Section I, Next Section
Prologue Posted on Monday, 28 June 1999
"This is not the end. This is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." ~Winston Churchill
i.
The night that Jessica Alice Evans was born, it was bitterly cold. Biting winds whistled fiercely about the cottage, seeping through tiny cracks in the wood and whipping at the tiny fire which struggled in the hearth.
It was a hard birth. Jessie was her mother's first child, and the gossiping village women had all shaken their heads to see that Tom Evans' frail young wife was 'with child'. All of Lambton knew that Tom's little plot of farm land was going through a rough time as it was.
Many expected that the slender, pale young woman with the wide, sad eyes would lose the child before its full term. She was, after all, a relative stranger in these parts - she wasn't bred strong, like the local girls. It was anyone's guess why young Tom had married the woman in the first place! However, even the most malicious of the village biddies were forced to concede that she was something to look at. Not that that would be any help to her when her time came.
Alice Evans ignored their whisperings, and the expectation of her failure made her only more determined to see her baby live. For although she had many reasons to wish that the child had never been conceived, never for a moment did she wish harm on her "little innocent".
When at long last the baby's cries were heard, the wild storm had eased and the sun was rising in the east, glistening golden over a pure, unblemished scape of snow - the first of the season.
Old Ma Evans had kept a vigil at her daughter-in-law's bed-side throughout the night. Now, as she held her tiny squalling grand-daughter in her arms, her ancient features creased into a tired smile, and she seated herself carefully on the bed by the exhausted woman's side.
"T'as snowed, love," she informed Alice quietly, her intonations coarsened by old age and hard living, " 'Tis a good omen, tha' knows, fer a girl to be born wi' the first snow. And d'you hear how loud she cries? She's a fighter, this one. She'll nowt give in, so don't you either. All will be well from now on, you'll see."
Alice Evans forced herself to open her eyes. She gathered all of her strength just to raise her head and look down upon the bloodied infant who lay wailing in the grandmother's arms.
"Beautiful..." She mumbled, then dropped her head back onto the pillow. "Where's... Tom?"
Almost before the words had left her lips, there was a scuffle of boots outside the door and her husband entered, ducking to pass his large frame through the door and shaking the snow from his clothes even as he approached her bedside. He barely acknowledged his mother or his new child - he had eyes only for Alice.
He took one of her slim hands in his burly fist, and gently pushed a stray strand of dark hair from her tired eyes. He was rewarded by a slight return of pressure. "Tom... You have a daughter..." She managed, breathing shallowly.
"You mean we have a daughter," He corrected her, trying to smile.
Alice rolled her head on the pillow to look into his face. She tried to return his smile, but they both failed. Deep down, they each knew what was happening.
Her eyes moved slowly over his dear features, from his weather beaten brow, now deeply creased with concern; to his nose, slightly crooked from a fist-fight he once fought in her defence; down to his mouth, that had she had so often seen stretched in an easy, gentle smile. He was not smiling now. A small tear sprang to her eye.
"Tom, I'm so sorry..." She murmured, "I'm sorry for how things turned out... I'm sorry that you loved me... I never deserved you..."
He bit his lip and shook his head. "Nay, stop this, Alice. You've nothing t' be sorry for."
"But I do..."
"What happened at the big house was not your fault, Ali." His voice was tight and determined. He would not hear anyone say otherwise.
Alice closed her eyes, and felt Tom squeeze her hand tightly in a silent plea. If she opened them again she feared that she would see tears in his eyes. She had not wanted to cause him any more pain. She wished she did not have to die - not for her own sake, but for Tom's. He was such a good man, and he had suffered so much already. And now she was about to hurt him again.
But a black weariness was seeping into her bones, and she was just too tired to fight it any more. "Tom..." Her voice was fading as the last of her strength leaked away, but she wanted him to hear the words he had spoken to her so many times... The words she knew he had always longed to hear her say, the words she had never felt able to return, until now. The end.
"Tom... I love you..."
And Tom could say nothing. His throat was painfully tight - his grief seemed to be choking him. He bowed his head over her hand, and pressed his lips fervently against the cool skin. His shoulders shook but he was silent.
Alice closed her eyes, and released a long breath that was almost like a sigh. And then she was still.
Ma Evans looked on, and when her son began to grieve, she placed the now quietening infant on the bed and took her daughter-in-law's other hand. It already felt cold. She suspected that Alice had only clung to consciousness for so long in order to see Tom one last time, and make her final absolutions.
"Alice?" She probed softly, after several moments of terrible, grief-stricken silence. There was no response.
Alice was gone.
ii.
Jessie Evans lay amongst the bed clothes of her mother's deathbed, unaware of the trauma she had caused, incapable of understanding the terrible loss she had already suffered in her short life. She waved her tiny fists in the cold morning air, unattended by her tear-blinded father and grandmother.
Alice was dead, but she lived on. Jessie began to cry once more.
iii.
Not five miles to the east of the tiny labourer's cottage, another building was echoing with the petulant cries of a new-born child.
And yet the atmosphere could not have been more contrary to the tiny, wind-blown cottage where grief and pain and tangled love twisted the very souls of the occupants. Here, red flames crackled softly in large hearths, filling all of the fine, spacious rooms with a luxuriant warmth which defied the howling storm outside. With the morning, the storm subsided, and the manor came alive with grinning servants bustling busily from task to task, all sharing in the happy news - Pemberley had an heir at last.
Above their heads in the Mistress' quarters, enveloped in warmth of their own creation, huddled the Master and Mistress. Mrs Elizabeth Darcy cradled in her arms the boy who would inherit all of the splendid grandeur that surrounded him, but the sleepy-eyed infant was no more aware of his fortune than Jessie was aware of her tragedy.
And outside, the sun glistened on the new-fallen snow. The storm had abated. A new day could begin.
Chapter 1 Posted on Saturday, 3 July 1999
We hear the rain fall, but not the snow. Bitter grief is loud. Calm grief is silent.
~AuerbachRevenge triumphs over Death; Love slights it; Honour aspireth to it; Grief flieth to it.
~Francis Bacon
i.
Mrs. Darcy was just leaving a small Lambton store when the funeral procession passed her by. It was a cold, bright day, and the winter had well and truly set in.
She paused respectfully, feeling suddenly guilty that she did not know who it was that had passed away. Her confinement had prevented her from interacting with the tenants as often as she had been previously used to.
Before her pregnancy, she had liked to be abreast of all the happenings about the village and the estate. Her husband often teased her about her 'gossiping streak', as he called it, complaining that he had not bargained on a meddling matchmaker for a wife when he had married her. She bore his taunts with good-natured retorts of her own, telling him pertly that she had not bargained on such a stick-in-the-mud for a husband, but did he hear her complaining?
The playful affection which existed between Mr. and Mrs. Darcy was often remarked upon by the servants, and consequently around the village. When, however, after three years of marriage, Elizabeth Darcy had still failed to produce an heir for Pemberley Estate, the gossip that circulated began to change its tone. Was the Mistress of Pemberley barren? Would the estate be entailed upon a son of Miss Darcy? Wasn't it a shame? Such a lovely couple, the Darcys. Likely the Master would take a mistress soon...
But then at last, after many secretly-shed tears and pleading prayers, Elizabeth's wish had come true. She had been able to take her husband's hand and whisper to him that they were to be parents by the winter.
Her confinement had seemed inordinately long and it was frequently uncomfortable, but even during the bad times she had only to look into her husband's eyes or place a hand on her swelling stomach to feel her blissful happiness overwhelm her once more.
And now that part was all over. She was eager to return to living her old life again, only now it was to be further enriched by the joy of her little son. She had been so absorbed in her own happiness that she had almost forgotten there were others in the world who were not living a fairy-tale.
That fact was brought home to her as she observed the tall, broad-shouldered man who trailed the pony and cart which carried a rough wooden coffin. It was difficult to tell his age. His build suggested a young man in prime, but he walked like an old man - shoulders bowed, barely lifting his feet, as if he were descending the steps into hell. Beside him strode a white-haired old woman, whose determinedly straight spine and jutted chin defied the limp which forced her to drag her left foot behind her, as if it were attached to a ball-and-chain. Both were dressed in deep mourning.
