Chapter 11 Lady Catherine’s Story
Lady Catherine
At the sound of boots striking the wooden floor, I did not question who had invaded my solitude—it had to be him. I raised my head, meeting the blond man’s gaze. “How did you know those lyrics? Forty years ago, a gentleman averred he had written the words for me. Had that been a lie?”
“No, Lady Catherine. Captain Weston spoke the truth.” Mr. Graham’s voice had a soft, soothing sound, almost akin to a lullaby.
He knows—it is impossible—yet he knows. My hand covered my mouth.
“Captain Weston wrote those lines to express his undying love for you. I chose to sing them in celebration of another mutual love that is no less deep and enduring, that of Darcy and Elizabeth.”
I lifted my head to meet his steady gaze. “But how could you know all this?”
“How I acquired this knowledge is not the material point. I have a gift—you might call me a seer. I had a second compelling reason for using that particular poem. I wished to remind you of who you used to be and what you once believed in before you turned your back on love.”
How dared he? My hands curled into fists. “That is not true!” After several ragged breaths, I endeavoured to moderate my voice. “I would have loved James for the rest of my days, but he died and left me bereft and broken.”
Tears formed at the corners of my eyes. “James and I met and fell in love the summer I turned nineteen years old. We wished to marry, but my father refused to consent since James’s family had lacked wealth or advantageous connexions.”
With trembling hands, I raised my handkerchief to my face.
“James had been in the Royal Navy since his youth and had earned five thousand pounds in prize money. Between that and my thirty-thousand-pound fortune, we could have led a comfortable life together. However, my father insisted we wait until James earned an additional ten thousand pounds. He allowed us to have an understanding and write to each other, but we had no official engagement.”
Setting my soiled handkerchief on my lap, I smoothed and folded the fabric.
“James expected to earn the additional prize money within a year or so. Before he departed, we pledged our love and eternal commitment to each other, and he read the poem to me. As much as I hated to part from him, I had believed we should meet again within a year. But six months later, he and his entire crew perished in a storm off the coast of Lisbon. I had nothing left of him, save his letters, his beautiful poem, and the memories of our time together that summer.”
“When Captain Weston died, you forsook everything he stood for, everything you both agreed to value in life. You consented to a marriage of convenience to a man of your father’s choosing.”
“Without James, I had no further hope of a love match, so what difference did it make?”
“Sir Lewis de Bourgh married you with the best of intentions. He spent years trying to please you and earn your love. But your heart remained as untouchable as though it had been frozen in ice. Perhaps in your own misguided way, you meant to remain true to Captain Weston by denying your husband any affection. For a while, you even attempted to restrict yourself from loving your daughter.”
Every part of me tensed. “You have no right to pass judgement on me! You do not know how I felt when my hopes and plans with James were shattered. It was all so unfair!”
“Well, I cannot think it equitable that despite his efforts, Sir Lewis suffered through a loveless marriage. And what of Darcy and Elizabeth? Why do you continue to punish them for having fallen in love? You have demonstrated a peculiar obstinacy in clinging to your resentment of Elizabeth. What is the explanation for this? Could it be because you are blinded by jealousy? Are you not envious of Elizabeth and Darcy for sharing a love reminiscent of the one you had for a fleeting time with Captain Weston?”
My mouth hung open in a useless state. Could he be right?
Mr. Graham placed his hand atop mine. “Do you suppose Captain James Weston would approve of your recent conduct towards the Darcys?” He glanced at the vacant space to his right. “The captain is here with us now.”
“You must be mad.” A growing fever pulsed within me, and goose-flesh rose upon my arms. Perhaps I needed to question my own sanity, for the room had altered in an evanescent yet undeniable way: the air seemed to be charged with electricity, and a soft breeze cooled my skin as though a new presence had joined us.
I stared into Mr. Graham’s blue irises. “No, I do not believe this.”
His eyes closed. “Captain Weston is grieved that you guarded your heart in order to prove your loyalty. He had hoped you would seek another love match. Since you chose to marry Sir Lewis, he wished you had embraced the union and attempted to be happy with him. The captain is gratified to see the improved health and vitality displayed by your daughter, and he hopes you will support her future endeavours. He is disheartened by the actions you took against the Darcys. He recognises that their love burns with a bright flame, just as yours and his did.”
