured. Alas, having learnt those lessons did nothing to alter his condition. He began to fear nothing but death would release him, and that might be many long years off.

Georgiana was safe…or so he hoped. He was not entirely certain of how much time had passed but believed it would still be some time until she came out. He could only hope that Saye and Fitzwilliam would keep her from George Wickham. Jessabelle had come by one day, gazing with satisfaction upon him in his prison while telling him, in detail, of the scheme of seduction they had planned for Georgiana. Seduction, ruination, marriage, and then abandonment. Surely, his Matlock relations would keep her safe from all of that?

His sister had come to Pemberley with Saye and Fitzwilliam. They had all spoken of what they would do, how they would repair the house, and set things to rights but all three of them fell ill soon after arriving, requiring them to leave with haste. Builders and plasterers had arrived soon thereafter but any work done would be rapidly undone once they left. The men, too, grew ill, rumours of curses, and ghosts, and evil spirits abounded until no one would agree to come to Pemberley for any reason. The last time Georgiana was there she had sobbed in the vestibule until Fitzwilliam took her by the elbow and gently led her away.

Suddenly, through the window, he saw a carriage rocking and bumping down the rutted road. Good lord, who could that be? He squinted trying to make out any markings on the side of the landau but saw nothing. Holiday-makers? It had been a long time since the last such people had come to poke about and turn up their noses at Pemberley's decay. Then again, some people liked this sort of thing, seeing a once-grand estate laid low.

He hoped that they would be about their looking quickly, for though he was nearly painfully lonely, to have others bear witness to the crumbling ruins of his family legacy was too humiliating to be borne.

As their carriage bumped and jostled its way down a poorly-kept, deeply rutted lane, Elizabeth wondered if they had all lost their minds. This excursion was proving far more arduous than anticipated, and thus far there was not much to see save for muddy fields and dried-out, brown grass. She looked over at her uncle's face. He looked a bit appalled by all he saw before him and no doubt wondered at his own support of this scheme.

Elizabeth leant towards him, an apologetic smile on her lips. "Shall we reach the house itself before nightfall?"

Her aunt smiled ruefully while her uncle grimaced. "Let us hope so. I cannot like the notion of setting up camp in such fields as these. Of course we should be safe as babes in our beds if we did—even the highwaymen would not dare come to such a place as this."

Elizabeth peered at her uncle. "Pray do not press on for my benefit. If you would wish it, let us turn back. "

"Turn back? Oh no, we have come this far," said Mr Gardiner. "Let us at least see the house."

Elizabeth turned to her aunt, who was gazing round in sorrowful horror. "Do you agree? I am beginning to be mightily sorry I insisted on coming. Perhaps Mr Wickham was correct and we would have done best to visit elsewhere."

"I must say, it is a shock. To see a place, which I knew to be one of the finest in all of England, come to such a state! It is almost as if it has been cursed."

Elizabeth looked around her, her interest renewed with this tug at her imagination. "A curse? Do you think so?"

"It has all the finest elements of a fairy-tale." Mr Gardiner leant forwards, a teasing half-smile on his face. "A kingdom laid to ruin, a wicked villain who has set a spell upon it?—"

"A spell?" Mrs Gardiner laughed. "What sort of spell might that be?"

"It could be a spell!" Elizabeth laughed. "After all, are not all the witches in this part of England? I suppose that Mr Darcy must await his true love to come and break the curse?"

Mrs Gardiner, warming to their game, replied, "Perhaps we will find him sleeping somewhere, awaiting a kiss from the lady who will then be made mistress of his estate."

"Poor lady!" Elizabeth gave a slight shiver. "Of such a place, who would wish to be mistress! Not I, I assure you."

"If he was asleep," Mr Gardiner added, "it would certainly explain the disgraceful decline of his estate. No, I fear the only curse we see here is all this gambling they do these days! These young men are handed massive fortunes and profitable estates and not a one of them is of a mind to work for the increase. No doubt Mr Darcy has gambled away his inheritance, angered his former tenants, and whiles his days away fencing and drinking."

"For as much as Mr Wickham said which was untrue," Elizabeth offered, "in this it would seem he is proved correct. This Mr Darcy is a wretched fellow, with no heart and no mind for those beneath him. Such arrogance must be its own punishment."

Their party fell silent then, for the manor house had come into view. The cutting gardens were the first to catch Elizabeth's notice, all the plants brown and spindly, thrusting forth from the earth, and a multitude of vines climbing towards nothing. Despite the season, there was not the merest hint of colour among their spines, nor so much as a jot of pleasing fragrance.

A mud-filled culvert was all that remained of the stream, and the lawns were gone to seed and filled with large, sporadic patches of weeds. The willow trees looked haggard and tired, Haymarket mistresses who had given up on any attempt at respectability. As they made their way into the stable yard, they saw a diseased-looking horse wandering round, while a few skinny chickens pecked nearby.

Continuing towards the house, their carriage turned into a drive which was rutted and uneven, cobblestones broken and jutting in all directions. The appearance of the manor house made all of them gasp and the coachman brought them to a halt. From her vantage in the open-air landau, Elizabeth counted four broken windows, one which had a tattered curtain showing through it, and a hole in the roof over what must have been a bedchamber. Somewhere a door swung on a rusty hinge, or at least that is what she supposed made the horrid screeching noise she heard.

"Oh my." Mrs Gardiner's hands twisted against each other mercilessly as she beheld the devastation. "This is…why, this is just terrible!"