Mrs. Darcy frowned in genuine concern as she watched the tiny convoy pass slowly down the rough village street toward the cemetery. A plump, complacent-looking woman standing nearby caught the expression, and clicked her tongue after the disappearing procession.
"Aye, 'tis a sad business all right," she commented, wondering silently whether it was her place to say any more to the Master of Pemberley's pretty wife without being invited to do so.
Mrs. Darcy turned to face her, and inquired softly, "Who was it?"
Despite the tragic nature of the subject, the woman flushed with pleasure at the opportunity to enter into conversation with the Mistress of Pemberley. "Why, that was young Alice Evans, not yet one and twenty, poor lass. She was wife to Tom Evans, but they were very poor, so very poor..."
Elizabeth was a little confused. "Why, I thought I had visited all our poor tenants around Pemberley well before my confinement started, but I'm sure I never called upon a Mrs. Evans! How could that be?"
"Ah, that's a longer story, Ma'am. You see, Tom was born right here in Lambton, an' we've all known him since he was a wee tike, but not Alice. No one seems to know where she came from. Quite a mysterious business, actually. Tom just went traveling about the countryside, as young men are apt to do, leavin' his Ma and Da to tend the farm. Old Evans passed away not long after, and Old Ma Evans did the best she could on her own. Anyway, it must have been, oh, going on 7 months ago that young Tom arrived home again, an' he had a wife along with him. Surprised us all no end. And he was so besotted with her, oh it was a joy to see them. He would have walked from here to Town and back again, just to pick her a blade of grass she wanted, he was that in love."
The two women both turned back to gaze after the sad little funeral procession, but it was out of sight. The village woman sighed forlornly, and shook her head. " 'Tis a right tragedy, sure enough. I don't know what he'll do now that she's gone. What with the little baby and all. I just don't know."
"Oh no, did they have children?" Mrs. Darcy's tone reflected her concern.
"Aye, Ma'am, but just the one. That's how Mrs. Evans died - giving life to the little girl. Poor little mite. P'raps she'll turn out like her Ma, and be a comfort to her Da. Either way, she's got a tough life ahead of her. Old Ma Evans - that's the grandmother, you understand - is very capable for her age, but I don't know how much longer she'll be around. And it's hard for a little girl to grow up motherless. Especially when she'll likely have to work just to earn herself a bite of bread, from the moment she can walk. I hear Tom's run into trouble on his land, and I don't believe he has any interest in it a'tall now that Alice is gone. Everything he ever did was for her, Mrs. Darcy. Tain't right."
"No." Elizabeth unconsciously rested a hand upon her deflated stomach, and gazed blankly down the now bustling street in the direction the funeral procession had taken. "It is not."
Chapter 1 Posted on Tuesday, 6 July 1999
ii.
There was a heavy thump on the old wooden door of the cottage. Old Ma Evans looked up from the fire and shifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder, trying to relieve the stiffness in her muscles. Jessie mewed softly, but did not wake.
"Tom," she prompted. He was sitting opposite her, staring broodingly into the flames. He gave no sign of having heard her summons, or the loud knock. His gaze never flickered from the fire.
Ma Evans felt an inward pang of something almost approaching self-pity as she struggled to her feet to go to the door. She pushed the feeling back and punished herself with five brisk steps across the room, which made her tired bones burn, then opened the door. A cold draught swept into the little cottage as she squinted at the man who stood outside.
"Mrs. Evans? Is your son in?" He spoke with a slight local accent, but he had what she had often heard described as an 'ed-jacaited' voice.
"Aye, he's in all right," she acquiesced, "What is it you want?"
The man held out a folded white page sealed with a red wax crest. "Message from Pemberley, Mam."
Ma Evans stared at the proffered letter with undisguised suspicion. "A letter? From Pemberley? What's it say?"
The man shifted his weight impatiently. He had no desire to stand outside this god-forsaken cottage while a winter wind cut deep into his bones for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
"How th' divil should oy know wha' i' says!" He cried, lapsing briefly into a roughened local dialect in his impatience.
"Well, open it and read it then, boy!" Snapped Ma, with equal impatience, "For it's no use for anything but kindling in this place. Here, come in out of the wind if you must." She shuffled out of his way and he stepped into the relative warmth of the tiny cottage. She shut the door behind him.
"Ye can read, can't ye?" She demanded sharply.
"Aye, but - "
"Well, open it then, boy. Tom and me can't read much more'n our names. What does Pemberley want with us?"
The man clumsily broke the seal and unfolded the letter, the starched whiteness of the paper seeming out of place against the rough poverty of the peasant farmer's lodgings. He snatched a look at Tom, who still sat absorbed in his own dark thoughts with his back to them.
The messenger had heard of young Tom Evans' misfortunes, but disapproved of the man's relentless melancholy. In his mind, he ought to be delivering this important message to Evans himself, and not to some razor-tongued old woman with a babe against her shoulder, no less.
He shook out the page, squinted at the print, then began to read.
As he finished, and looked up again, he saw that Tom had raised his head at last, but was not looking at him. Instead, he was holding some kind of wordless argument with his mother over the words imparted to them.
There was a tense pause. Then Tom spoke, grinding out the words - "Nay, mother. We aren't abandonin' this land."
Ma Evans rocked the child in her arms a little tighter.
"Aye, Tom," She replied resolutely, "We are."
Tom's brow furrowed, and for a moment he looked as if he would argue. The stranger looked from one to the other, uncertain. Ma Evans turned back to face him. She nodded her head imperiously.
"Tell your Master... we accept."
Chapter 2 Posted on Sunday, 3 October 1999
Seven Years Later
A child is not a vase to be filled, but a fire to be lit.
~Rabelais
i.
The first rays of the sun were breaking over the eastern lakes of Pemberley estate. Spring was slowly merging into summer, and the much renowned gardens of Pemberley were vibrant with colour and scent. The early morning light glistened in the dewy grass, and apart from a solitary song-bird warbling softly from inside a hedgerow, all was still.
Almost.
Clink.
"Mary..."
Another pebble bounced off the window of the Game-keeper's cottage. At this rate, Jessie was going to run out of stones before Mary was woken up.
Clink.
Come on, Mary... Jessie begged silently. Hurry, or I'll be in trouble with your Mam again... Being 'in trouble' with Mrs. Hutchins, the Game-keeper's formidable wife, was not a prospect she relished, but nor did the threat deter her. It seemed that little Jessie Evans was always in trouble for one reason or another, and she had almost come to accept her state of perpetual strife as normal and an inevitable element of daily life.
Today, however, good fortune was with her, and Mary's sweet round face appeared at the window.
"Hallo there, sleepy-head!" Called Jessie, still taking care to keep her voice down, "Hurry up, yer missin' th' best part of the day!"
Mary rubbed her eyes sleepily, and peered down on her friend. "Jessie? It's awful early! What're y'doin'?"
"Why, wakin' you, silly! An' quite a job it was too. Well, are yer comin'?"
Mary hesitated. "I dunno if Mam'll let me. What about my chores?"
Jessie shrugged. "Do yer chores when we get back!"
For a moment Mary's sweet little face was scrunched up in indecision. At last she seemed reach a conclusion and abruptly disappeared from the window, emerging a few minutes later from the front door where Jessie was waiting for her. Very quietly, so as not to wake anyone else in the cottage, the two girls pushed the old oak door closed once more.
Jessie turned to her friend and grinned excitedly. Though the girls were young, they had all but grown up together, and Mary had learned long ago that when Jessie flashed that gleaming smile there was trouble to be had.
"What are we doin' today?" She asked suspiciously.
"Nothin'." Jessie's grin grew even wider. "How 'bout we run down to th' Pond?"
"What's at th' Pond?"
"I dunno. We could catch frogs."
"Last time we did that I got me skirts all muddied, an' Mam was awful angry."
Jessie laughed, and spun playfully on the spot. "Well, why don't we jus' run, then? I feels like running. Let's pretend we're flying!"
And without even waiting for a response, she threw her arms wide and began to run, raising her face to the sun and laughing still.
ii.
"Parry. Parry. Block. Thrust. Good! Now circle, circle. Block. Parrry. Thr - argh, you got me... You got me..." Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley and high-society gentleman, dropped dramatically to his knees in the grass, clutching at his heart, and then keeled forward and 'died'.