This could not be real, and yet… I swayed in my seat as a wave of dizziness afflicted me, and a long-dormant portion of my heart stirred. James, are you truly here?
“Captain Weston is anguished to have had so little time with you, and he anticipates meeting you again in the afterlife. He is showing me a particular spot at your family’s estate where you and he often spent time together—a small glade near a sizable oak tree with a view of the River Derwent.
He urges you to return there, for you will feel closest to him in that place.
If you do so, he will endeavour to provide a sign of his presence.
” Mr. Graham opened his eyes and removed his hand from mine.
The room altered again to the dull, ordinary place it had been before—my dearest James had gone.
Now, though, I had a means of finding him again.
I wrapped my arms around my middle to steady myself.
Mr. Graham could not have known about that place at Bellwood Hall unless he and James had communicated.
My finger traced the initials “J W”, embroidered in a close, ornate style on the corner of my handkerchief.
“I have given you a great deal to contemplate, my lady. I shall leave you now.” He rose.
“Mr. Graham.”
“Yes?” He offered a pensive smile.
I lifted the folded handkerchief and pressed the cloth to my heart. “Thank you.”
He gave me a reverent bow. “You are welcome, my lady.”
Graham
I returned to the music room to find Darcy’s friend Mr. Bingley seated alone and staring into a glass of port.
Throughout the day, I had detected several interesting meditations from the gentleman, despite never having trod nearer than a few feet from him.
At my approach, he flinched and almost spilled the liquid in his glass.
“Ah, Mr. Graham. Everyone else has retired, but if you would like to join me in a drink, I should welcome the company.”
“Indeed, yes.” I poured myself a healthy portion of port and settled into a seat near him.
“Is this your first visit to Pemberley?”
“Yes, I have been living in Calabria. The culture there is quite disparate from England.”
“Oh? How does it differ?”
“One significant variance is the prevailing view towards adultery.”
His head snapped up towards me, and a slight tremor afflicted his hand. He set the glass down in a hasty, jerking motion.
Ah, the man wore his heart upon his sleeve. I sipped the liquor. “This port is excellent—so rich and delicious. Do you not agree?”
“What? Oh…um…yes, Darcy’s port is very good.”
“Now what was I speaking of? Oh yes. In the neighbourhood where I live, men do not conceal their mistresses, and the local society places no stigma on such illicit affairs. In contrast, Englishman are expected to show more discretion. Notwithstanding, even in Calabria, keeping a mistress opens one up to certain risks.”
Mr. Bingley straightened his back and sat at the edge of his chair. “What sort of risks?”
“Besides the possible consequences of creating an unwanted child or contracting what the English like to call ‘the French disease’, a married gentleman who takes a mistress often creates unhappiness and jealousy. I am aware of several cases in which a jealous lover has committed murder in a fit of rage.”
A forced, humourless laugh came from him. “Such extreme occurrences must be rare. I have not heard of any instances such as you described reported in the newspapers in recent memory, and yet countless gentlemen in England keep mistresses.”
I met his gaze with a sombre aspect. “In many of these cases, the deaths are reported as accidents or illnesses to spare the families involved from scandal.”
The colour drained from his complexion. He rubbed at the back of his neck, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “Even so, those who would commit such extreme crimes must have been prone to violence. A wise gentleman would avoid such people.”
“In certain cases, violence is not provoked until the person is faced with deception and betrayal from the one person they loved and trusted above all others. In those poor souls, their anger is often overshadowed by the tremendous anguish they feel.” Pshaw, now that we arrived at the heart of the matter, his mind closed up like a clam.
I must take action to obtain more information.
I pointed to his hand. “That is an unusual signet ring. May I take a closer look at it?”
“Yes, certainly.” He pulled the gold band off and gave it to me.
I palmed the offering, then held it up for my inspection. A flood of knowledge and images became available to me before I returned the ring. “You may be unaware of this, but I have a gift that allows me a particular form of insight into people. So, I am in a position to provide pertinent advice.”