"Quite horrid, indeed, my dear," Mr Gardiner agreed. "I for one have certainly satisfied my curiosity, so perhaps we ought to— Elizabeth! Where are you going?"

Elizabeth had leapt down from the carriage and stood facing the front entrance. "I want to see inside!" she replied over her shoulder.

"Inside? Absolutely not! Elizabeth!" Mrs Gardiner cried out in shock. "You cannot go in there!"

"Why not?" Elizabeth asked as an emaciated-looking cat came skulking out the front door. "Every other creature does." She smiled at the cat, which hissed and spat in response then turned and ran towards the stable yard.

"We must be going," Mr Gardiner announced firmly. "Get back in the carriage, Lizzy."

"Do not the horses need rest? Just permit me five minutes," Elizabeth turned back and entreated him. "Just a peek, after all that my aunt has said of it."

"I do not know," Mrs Gardiner wavered. "Is it quite safe? "

"I have my letter opener should I need it," Elizabeth said with a pat of her reticule.

"You have until the horses are rested," Mr Gardiner conceded reluctantly. "Not a moment more. Then we go, even if I must drag you out bodily."

"Do be careful!" Mrs Gardiner called to her niece's rapidly retreating back. Elizabeth gave a half-wave in response, her feet skipping lightly as her reticule swung from her wrist.

The heavy wooden door yielded easily to her tentative push. She opened it to the slightest extent possible that would allow her passage—as if opening it less would thus lessen her offence—then slipped through and entered Pemberley.

She found herself in an enormous vestibule. A sweeping staircase was ahead of her, and to either side of her were doors leading to the rest of the public rooms. From the other side of the doors there came a scurrying sound. Small animals no doubt, disturbed in their daily activity by my intrusion. She shuddered at the thought of encountering mice, or worse, but put that thought firmly from her mind in favour of more intrepid ways.

Her heels clicked quietly on the marble floors as she began a tour of the rooms, gazing around her at sagging, old furnishings, many of which had visible signs of rot. Everything was dusty and there was a pervasive smell of mildew throughout. It was excessively dark, for which she could not account. It had been a sunny day, almost hot, when she entered, but within the home it was as if midnight was upon them, and a storm raged outside. Looking out the window, she saw sun but it seemed unable to penetrate the gloom of the house.

Continuing her exploration, she entered into the music room, seeing what had once been an elegant pianoforte. Now it was missing several of the keys, and when she touched it, a cloud of dust rose up. "If nothing else, this should be covered," she said to the empty room. A harp, several of its strings broken, sat looking toothless in the corner, and an empty music stand was collapsed beside it.

There was a small chamber, which she supposed had been once used by the mistress, perhaps to write letters. The dainty escritoire sat bravely looking out upon what must have once been a sculpture garden but now looked like rubble and weeds. Elizabeth shook her head and moved on.

Her aunt and uncle forgotten, she continued her gloomy tour, entering a library. "This at least remains impressive," she said, gazing about her in wonder. It was dusty and the smell of old books was pervasive…but then again, that happened to be one of her favourite smells in the world, so she could not despise it.

The dining room was a true mystery. Whatever had befallen Pemberley, it seemed as if it had happened in the midst of dinner. The smell of spoilt meat and mouldy bread nearly gagged her, but she forced herself to look. The table was laid for three, she noticed, wondering who the three had been, and how it was that the animals had not got to the food before it rotted. Holding her handkerchief to her nose, she examined the plates, seeing what must have been the mark of the Darcy family on the porcelain as well as the now-tarnished silver.

Leaving the dining room, she made her way through several sitting rooms, at last arriving in a great hall filled with portraits of the Darcy family, some above a century old. She looked upon men in powdered wigs, knights, judges, and ladies whose hair was so elaborate it nearly required its own portrait. Ruffled collars, pantaloons, bustles, and long corsets…some of it made her giggle and feel heartily grateful for her own, more simple attire which was constricting enough for her preference.

At last she came to the end of the long hall, finding one last portrait: that of Pemberley itself. Elizabeth sighed to look at it. Its former grandeur was astounding. Nature had not been countered by awkward tastes, but rather enhanced. Lush gardens and sparkling streams surrounded the noble limestone house. Deer had been captured frolicking in the nearby wood, and one could nearly smell the sweet, heady scent of the roses that surrounded one side of the garden. A handsome gentleman attired in modern fashions stood looking out one of the windows, a serious expression on his face.

Oddly enough, in Elizabeth's opinion, the house had not been depicted as it would have looked on a sunny day but rather in what looked like the onset of a severe storm. Threatening clouds gathered over the house, and the tip of a tongue of lightning had just begun to descend from them.

On further inspection, Elizabeth noticed that, curiously, the clouds themselves had nearly the shape of a hand—a feminine hand, with the lightning descending from it. So very peculiar! "Whosoever painted this certainly indulged himself in some fanciful ideas," she said with a light laugh.

She glanced about her, feeling suddenly unsettled. A look out the window showed that the sun had gone; the clouds were thick and black, and it seemed the temperature had dropped. Elizabeth shivered slightly in her summer muslin and wished for the shawl she had left in the carriage. How odd that the weather has turned so quickly. Almost as if it wished to match the painting.

A pinch of chagrin assailed her as she hoped that she and the Gardiners would not be caught in a storm as they travelled back to Lambton. "It might be necessary to tarry here," she mused aloud. "Perhaps it would be better to remain rather than be caught on the road."

She returned to her study of the painting.