Chapter 36 The Darkness of Pemberley
THE DARKNESS OF PEMBERLEY
“Elizabeth, dear.” Aunt Gardiner touched my shoulder. “Can you wake?”
I blinked at the covers of the inn’s bed. Bright sunlight streamed through the window.
I had been delivered back to the inn after midnight by coach, the tykeworm curled on my lap and a shaken Mrs. Reynolds seated across from me. Four armed footmen rode outside.
Mrs. Reynolds’s explanation to the Gardiners was muddled in my memory.
“How is Mr. Rabb?” I asked. My head ached.
My aunt bit her lip. “Mr. Darcy is here. He hopes to speak with you. He will wait while you dress, if you are well enough.”
I sat up, hair hanging in a confused mess. “Yes. I will be down shortly.”
My aunt touched my chin, turning my face toward her. The memory of Mr. Darcy touching my cheek returned.
“Oh dear,” she said, lips pursed in concern.
“Is it bad?”
“You look like you fell off a horse.”
“How delightful.” I sighed. “Well, I do not like to ride, so this spares me the trouble of falling off a real horse.”
I expected a smile, but my aunt only kissed my forehead and left.
I found my looking glass. Impressive. My cheek was a remarkable purple, and my lip cracked and swollen.
But I was alive. A bruise was nothing. How was Mr. Rabb?
I threw on a petticoat and traveling dress, and twisted my hair into a scrambled tangle that could be pinned. Then I joined my aunt, uncle, and Mr. Darcy in the inn’s small parlor.
Mr. Darcy rose when I entered, his eyes widening.
“I am well,” I said, anticipating his question. “It is only a bruise. How is Mr. Rabb?”
Stillness spread before he spoke. “Mr. Rabb died last night. I told you then. You were very affected.”
I sank into a chair, the morning sunbeams swimming behind tears. A murky memory of crying before returned, and of Mr. Darcy’s pained, grieving face. “I remember. I am sorry to ask you again.” I sat until I could speak again. “Did you kill the monster?”
“Whoever shot him escaped.” Mr. Darcy had chosen a chair a respectable distance from me. My aunt and uncle were in the farthest two seats.
“Shot him?” I said. “He was attacked by a foul crawler.”
Mr. Darcy straightened in his chair. “He died from a gunshot. But there were other injuries. You did not say this last night.”
I wet my lips, and my cracked lip twinged. “I was not myself last night.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “We saw no sign of such a creature, so it must have fled. I will not keep you from your recovery. I wished to be sure you were well, and to deliver this.” He held out a small brown-glass bottle.
A folded paper was tied to the neck. “This is the medicine, the extract of rowan flowers. It should slow the progression of disease in your sister. My apothecary wrote instructions. Each dose is small, so this will last six weeks.”
“This is miraculous. I cannot sufficiently express our gratitude.” I turned the bottle in my hand, watching the white surface tip. I drew a breath to ask how to get more, then let it out. He had been so generous that I feared I knew the answer. That six weeks was more than enough.
“We must leave immediately,” I said.
“Of course,” Mr. Darcy said. “My sister sends her best wishes for you and your sister.”
“Thank her for me.”
He nodded. The room was silent.
My aunt cleared her throat. “Lizzy, you received an express letter from Longbourn. I did not wish to press you to read it, but if your business with Mr. Darcy involves Jane’s care, perhaps you should look before he departs?”
I had not seen the letter on the table, addressed in Mary’s angular hand to the inn we had planned to visit in Taddington, then forwarded. That had added days.
I picked it up, frightened it was terrible news. But it could not be the worst news of Jane. Papa would write then.
I broke the seal and read, first with puzzlement, then shock. “What…”
My aunt was beside me. “What has happened?”
“Lydia has… escaped from Brighton. Has eloped with Mr. Wickham! Oh, she cannot be such a fool.” I read on.