At thirty-eight, Darcy was reveling in a childhood more enjoyable than his original experience. His mother had died when he was nine, which had been a traumatic blow in itself. After her death, his father had become increasingly withdrawn, leaving Fitzwilliam and his baby sister to be brought up more or less by Pemberley's housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds - with the regular input of his mother's brother and sister-in-law, the Earl and Countess of Matlock, of course. Enormous responsibilities were heaped upon the boy's shoulders, and childhood was somehow left by the wayside.
Until now.
Lying sprawled in the grass in the early morning sunlight, Darcy compromised his 'dead' act and opened one eye to peek at his little son, whose giggling laughter threatened to infect them both. The young Master James Darcy was standing over his father, and the sun behind the boy turned his mop of dark brown curls into a glowing halo around his perfect face as he chortled in delight. His dark eyes sparkled excitedly.
Elizabeth's eyes! Thought Darcy, with an overwhelming rush of tenderness, Elizabeth's eyes, and in my face, I think. Dear God, may I live to deserve my blessings!
Climbing to his feet, Darcy picked up his son and swung him a quick circle. James squealed and laughed some more. Placing the boy back on his feet, Darcy ruffled his hair and reached down to reclaim his blunted fencing sword from where it had fallen.
"Another round, sir?" He inquired formally.
James' little face immediately became a mask of sobriety. "Certainly, sir." He replied, trying to imitate his father's deep timbre, but ruining the effect by lisping slightly on the 'C'.
Darcy grinned, and the fencing lesson continued.
iii.
When Jessie and Mary heard the laughter ahead of them, they slowed at once. The sound came from behind a nearby barrier of shrubbery.
"Who's that?" Demanded Jessie, apparently of herself. She quickly turned to follow the sound, but Mary caught her wrist.
"Don't, Jessie!" She warned, "That was Master James!"
Jessie's eyes lit up. "D'you think so?"
Mary nodded, and pulled on her friend's arm, trying to drag her away. "C'mon, Jessie. You said we were going to the Pond. Please don't get us into trouble with the Master."
Jessie held her ground. "I'll not get us into trouble, I only want t' look. Besides, it's not the Master, s'only 'is son. An' I's never seen 'im close up." She pulled free of Mary's grip and crept toward the hedge.
Mary's eyes widened in alarm. "You're not goin' to spy on the Master!"
Jessie beckoned without turning. Mary found there was little else to do but follow.
Peering through the shrubbery, they caught sight of father and son mock sword-fighting on the lawn about 20 feet yonder. Jessie had often seen Mr. Darcy around the estate, and had even been introduced to him once when he had stopped by at their cottage to speak with her father.
She had liked the gentleman, and actually told him so, but had later been severely reprimanded by her grandmother for her forwardness. Jessie didn't quite understand what she had done that was so wrong, though she tried her best, to please her father and grandmother.
Now, however, it was the boy who excited her curiosity. She had seen him twice before, once from a distance while on an errand to the Big House, and once as an indistinct outline inside his father's carriage as it passed through the gates at the Lodge. Everyone talked about him, though. Anything he did was remarked upon by the servants and tenants of the Darcy's - the people who made up Jessie's little world. They talked of him becoming their Master, some day. Jessie wasn't sure she liked the idea of having some little boy as a Master. She knew some little boys in the village, and they were horrible. They taunted her into fights, and just because she was a girl, she was always the one scolded for it!
She now looked upon this boy with considerable dubiousness. He was nice enough to look at, she observed critically, with his funny dark curls and his fine boyish features. Even so, she couldn't see anything extraordinary in him.
Mary, on the other hand, let out a long sigh when she saw the pair. "He's awful grand, ain't he?" She whispered dreamily.
Jessie frowned, without looking away. "Who, Mr. Darcy?" She whispered back.
"No, Master James, of course!"
Jessie glanced at her friend. "I don't see what's so special about 'im. 'E's just another boy." She sounded rather put out, as though she had expected something more. "Why does everyone talk about 'im s'much?"
"Jessie, he's goin' t'be the Master," replied Mary, in tones of shocked incredulity.
Jessie pouted. "I still don't see why tha' makes him special. I bet I could beat 'im at anything," she boasted wildly.
Mary, however, was not suitably impressed. "Jessie, quiet!" She whispered quickly.
Jessie looked back through the hedge. A junior footman was crossing the lawn toward them from the direction of the Big House. As the girls watched, he called out - "Mr. Darcy, sir," and the former let his sword drop to his side.
The two men conferred for a minute while James looked on anxiously. Then Mr. Darcy turned back to his son and Jessie heard him say, "I'll have to go with Simmons here, James, there's someone I must see. We'll finish this fencing lesson another day. Will you go up to the house and find your Mama, like a good boy?"
James looked crestfallen. "Yes, Papa," he sighed, and hung his head.
"James."
James looked up. His father would never lecture him in front of the servants, but the stern tone was reprimand enough. The boy stood up a little straighter, and tried to re-adjust his expression of disappointment to one of unchildish dignity.
"Can I stay out here, though, Papa? I'll take care of myself! I'm big enough. I'm nearly seven."
Darcy nodded rather absently. "I'll send someone out to keep a watch on you. Don't go far." And he turned to walk away, Simmons at his heels like a hound.
James watched his father leave, then sighed, a heavy sigh for such a little boy. He picked up his sword and made a few half-hearted swipes at a now imaginary foe. He lost interest quickly and dropped the sword into the grass once more.
Restless now, he walked over to take a handful a gravel from a nearby path, then selected a sapling oak as his target and began to throw the stones, one after the other. Six rocks flew wide, one clipped a twig - he wasn't very good at this. The fact was brought home to him in a rather startling way when a piece of gravel suddenly arced over his head, striking the tree squarely on the trunk with a firm 'thunk'.
He turned quickly. There was no one there. "Who threw that?" He demanded. "Who's there?"
There was a strange scuffling from behind a hedge. James heard a girl's voice say, "Jessie, no!" And then a child his own age ran out from behind the screen of shrubbery.
He stared at her in surprise. In the seven short years of his existence, he'd never seen anyone quite like this. The girl had wild, untied hair that gleamed like fire in the sunlight. Her eyes were bright blue, and quick, and defied him a way he didn't even understand.
It took him a moment to notice her clothes - they were rough and patched. She was a commoner then, but not a servant of the house, because he had never seen her before. His young mind was more than a little confused by this. If she was just a commoner, why wasn't she behaving like every other lower-class person he'd ever known? Why was she standing there with her hands on her hips, as though she were about to deliver him a stern dressing down? Weren't servants supposed to curtsy and look down a lot?
As he opened his mouth to speak, the girl beat him to it.
"Yer not much of a shot," she observed bluntly.
James blinked in surprise. He'd never had to contend with anything like this before. Annoyed, he lifted his chin as he had seen his father do when talking down to anyone unfortunate enough to have offended him.
"Who are you?" He demanded imperiously, "And what are you doing on my land?"
The girl only scoffed. "This ain't your land. This is yer Da's land."
"It will be my land."
"So?"
"So that makes you my servant!"
"Does not!"
"Does too."
"I'm not anybody's servant!" Jessie declared wildly, "Not even the Master's!"
James frowned. "Then why are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?"
"In that... thing."
Jessie looked down at her old brown pinafore, stitched and patched many times over. It was not much worse than what other village girls wore, but now that she stood opposite this proud little boy in his princely clothes, outfitted like a miniature version of his illustrious father, she felt the very first twinges of shame. She didn't understand why, nor did she try to understand.
"Me Gramma made it for me. I like it." She jutted her chin defiantly.
"It's ugly."
"So are you."
James was more than a little a taken back. "No I'm not!" He blurted indignantly.
Jessie regarded him with a look of profound speculation on her tiny face. "Yer got funny hair," she conceded at last, "But 'side from that I s'pose yer nowt too much uglier than me dress." The latter was admitted with grudging reluctance.
James shrugged. He didn't really care about her clothes, and a new idea was occurring to him. Although he had been given the impression that it wasn't quite right for him to be too friendly with the common children in the village, this girl insisted that she was no servant. So... The idea blossomed.
He was bored. He was lonely. The girl was interesting - not that that was a necessary credential. He was so lonely for company his own age that he was on the verge of making friends with a tree.
There was a pause as the pair regarded each other.
Then James put out his hand. "My name is James Bennet Darcy," He said. He expected to be given her hand, and then he was supposed to kiss it. He knew this was proper from watching his mother.
Jessie looked at his hand, then at him. She put her hand in his and shook it firmly. She knew this was proper from watching her grandmother. "I'm Jessica Alice Evans."
Their gazes locked solemnly, and something passed between them that acknowledged the chasm of custom dividing them, and bridged it with a thread of some indefinable recognition.
"Hello Jessica."
"It's Jessie. Call me Jessie."
Chapter 3 Posted on Friday, 8 October 1999
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of roses will hang round it still.
~Thomas Moore
i.
"Jessie!!" The roar echoed around the cottage and reverberated amongst the rafters. Jessie froze in the doorway, then turned very demurely.
"Yes, Da?" She asked softly, trying to peer up through her curls as she hung her head low.
Tom glared at her from the kitchen table, his wooden spoon half-raised to his mouth. "Where are you going?" He demanded.
Ma Evans turned silently from her chore at the side board to watch the confrontation.
Jessie's hands clenched in her skirts to stop them from trembling. "I've done all my chores, Da. I've fed the chickens, and tended the vegetables, and weeded the eastern flower beds. Just like you said."
Tom looked to Ma Evans for confirmation of this. The old woman nodded slowly. "She's been up a'fore dawn, Tom. She tells you true."
He looked back to Jessie, who regarded him warily from beneath a cascade of reddish curls. "And where did you say you were going?" He asked again.
Jessie answered slowly. "T'see Mary Hutchins..."
"And?" Tom's voice rose again.
"...And maybe..." She hesitated, "Maybe James Dar..."
"James?" Tom seemed to explode, "Oh, so it's James now is it? Tha' boy, young miss, is yer Master! You forget yer place t' go about callin' him by 'is first name, takin' liberties of all kinds!"
"But Da, Jame - Master Darcy likes me callin' him James!"
"Don't you answer back to me!" His fist pounded violently on the wooden table-top, and his plate clattered. Jessie cringed. "I've told ye b'fore, Jessica! I don't want you consortin' with the Master's son!"
"He's my friend!" She protested stubbornly.
"He's not your friend, he's a Gentleman! 'E's not th' proper company fer you, a gardener's daughter! A common girl, common as muck!"
"I'm not muck!" Jessie's lower lip trembled furiously. "I'm not muck, I'm just the same as James and Mary! Just the same!"
"Nah, girl, yer muck! I dinna why the Master allows the lad to knock about with muck like you and the Hutchins brat! 'S beyond me. Yer bred different to 'im. They's Gentry, see? T'aint right. Can't lead to nothin' but trouble."
"Da, there'll be no trouble. Mary and Ja... and Master Darcy and me, we jus' - "
"Why, you little... I ought to knock you from here to next week for yer back-chat - "
"That'll do, Tom." Very calm, very authoritative, Ma Evans knew when it was time to step in.
She turned to Jessie. "Go an' find yer friends, Jess, but don't disturb Master Darcy if he's in his lessons. Be back afore noon, for there'll no doubt be more chores fer y' by then. Yer Da's had a late night, he don't mean to yell at yer. Off yer go now."
Jessie shot a hesitant glance in Tom's direction, but although his gaze was full of threatening malignancy, he made no sign of stopping her. In a swirl of tears and curls she picked up her dress and ran out the door.
Once she was gone, Ma Evans turned slowly on her son who still sat glowering at the table. The old woman folded her arms across her chest and regarded him in silence for a moment.
"Y' were drinkin' again last night," she observed at last, "Weren't y'."
He looked up to try and match her flinty stare, but crumpled in seconds. The anger in his expression dissolved, and he slumped in his chair. With the rage gone out him, he was left broken and weary and old.
"What's th' use," He muttered, laying his face in dirty hands, "Th' brat don't listen to me." His voice dropped lower still. "There's too much of 'er mother in her. 'Er mother never listened t' me either. Not until i' was too late."
Ma Evans was surprised, though she took care not to show it. Tom never mentioned Alice when he could help it. She took a quiet step towards him, and reached out to place a gentle hand on her son's broad shoulder.
"And yet," She reminded him softly, "Y' did love her mother. Can't you find enough of Alice in Jessie t' love her too?"
"Love?" Tom's hand slammed on the table. "How can I love that girl? She killed Alice. If i' weren't for 'er, Alice would still be alive!"
Ma Evans snatched her hand back again, matching his anger.
"Thomas Evans, that's a fool's speech! These things are in God's hands, you canna blame a child!"
"I'll blame who I choose!"
"Then you are a fool! Alice is dead, Tom, she's been gone nigh seven years now. There's no blame to be laid. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."
Tom gave a single, derisory snort at his mother's uncomforting cliché, and dropped his face into his hands once more. After waiting a few minutes with no response, Ma Evans spoke again, more briskly.
"Well, in any case, yo' know what I think of your drinking. It's the Devil's trap, drink is. You're a good man, Tom. When you've not been on the brew, yer a fair father to Jessie. Not loving, but fair. Of course it's your love that she craves - "
"She's done nothin' to earn it."
"Earn it? She's a child, Tom! Children need love, but they ain't stupid, they know when it's there an' when it's not. She don't understand - she can't understand what she's done to kill your love! But if love's the one thing you're determined not to give her, well, more the fool you. There ain't nothin' I can do about it. It's jus' when you drink that y'change for the worse. You don't jus' hurt the lass, y' frighten her!"
"I still say she should be forbidden from seeing that boy. T'ain't right, I tell y'. Why do 'is parents allow it?"
"The Darcys 'ave been good to us, son. If they see fit fer their son t' be friendly wi' our Jessie, then who're we to argue, or forbid the girl t' see 'im? We've the Darcys to thank for all that we 'ave, so don't ruin all our lives by throwin' th' lot away to the demon drink."
Tom gave a bitter, muffled laugh. "The demons aren't in the drink, Ma. They're in my head... All day, all night, even after all these years. I can't forget... She won't let me forget."
"That ain't true, Tom! Alice would want you t' let go. She'd want you t' love yer daughter. She wouldn't want t' see you like this."
"If she hadn't died, I wouldn't be like this..." He whispered, brokenly.
Ma Evans winced a little at this uncommon exhibition of the raw pain that still burned inside her son. She knew there was no more for her to say.
Very slowly, Tom raised his head, but he did not look at his mother. Instead, his gaze focused beyond the doorway through which Jessie disappeared only minutes before.
She traced his tortured stare, but saw nothing, and when she turned back to face him again his expression was stricken, haunted by some terrible past that would not leave him in peace.
"It's happening again," he whispered at last, "You mark my words, Ma. It's happenin' all over again."
ii.
Elizabeth sat motionless before her dressing table, staring sightlessly at the image of herself in the three-piece mirror. Absently twirling a chestnut curl around her index finger, she contemplated her life. Next month she would be thirty-one. How old that sounded. Had it really been ten years since a nervous young bride had first crossed the threshold of Pemberley Manor?
Apparently so. Ten years. She shook her head, and smiled wryly. Where did the years go? She eyed her reflection a little more critically. She still looked well. Perhaps her eyes were not quite so bright as they once were, but that was to be expected. Elizabeth Darcy had known her share of grief. Unconsciously, her hand drifted down to rest against her stomach.
If only...
The sound of laughter awakened her from her reverie, and she recognised it as her son's. Pushing to her feet, she crossed the room to stand by the large bay window.
On the lawn below, a complex game of hide-and-seek was unfolding. The little red-haired girl pressed herself against a tree, hidden from the view of the blonde girl who was apparently searching for her friend. A moment later, her own son dashed into view, clasped the wrist of the red-curled one, and they both laughed together as they ran to throw themselves behind another hedge, with the blonde child in hot pursuit.
Elizabeth smiled wistfully to herself, remembering the days when she had played such games with her sisters in the gardens at Longbourn. Lydia had always cheated when she was supposed to be keeping her eyes shut, but Lizzy had been able to outrun her anyway. The memories were growing blurred about the edges now, but in her head, the sound of her sisters' youthful laughter echoed, like the muffled tinkling of faraway bells.
Elizabeth's smile faded a little as she remembered that there would be no more generations of Bennets inventing games in the parks at Longbourn. She wondered dryly if the Collins children ever played. She doubted it. They seemed unfamiliar with any concept outside the realms of Fordyce's Sermons.