“She left a note saying they are running to Scotland to marry.” A girl of sixteen could not marry in England without her parents’ consent, but Scottish law was notoriously free about such things.
I checked the date. If they had traveled north from Brighton, they would be past London by now. Perhaps even in Derbyshire. Lydia could be within a few miles of me, though I would never know.
My aunt seemed more confused than horrified. “Was not Mr. Wickham the officer you admired?”
I forgot I had mentioned him in my letters. “No! Well, yes. But then I did not. Wickham is despicable. Aunt, you do not understand. An elopement would be terrible enough, but I doubt even that. I do not believe he will marry her.”
“Lydia would not be so foolish as that,” my aunt said.
“Not by design. But she is quite foolish enough in practice.”
“But she would be ruined.”
“Not just her,” I said. Our entire family—all Lydia’s sisters—would be shunned by society. Stained by one sister’s transgression.
“Lizzy.” My aunt hugged me. Comforting me.
“It is not me! It is Jane. I had hoped—” I stopped, not wanting to admit my pathetic fantasy that Mr. Bingley would sweep back and marry Jane so all would be well. But if Lydia was ruined, no gentleman would marry a Bennet sister. Particularly not a wealthy man of social standing like Mr. Bingley.
“You are assuming the worst—” began my aunt bracingly.
Mr. Darcy interrupted. “Wickham will not marry your sister.” He was standing, taut with fury.
Mr. Darcy’s terrible history with Wickham rushed into my mind. The attempted elopement with Miss Darcy. The confrontation with Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy took an angry step, his boot thumping the floor. “Wickham will marry only to bind draca. He has ruined women before. If they are traveling together, in secret, it is impossible that she will be… it is impossible she would bind on their wedding night.”
Lydia had no marriage gold. That alone crushed any hope of binding. And if their nights were already intimate, even a proper marriage would fail to bind.
My aunt was looking between Mr. Darcy and myself, a new concern dawning as she saw Mr. Darcy’s furious reaction.
“I am sure you desire my absence,” Mr. Darcy said bitterly.
“Or that I was gone before you opened your letter. And I have my own business to attend. I will not torment you with vain hopes in this grave affair. But I offer my sincerest wishes to your sister Jane.” He was already reaching for his hat.
“Wait,” I said. “I wish to speak with you.”
My words came out unthinking, a remnant of the resolve I had built at Pemberley before the interruption by thieves.
Mr. Darcy stopped, his hat, a topper of black silk, clenched in his hand. He did not look at me.
“Come,” my aunt said softly to her husband and pulled his arm. They left, my uncle looking back in confusion before his wyfe closed the door.
I was alone with Mr. Darcy.
But I had nothing to say. The fumbling words I had pieced together while wandering the halls of Pemberley could no longer be uttered. Not after the news of Lydia.
Into the silence, Mr. Darcy spoke, almost whispering. “You will be a great wyfe.”
“What?” I said uncertainly.
He looked at me, startled, and a flush heated the angry pallor on his rigid cheekbones. He stammered, “You will be a great dragon wyfe. Your skills mark you as a great wyfe.”
This was not why I had asked him to stay, but it was too interesting to ignore. “Mr. Rabb spoke of the great dragon wyves, but they are unknown to me.” Mr. Rabb’s name caught my throat, so the rest was hoarse.
Mr. Darcy’s throat worked also before he replied.
“Rabb was the first to tell me the story. The great wyves were three Scottish noblewomen who fought the English many centuries ago. So long ago, it was not even England they truly opposed. But English rule outlawed their story. The great wyves are a forbidden legend now, but still told in secret in the north.”
“But you know of them. Can you help me comprehend my ability?”
He shook his head. “I only recognize it. I understand the other wyves better.”
“Other wyves?”
“The three great wyves had different skills. Since their death, those skills have never been seen again. Not until our lifetime, when the three skills returned in three new wyves.”
“Who?” I said. Already I thought of Miss Darcy.