And now the Bennet family was scattered wide into the four winds... Elizabeth toyed briefly with the locket at her throat as her expression mellowed into one of sadness and introspection. Kitty's death at twenty-four had been a tragic and unexpected blow, and Elizabeth still lay awake some nights, wondering at the senselessness of it. Why Kitty? Her lively, good-natured, pretty young sister had had so much to live for. She had married a gentle, middle-aged Colonel, and given birth to two daughters before losing her life during the birth of her son, Michael.
Mr. Bennet had outlived his middle-daughter, but only just, having gone to God three winters past. Strangely, Elizabeth had found it easier to accept her dear father's death than she had Kitty's. Of course, there was the fact that Papa had been old, and though she was stricken by his passing, she knew that he had been ready to die. Kitty had been young, with everything to live for. That was an obvious source for sorrowful wistfulness, but Lizzy sensed it went deeper than that. Perhaps it had something to do with guilt. She had always been close to Papa, but with Kitty there was a strong sense of regret. I should have written more letters. I should have visited her more often. I should have been a better sister. I should have loved her more...
If only...
Lizzy shook her head to dispel the disturbing reflections, but she could not be free of them entirely.
With Mr. Bennet gone, Elizabeth's husband and brother-in-law had arranged for her Mama to be settled in a small cottage within walking distance of the Parsonage where Mary lived with her four young children and her sombre clergyman husband, Mr. Barnes.
Lydia and her rogue husband were only God knew where, but her children had numbered six at last count. Jane was the happy mother of eight, living comfortably with Charles on a small estate not too far from Pemberley.
How strange life was, how strange the tricks it played.
Jane, Mary, Kitty Lydia... even Charlotte.
Elizabeth sighed and placed her fingertips against the cool glass, lost in thought.
If only...
"Mrs. Darcy."
She started violently at the sudden voice behind her.
"I'm sorry, my dear, I didn't mean to startle you."
Elizabeth relaxed again, and smiled without turning around.
"I thought you were out inspecting the West's farm today." She said softly as her husband moved to stand behind her.
"It didn't take so long as I thought it would." He replied, winding an affectionate arm about her waist and kissing her neck. "What were you thinking about?"
"Oh, everything. Nothing. Something in between."
"How very enigmatic. Why do you not - " He broke off as his eyes fell on the lawn below them. The three children had tumbled back into view, arguing and laughing boisterously.
Elizabeth tensed almost imperceptibly as she turned her face to look at her husband's, awaiting his reaction. His forehead was creased in a sudden frown as he stared down at the scene unfolding below.
"Is that our son?" He demanded tersely, as a boy with a thatch of brown curls threw himself recklessly into the fray, "It is! That's James down there, fraternising with the servants! He knows better than that." Darcy abruptly released his wife from his embrace. "I'll send Smithers down to fetch the boy, and I'll speak to him." He made to turn away, but Elizabeth caught his arm and he looked back.
"Fitzwilliam, let him be." She said softly.
Darcy scowled, disapproving. "Did you know that this was going on?" He demanded.
"Yes," she replied, still speaking very quietly as she released his arm and turned back to face the window once more. "I did know..."
Darcy was somewhat at a loss. Something was wrong - this was not the Elizabeth he knew. But he didn't know how to interpret this subdued, melancholy behaviour. It was so very unlike her. Concern and confusion outweighed the anger in his voice as he reached out to touch her chin, gently tilting her face to meet his gaze.
"Then why did you not say something?"
"About James and the servant children?"
"Yes. You knew I would not approve. How could you conceal something like this from me? Why?"
Elizabeth's eyes, as usual, were her most effective tool of expression. "Fitzwilliam," her voice was pleading, "Fitzwilliam, he's so lonely. He's so lonely that I've seen him invent friends, people that don't even exist. He has you, I know, and you're a wonderful father - he worships the ground you walk on... But he needs friends his own age. Every boy does."
"But my dear, surely not the servants? What's wrong with... his cousins? What about the Bingley children? Or even Lady Catherine's grandson. They are far more fitting company for the future master of Pemberley. It's not right that he should mix so openly with the common children. They can't possibly create a positive influence on him."
"Jane and I played with our housekeeper's little girls before they moved away."
"Yes, my love, but that was..." Darcy hesitated, searching for the right words.
Elizabeth rescued him, smiling humourlessly. "Different. I know. Well, what about Wickham? You were friends with Wickham, he was only the son of your father's steward."
Darcy's expression darkened immediately. "Yes, and look where that got me. In any case, there is a considerable social gap between the son of a Steward to a great estate and the daughter of a peasant-turned-gardener. The classes were not designed to mix, Elizabeth."
'Then why did you marry me?' The sharp response was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back with considerable restraint. She certainly did not wish to enter an argument on the ethics of a class-bound society with her proud husband. It was a topic which carried with it far too many uncomfortable memories and strained undercurrents. She loved her husband dearly, and she knew that he loved her, and when sleeping dogs slept soundly, she chose to let them lie.
"Dearest," she said patiently, "I do agree that it would be wonderful if the Bingley children could visit more often. They would make excellent company for James. But you know as well as I do that now Jane is expecting her ninth, Charles doesn't like to risk traveling about the countryside with her."
Elizabeth looked away and swallowed hard at a sudden lump in her throat. "Of course... If I'd been able to have more children..." Her voice cracked.
With a sudden stabbing pain in his heart, Darcy recognised at last what had created this unfamiliar sobriety in his wife's demeanour. And there was absolutely nothing he could do to make things right.
Feeling utterly helpless, he opened his arms to her and she fell into his embrace, clinging tightly to his coat lapels as she drew a shuddering breath. She began to speak, stumbling and faltering as the words tumbled out.
"I wanted to give you ten children, I wanted to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect Mistress! I never wanted it to be this way. I don't understand. What's wrong with me, William? Jane and Mary and Kitty and Lydia - even Charlotte! They never had this problem, it's just me! I'm wrong. I thought I could do anything, but I can't do the one thing... Can't have the one thing...
"Other women have babies so naturally, so easily... They speak of it in the drawing rooms after dinner... They even complain, some call it their curse - how can they? Don't they know...? And sometimes they remember about 'me' and there is always this moment of silence as they realise, and then they change the subject... And I'll sit there pretending nothing's wrong, pretending I didn't notice, but all the time I've got this miserable, choking feeling inside... I don't understand... All I wanted... How come... Why am I..." With her face pressed hard into his chest, she squeezed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to contain the tears that welled behind her eyelids.
Darcy held her against him and stroked her hair, soothing her gently with soft hushes. Finally her sobs seemed to subside and he pushed her back a little so he could look into her eyes.
Her teary gaze met his serious one, and he rested his hands on her shoulders as he spoke, softly and firmly. "You must stop thinking like this. You can not blame yourself, Elizabeth my love. It is not in our hands. And besides, have you forgotten our son? Our wonderful, perfect son? He's the most beautiful child ever placed on the earth, Elizabeth, and you gave him to me. You did. In a thousand years I could not ask for more happiness than I have with you and he."
Elizabeth sniffed and wiped hurriedly at her tears. "I know. I know, I'm a fool, and I ought to be grateful for what I have... And I am - every day, I thank God for James. All I want is for him to be happy... and yet everyday, I've seen him grow more and more lonely, more and more serious, less and less of a little boy. By rights, he should have half a dozen little brothers and sisters to share his childhood, but that's the one thing I can't... I can't..." She shook her head, and tried again.
"William, if you'd only seen his face when he was telling me about this little girl. Suddenly, he was... he was so excited. Instead of the boy with nothing to do but grow up too fast, he was finding out what childhood is all about. So you see the way I feel about this. If the little girl can make him happy, then I'll not stand in his way, I'll not order him to stay lonely."
Darcy's brow creased in thought as he turned back to the window, to look down upon the children tumbling on the lawn. He twisted the ring on his little finger as he stood deep in thought. After a few moments, he asked, "Who is the girl?"
Elizabeth answered, still fighting the thickness in her throat, struggling for control over her emotions. "Her name is Jessica Evans, she's the daughter of Tom Evans."
"The Head Gardener?"
"Yes. Do you remember? Mr. Evans' plot was doing poorly, he'd just lost his wife and he and his elderly mother had the new baby on their hands, so I asked you to offer him a position here. It was just after James was born."
"I do remember. He began as undergardener, didn't he? A very capable man... And now that we come to discuss it, I believe I met the child once. She shook my hand and looked me right in the eye to tell me she liked me. Can't have been more than six at the time. So, that's the little girl saved by your mercy mission, is it? No wonder you've a soft spot for her."
Elizabeth smiled very slightly. "I'll confess, I do have a soft spot for her. She occasionally runs errands for her grandmother up to the house. She's a charming child. A little wild, perhaps, and I don't know that she'll ever be a beauty... She reminds me a little of myself, I think, when I was a little girl. All fire and innocence..."
"That was you when I married you, too."
"Not any more, though?"
"Well, you've still got the fire..."
He grinned very briefly when his wife shot him a look of mock indignation, then his expression became serious once more. After some minutes of silence, Elizabeth asked again. "Well, you know how I feel. What are you going to do?"
"I know what it is to grow up lonely..." He murmured, then stopped, and considered his reply once more.
Finally, he spoke again, more decidedly.
"I believe I agree with you, Elizabeth. I can not say that I like the idea of my son consorting with the servants' children, but... Well, I know the father to be an honest, hard-working man, and you say you approve of the little girl...
"I will not interfere with them. I know, better than anyone, that it is hard for a child to grow up without company. James knows the difference between right and wrong, and they're only children, after all. What harm could come of it?"
Elizabeth rewarded him with a bittersweet, teary smile. Darcy half-returned it, and moved to hold her close.
Locked in one another's embrace, they both turned their heads back to the bay window and stood together in pensive silence, watching the children play.
Chapter 3
iii.
My dear Nephew,Do not assume that since I have condescended to respond to your much belated missive that you are forgiven. Your transgressions are too great to be overlooked. In fact, the only purpose of this letter's being penned is to share with you some news in which may incite your interest, and, I have no doubt, your regret.
Though you may have chosen to disgrace your family with certain reprehensible behaviour, there remain those who know the true meaning of good breeding and class. My daughter, Miss de Bourgh, is engaged to be married to an exceedingly fine young peer of the utmost caliber in wealth and nobility. I expect you have heard of him - his name is Maxim Rutherford, though no doubt you will be more familiar with his formal title - Lord Cauldwell of Castleden Park.
The date for the ceremony is set for early Autumn, to allow for Anne's allergies and ill health. I have decided to relent and permit your attendance, but I would request that you make the journey unaccompanied by any less desirable guests...
Darcy's eyes flicked to the date, inscribed in the corner of the letter. Eight years back. He folded the page without bothering reading the rest of the pompous nonsense. Though he now maintained a cool correspondence with his Aunt, she had never entirely forgiven for his marriage to Elizabeth, and there was little love lost between the two of them. Checking the date again, he placed the letter on the pile that contained the rest of his correspondence from that year.
Although his business affairs were always in perfect order, Darcy had not realised just how lax he had become with regard to the organisation of his personal correspondence. This rainy afternoon at Pemberley seemed the perfect opportunity to sort through the drawer in which his letters had accumulated into astonishing volumes. He had begun the daunting task with stolid determination, but now, though he was almost at the end, he was beginning to grow tired and more than a little nostalgic.
His hand drifted back to the folded pages penned by his domineering old aunt. Age had not improved her, he mused. She was as formidable and difficult as ever, though now she had better reason.
Anne's death had been hard on her.
For the umpteenth time, Darcy wondered if his sickly, retiring young cousin had ever wanted to marry Lord Cauldwell. He considered it unlikely. Lord Cauldwell, from what Darcy remembered of him, was a brash, intimidating and reckless young rogue whose love of wine, women and gambling was rivalled only by his love for his own reflection. He could not imagine Anne falling for such a callous rake, nor could he picture the handsome, brash young man seriously courting his small, plain, sniffily cousin.
Darcy had not attended the wedding, but he had forwarded polite good wishes to the bride and groom, and deliberately signed them "Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy."
Leaning back in his chair, he wondered whether he had made the right choice by not attending. If he had only known that it would be his last chance to see his cousin, ever... Well, he would have done things differently.
Anne Rutherford, Mrs. Maxim Rutherford, the Lady Cauldwell had not lived to see her first wedding anniversary. Incredibly, her arrogant husband had seen her with child before they were married six weeks, then with appalling insensitivity to his sickly wife's delicate condition, he left her at Rosings to attend the London Season and live exactly as he had before his wedding.
Anne, whose health had always been precarious, endured her confinement growing every day weaker and more wretched. Yet the child forming within her had no intention of letting go. He sapped his mother's strength and continued to do so right up to the day of his birth. His lusty squalls were the last sound his feeble, exhausted mother heard before she lost consciousness for the last time.
Darcy sighed, overtaken by a sudden sense of inexplicable sadness. He no longer had the heart to carry on with the tedious tidying.
He pushed back his chair and stood up, paused, then went to find Elizabeth.
Chapter 4
Many have fallen by the edge of the sword: but not so many as have fallen by the tongue.
~Ecclesiasticus.
i.
"No good'll come of it, you mark my words, Jenny. You mark my words." Ruth Hutchins pounded the dough viciously, as if to prove her point.
"Ah, I canna see th' harm in it." Jenny soothed with characteristic complacency as she built up the kitchen fire with fresh logs. "They's only kids, Ruth, after all."
From the other side of the kitchen, Maggie Jones, the vixenish new scullery maid, threw in her own two-bob's worth with a lewd laugh - "If you ask me, th' little lass has th' right idea. She's gettin' 'er feet nicely under th' table!"
Ruth Hutchins turned on Maggie, swelling with ominous indignation, "And wot d'yer mean by tha', exactly, young woman? I surely hope yer not suggestin' tha' my Mary is - "
"Cor, no!" Interjected Maggie hurriedly, "No, not your daughter, Mrs. Hutchins. I meaned the Evans girl." Mrs. Hutchins imposing bulk seemed to diminish a little as her indignant rage dissipated, and Maggie relaxed again. "I mean," she continued blithely, "Th' young Master is goin' t' want a mistress someday, ain't he? So th' clever little chit is gettin' 'er claws in early! Not like she 'as any other prospects, after all. I don't blame her!"
"Now, Maggie, that ain't fair," Jenny's motherly voice was faintly scolding. "She don't 'ave an easy life, she don't need you spreading such things about her. How can you go about smearin' the girl's reputation 'fore she's even seen seven summers?"
Characteristically, Ruth cared little for continuing the moral rebuke and dived upon the opportunity to gossip. "Her life ain't easy, well that's fer sure! 'Ave you 'eard about her father? Bit of an over-fondness for th' bottle, y'understand. Mr. Hutchins says he hears 'im on when 'e's on patrol at nights, shoutin' and crashin' about the cottage."
Jenny began to arrange silver tea condiments on a tray, pursing her lips in mild disapproval. "Mr. 'utchins may be the Game-keeper at Pemberley," she said primly, "and 'is nightly patrols might make 'im privy t' many odd happenin's around the estate, but I don't see that he it gives 'im the right t' go about repeatin' people's private affairs. In fact, since th' woods are in the south, I don't see what 'e's doing near the Evans' cottage t'all." With that said, she picked up the tray and swept out of the kitchen.
Ruth stared after her for a moment, then gave a haughty sniff and went back to kneading her dough. A bell rang on the wall, and with a mild curse, Maggie ran out to attend to it.
ii.
"James!!"
Jessie came tearing into Master Darcy's school room without knocking, and nearly tripped over a chair in her clumsy haste. As usual, she righted herself just in time and came to a surprisingly graceful halt in the middle of the room.
Three heads turned towards the source of the ruckus, and Jessie fought back a deep blush as she realised what she had interrupted.
"Cor, I'm sorry, I didn't... I mean..." She bit her lip. "I'll leave."
Suddenly possessed by an instinct she couldn't explain, she dropped into an unpolished and yet curiously graceful curtsy. "Excuse me, Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Taylor, Master Darcy." And then the moment was over and she scampered for the door.
She was detained by a cool voice calling her name. "Jessica."
Jessie turned back, head bowed in nervous subservience - a stance she adopted out of habit from dealing with her father's rages. "Yes, ma'am."