“My mother was the wyfe of healing. Her abilities woke when she bound, and when I was of age, she confided in me. My sister is the wyfe of song. You have seen her skills… some of her skills. And the third…” he nodded to me.
“You think I am the third wyfe?” I said. “This sounds like mysticism. Prophecy.”
“I am no mystic, and there is no prophecy. But for whatever cause, the three wyves appeared together once, so it is reasonable that they would appear together again. Their skills are named in their legend.” He recited:
“To sound our claim,
the three wyves came:
Of healing, wise.
Of song, who cries.
Of war. Arise.”
My eyebrows squished dubiously. “If your mother was the wyfe of healing, and your sister is the wyfe of song, this seems more unlikely.” His dark eyes watched me. “You claim I am the wyfe of war?”
“You command unbound draca. You are fearless.”
“I assure you I am quite fearful. And small and timid.” Mr. Darcy gave an incredulous laugh. How rude. “Is this why you proposed? To complete your set of wyves?”
“Of course not! I knew only that you were brave and—”
I held up my hand. “Stop.” My feelings were confused enough without hearing a recitation of imaginary virtues.
What I had planned to say last night could no longer be said. I took a deep breath. “I understand this alters our situation.”
“What alters it?” His voice had become dangerously soft.
“Wickham. With Lydia. The worst outcome is that she is ruined. Even the best is that they marry.” To call that “best” made my stomach curdle.
“Why should that matter?”
“Because you hate him. Because your sister could not bear to be near him.”
He flinched like my words burned, then pushed a hand through his tousled hair. “You said ‘this alters our situation.’ Had we a situation to alter?” My answer would not form, trapped between my heart and my head, and he rushed on. “Every night, I recall each word we spoke. I—”
“Stop!” I turned my back, gasping into my hands over my face. “What am I to say? Jane is dying. Lydia is lost, and with her, all prospects for my sisters. I have one duty. Rush home and comfort my family through disaster.”
His voice came behind me, much closer. “There could be a miracle.”
I laughed bitterly at the wall I faced. “You promised not to torment me with vain hopes.”
“You perform miracles. Why not deserve one?”
I turned to him. “You are not helping!”
His right hand still held his hat, but his left was outstretched, a few inches from my face. He started and stepped back, then a step farther. “Of course. You are correct.”
“If you understand what is happening to me—what these abilities are—have I any ability to help Jane?”
“To my knowledge, no.” He hesitated. “My mother could have cured her.”
“Can you not think before you speak? Why say that!”
There was a tearing sound. His expensive hat collapsed in his hand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I cannot think while seeing you hurt.”
“Hurt? Who cares if I am hurt? I came here to cure Jane.” I held up the bottle he had given me. “You have helped, even if it is no more than a few gracious days of delirium. But I have achieved nothing.” I searched the mysteries piled in my mind. “What is special about Pemberley lake?”
“The lake? Nothing.”
“There must be something.”
“Some call it Pemberley lake, but it has a Gaelic name. An treas piuthar. The third sister.” His eyes were distant. “There are two sister lakes. Larger lakes. Pemberley has the smallest sister.”
The smallest sister. Like me. I laughed at myself for grasping at coincidence. “What is the ‘darkness of Pemberley’? Mr. Rabb was disturbed when I mentioned it.”
Mr. Darcy backed a step. “You have seen this?”
“Yes. There is nothing around Pemberley. When I search, it is a void. Dark. Empty.”
His eyes were wide. His complexion became ash.
“You must go.” His voice was rocks falling on glass.
“What?”
“Leave. Never return to Pemberley.”
“That is insane.” The rational part of me was saying this did not matter. Deeper, my heart was screaming.
“Go. Leave now.”
He spun and was gone, running, the door yawning behind him. I heard an exclamation from my uncle in the hall, then boots on the stairs. The inn door slammed.
His hat was left, twisted to shreds on the floor.