Elizabeth regarded the child thoughtfully, with her head cocked to one side. "Come here, dear," she requested kindly. Jessie hesitated only briefly before complying. She kept her head lowered, just in case.
"Did your grandmother teach you to curtsy like that?" Mrs. Darcy inquired when Jessie stood before her. The girl's head jerked up, red curls bouncing, as she looked from Elizabeth to James. James shrugged slightly, and in consternation her gaze shot back to Elizabeth again. The question had thrown her - it was not the line of questioning she had expected.
"N - nay, Ma'am."
"Then where did you learn it?"
"I jus'... knew... ma'am. I'm awful sorry ma'am, I didn't mean..."
Elizabeth smiled. "Don't sound like that, you're not in trouble. There's nothing to be afraid of."
Jessie's chin jutted immediately. "I ain't afraid of nothin'." She stated bluntly.
"You mean, 'I'm not afraid of anything'." Mrs. Darcy corrected automatically, her smile broadening.
Jessie's eyes lit up and she repeated the phrase correctly, imitating Mrs. Darcy's genteel accents exactly. Elizabeth was quite impressed.
"Are you needed by your grandmother, Jessica? Come and sit by me then. I often sit in on James' lessons - I learn all sorts of fascinating things my Mama never intended me to! I never even had a Governess, you know. I learned what I could from my father's books. But it's never too late to improve one's education, and Mr. Taylor here is a fine Tutor."
The white-haired old gentleman nodded coolly in acknowledgment of the compliment, but Jessie immediately sensed that he was not at all pleased by this unseemly addition to his lesson. Elizabeth noticed it too, and understood Jessie's hesitation. To put the girl, at ease she smiled and winked conspiratorially.
And at that moment, Jessie's unquestioning adoration of the kind, beautiful Mistress was secured.
She climbed into a chair beside Elizabeth, and sat with her feet dangling, grinning cheekily at James. James grinned back, delighted that his friend was to share his lessons.
With a haughty sniff, Mr. Taylor tapped the boy's slate to recapture his attention. He then cleared his throat and carried on with his instruction in English history, refusing to even glance at the bright-eyed little upstart who had invaded his lesson and compromised the dignity of his post. He was a scholar of the highest calibre, sought after by wealthy families all over the country. He was not some village school-teacher, educating every little pauper who wandered in on his lessons!
Well, at least he could console himself with the certainty that he would not have to endure the stigma too long. The little urchin would never be able to keep up with his lessons, she would lose interest and disappear back into the scullery, or wherever it was she had sprung from.
From the corner of his eye he snatched a glance at the girl, half-expecting to see her eyes already clouding over. Instead he was presented with a picture of rapt attention, as Jessie hung on his every word in a rather disconcerting manner. Inwardly he frowned, and felt the first flicker of doubt.
Elizabeth was also stealing glimpses of her little favourite. She saw the light of intelligence and interest in the girl's bright blue eyes, and smiled quietly to herself.
James, as ever, reveled in her presence, and was delighted by the prospect of sharing his lessons with his friend.
But Jessie didn't see any of them. She was too enraptured by the flower that was blossoming in her life even as she listened and watched. The flower with the addictive perfume, which pervades the senses and transports the mind. The flower called Knowledge.
It was at this moment, perhaps, that her future was decided.
Chapter 5
Seven years later
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And, hark! what discord follows.
~Shakespeare
i.
Jessie sat cross-legged on the warm stones before the fire-place, her head bent intently over an apron which she was mending. Her hair hung loose in a wavy curtain, obscuring her face. It had darkened a little in the past seven years, but in the flickering fire-light the red-gold glints danced like flames.
Tom sat a little further back from the fire, ensconced in his favourite old arm chair, regarding his progeny with a pensive expression. The years do fly, he acknowledged sadly to himself. Fourteen years. Fourteen long years... And now look at the girl. When did she grow so tall?
He couldn't help feeling a niggling sense of regret, as though he had missed something. The girl who sat before him on the hearth, just as she had done every evening of her life, seemed tonight a stranger to him.
She seemed to sense his gaze, and looked up briefly, flicking her long hair back over her shoulder. Her eyes met his momentarily, but she did not smile. Instead, she looked away quickly and shifted slightly, as though he made her uncomfortable.
And with a sudden angry, sinking feeling, Tom knew that he was right. The girl was a stranger to him, and always had been.
Why? He had been fair to her, hadn't he? Fed her and clothed her all these years. He had even allowed her to carry on with those ridiculous 'lessons' up at the Big House, against his own better judgement. Hell, he'd not even struck the child half so often as she'd deserved it!
Tom would have carried on for some time with this silent, wronged tirade, had not a blurred memory returned to him. The image was distorted from whatever it was he'd been drinking at the time, but somehow is brain had retained it. He saw his own palm raised threateningly above a cowering child... and of a blow that had never fallen, only because he could not - even in a drunken rage - bring himself to strike the image of Alice that he saw when he looked in the girl's eyes.
A sudden thunking on the door caused Tom to jump, jolting him suddenly from his shameful reflections. Jessie looked up too, and threw her darning aside to scramble coltishly to her feet and answer the knock.
Ma Evans, who had also been working silently by the fire-side, raised her head to watch her grand-daughter cross the room. She already suspected the identity of their evening caller, and was not surprised when her suspicions were confirmed by the young Master's voice.
"Hello, Jessie. Are you coming for a walk tonight?"
Jessie dashed back into the cottage to grab her old coat. "Is it all right if I walk out with James, Ma?" She asked, already making her way back toward the door.
Ma looked to the boy in the doorway. He met her gaze earnestly. "We won't be long, Mrs. Evans, you have my word." He did not address Tom. The strange antipathy between the man and boy had been established many years back, and these days there existed between them nothing but an unchallenged coldness.
He looks more like his father every day, Ma thought fleetingly, then nodded her assent. Both of the young people flashed her charming smiles, then turned even brighter grins on one another. And now I think about it, mused Ma, regarding the pair reflectively, The young lass is not as plain thing as we thought she'd be. No great beauty, to be sure, but with that smile... How old is she now? Thirteen? Fourteen? Seems there's something of Alice in her after all. I wonder if...
A moment later, the pair had taken their leave, but Ma did not return to her work immediately. For a few minutes, her gnarled old hands lay still in her lap. Her eyes were not what they had once been, but her perception did not stem from sight alone. What ever it was she sensed, however, she could not define it.
With a barely inaudible sigh of uneasiness, she picked up her darning once more.
Chapter 5
ii.
Jessie and James walked side by side along the lake, while the summer day faded into dusky yellow twilight. They often strolled the whole way around the east lake without speaking at all, simply content in one another's company. Other times, they found they had a hundred things to talk about, and each was certain that no one on earth knew them better than the other. Topics both serious and light-hearted could be shared with the certainty of being understood.
Today, however, James noticed that a tiny crease was showing between Jessie's eyebrows - a sure sign that something was on her mind. As they walked, she seemed less buoyant than was usual for her. Her mood was pensive, and for the most part silent.
"I had a letter from Simon this morning," remarked James conversationally, pulling a leaf of paper from his pocket as they walked.
Jessie tossed a pebble that went skipping over the surface of the lake. It bounced four times before sinking. James smiled.
"Show off," he teased gently. He was rewarded with a small smile, which disappeared as quickly as it came.
"Simon who?" Asked Jessie, though she did not really sound as if she cared terribly much.
"You know, my cousin Simon. Simon Cauldwell. You did meet him once - we were about eight at the time though."
Jessie wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I remember Simon Cauldwell well enough," she informed him, "He called me 'girl' and pushed me out of his way. He was a horrid boy."
James shrugged a little awkwardly. "He does tend to be... abrupt. Papa says that comes from his father. I get the impression Papa doesn't like Lord Cauldwell. And I also think that my great aunt Catherine disapproves of Mama. She's awfully rude to her, but Mama always has something clever to say in return. You should see them - Aunt Catherine always comes off second best!" James paused, but Jessie said nothing. "Anyway," he continued, "That's why they visit so seldom. I've never even met Lord Cauldwell, and I don't think Simon sees him often either."
Still Jessie passed no comment. Now James was truly concerned.
After a pause, he spoke again. "What is it, Cub?" He inquired softly, using a long-established nick-name in a vain attempt to elicit another fleeting smile, "What's bothering you?"
Jessie did not answer straight away. For a long moment, she kept her face turned away, staring out across the lakes. Then she sighed, and noticeably squared her shoulders as she turned back to flick a look at James' face. Whatever she saw there gave her the assurance she needed and she began to speak.
"I'm sorry, James. I suppose I must be unpleasant company when I'm like this. It's just I've... Well, I've been thinking about my mother a lot lately."
Jessie fell silent once more, and they walked on without speaking at all for a several minutes. At last she continued.
"Sometimes... I just wish I knew what she was like. You know, when I was a little girl, my grandmother would sometimes tell me stories about her. But Gran doesn't approve of too much grief. She says hardships are our lot in life, and that they are sent to trial our worth. But I don't think she knows much in any case. My mother wasn't born in Lambton, you see. She came from Kent somewhere, I think. Da knows of course, but he refuses to speak of my mother. I think it pains him too much."
Jessie sighed, and James waited patiently for her to continue, sensing her need to talk uninterrupted tonight. She rarely spoke to him of her home life, but James had observed enough to give him a fair idea of the kind of treatment she endured from her father. It had made him furious, over the years, to see Jessie's loving heart crushed again and again by the bitter, unfeeling gardener.
"He wasn't always as he is now, you know. Every now and then, I catch Gran watching him with such a sad look in her eyes. I'm sure that when he was younger, he was happier. When my mother was alive... She was very beautiful, you know. And sometimes I..." She hesitated for a moment, and snatched another look at James. The familiar warmth in his compassionate dark eyes dissolved the last of her restraint, and the words came tumbling out.
"Sometimes I think - 'It's my fault that he does not love me, because I killed her, I killed my own mother, no wonder he hates me so much...' "
"Oh, Jessie..." James whispered soothingly, and stopped walking to pull her close into a comforting embrace. "It's not your fault. You know it's not your fault..."
Jessie gripped the lapels of his coat and squeezed her eyes tightly in an effort to repress the tears that burned behind her eyes. She felt his hand on her hair, but his gentleness only made her cry harder.
"Shhh... It will be well, Cub, you'll see... Shhh, now..." James' voice was soft but his face as he looked out over Jessie's curls was as hard as stone. Damn Tom Evans. Damn him to Hell. He hated the man for what he did to Jessie, and hated himself for being helpless to make things right for her.
He held her close until her breathing calmed, then maneuvered her free from his embrace to look into her eyes. He cupped her face and wiped away her tears with his thumbs. She gazed back at him with shifting blue eyes, dark with sadness. Without saying a word, he placed one arm about her shoulders and she placed hers about his waist, deeply grateful for his touch and understanding. Very slowly, they walked on through the deepening dusk, together.
Behind them, unnoticed and unattended, a twig snapped in the undergrowth. A shadowed figure rose out of a crouch and stepped onto the path. The watcher stared thoughtfully after the retreating couple, who were just rounding a bend in the walk, arms entwined, then set off purposefully in the way they had come.
Chapter 5 Posted on Friday, 29 October 1999
iii.
"James."
Hearing his name, James paused on the stairs and turned.
"Mother," he smiled at her, and hurried down to where she stood waiting at the foot of the wide mahogany staircase.
Elizabeth Darcy, at the age of thirty-six, still appeared as fresh and lovely as she had at twenty-six, especially when her face softened and glowed as it did whenever she was looking at her son. He adored her shamelessly, and she him.
As James arrived before her he bent to kiss her hand in his usual extravagant gesture of affection, and straightened up with a grin. His expression changed instantly, however, as he noticed that she was not returning his smile. There was a strain about her dark eyes and something in her expression caused his heart to pound in sudden concern. "What is it?" He asked urgently.
Elizabeth regarded her son intently, her fine forehead lined with concern. "I do not know, dear, your father would not confide in me," she replied, apparently with some difficulty. "He wishes to see you though, and I feel it is a matter of some weight he wishes to discuss."
James frowned. "He would not confide in you?"
She shook her head, indicating that it had disturbed her too. Her husband told her everything, unless he was truly angry at her, and that was a state of affairs so rare as to be almost non-existent. It certainly did not bode well for James.
James reached the door of his father's study with a slightly sick feeling of premonition in the pit of his stomach. He pushed it back and squared his shoulders, knocking briskly.
"Enter."
James did so, and found Darcy standing with his back to the room, hands clasped behind his back and staring fixedly out of a window onto the grounds beyond.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" He inquired, after a pause.
His father did not answer for a moment, then said in a slow, cool voice, "Look above the mantelpiece, James, and tell me what you see."
James' eyes flicked up to the wall. A fine wooden board in the shape a shield bore the simple design of a rose crossed with a sword against the backdrop of an ancient oak. "The Darcy crest." He replied, bemused at being asked to state the obvious.
"Yes. What does it mean to you?"
James, more confused than ever, lapsed into a recital of the creed which had been fixed in head in early childhood. "The rose for love and beauty. The sword for bravery and honour. The oak for nobility and strength. Why are you - ?"
"The oak," Darcy interjected firmly, "For nobility and strength. The Darcys are a noble race, James. We draw our strength from our nobility, and our nobility from our strength. You were born a Darcy, and you alone will carry on the Darcy name."
He turned, and met his son's questioning stare with dark sobriety. "You have been raised to understand that someday you must become Master of Pemberley, but perhaps you have not yet apprehended that your blessing is also your curse. Your inheritance of honour and wealth is accompanied by certain duties and sacrifices which must be made to maintain the purity of the line, and of the Darcy name."
"I still do not understand, sir. Why - "
"No," again, his father interrupted him, raising his voice for the first time, "No, I do not understand! How is it that you can have lived the way you have lived, been raised as you have been raised, and still not understand where certain boundaries lie!"
Comprehension was dawning as James absorbed the tirade. "Jessie!" He whispered. "This is about Jessie, isn't it?"
"No, this is not about 'Jessie'!" Darcy raged, "This is about the peasant-gardener's daughter with whom your acquaintance is widely rumoured to go beyond casual friendship!"
James recoiled. "You can't seriously be placing weight in such rumours! You don't think I would - that we would - "
"Of course not! Good God, the very thought! No, I am angry that you even allowed room for the stories to start. Even if you were both to behave like saints, a close relationship between a rich young aristocrat and a servant girl can not help but attract attention - inevitably the wrong kind."
"Father, we've been best-friends since we were six years old..."
"And that must not be allowed to continue! We allowed you to mix in company below your proper social standing when you were a child, but you shall be fifteen next year, and the time is long overdue for you to put such liaisons aside and take up your proper place in society."
James was incredulous, and his own voice grew heated. "You speak as though she were not even a real person! Jessie is not some childhood toy to be tossed aside the moment you decree that I ought to have outgrown her, father!"
"She may be a person, but she is not one of us James! You must understand that there is a difference - a boundary that can not be ignored and can not be crossed!"
"No! No I do not understand that! Jessie is my friend and I will not give her up simply to silence a few empty-headed village biddies - "
"Do not contradict me, James!"
"But I - "
"James." There was an icy anger in his father's voice which he could not ignore.
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of James' heavy breathing as he struggled to restrain his frustration, and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
When Darcy spoke, his voice was quieter, but still ice-cold, "I have spoken. Heed what I have said, and do not seek out the Evans girl again. Your liaison ends here, today."
James raised his head in a stance of uncommon defiance. He met his father's unfaltering gaze and for the first time, his youthful eyes glittered with rebellion. Turning on his heel, he left the room with a conspicuous lack of courtesy and slammed the door behind him.
Elizabeth met him in the corridor, but he brushed past her without a backward glance. Hurt and fear stabbed at her heart as her worried gaze followed him as he stormed out of sight, and then she turned again to look at her husband's door, which remained closed.
Knocking hesitantly, she received no response for several long minutes. The silence was heavy with meaning.
Putting a hand up to her forehead, she resisted a sudden urge to burst into tears. It was an uncharacteristic impulse, but lately her emotions had been frighteningly unstable and she had never before witnessed such a rift within the heart of her beloved family.
Why? She wailed inwardly. But deep in the recesses of her mind, she knew exactly what it must be - she simply didn't want to confront it. This was a storm that had been brewing for seven long years, and not even Elizabeth knew what damage to expect.