Chapter 21 Unreliable Witnesses
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
UNRELIABLE WITNESSES
Elizabeth and Georgiana strolled through the kitchen gardens, where an elderly woman sat on a bench in the weak late-autumn sunshine, her gnarled hands busy with mending.
From her weathered appearance and the comfortable way she occupied the bench, Elizabeth guessed she was a long-serving retainer, perhaps retired but still connected to Pemberley.
Georgiana’s face lit with affection. “Molly! How lovely to see you taking the air. I’ve brought someone to meet you—this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a connection of Uncle John and Aunt Rose.”
The old woman looked up with faded blue eyes that still held keen intelligence despite her advanced years. “Miss Bennet, is it? Well, now, that’s a name with history at Pemberley. Come sit by me, child, and let me have a proper look at you.”
Elizabeth settled herself on the bench, studying Molly’s wrinkled face. The woman had the kind of age that suggested she had seen everything at least twice and retained opinions about most of it.
“You’ve the look of family about you,” Molly pronounced after a thorough examination. “Something in the eyes and the way you hold your head. Though whether it’s Darcy blood or Bennet blood causing it, I couldn’t say for certain.”
Elizabeth’s heart quickened at this casual observation from someone with no apparent motive to flatter her. Either she truly resembled her supposed parents, or the power of suggestion was remarkably strong.
“You knew my aunt Rose?” she asked, trying to keep her tone merely curious rather than desperate.
“Knew her well enough, though she wasn’t here long.
Sweet girl, full of life and opinions, though not always ones the family appreciated.
” Molly’s expression grew thoughtful. “Old Mr. and Mrs. Darcy came around to loving her, especially after the baby. That child was the apple of everyone’s eye. Sad business with the fire.”
“Did you ever see… did you happen to be present during the fire?” Elizabeth asked, unable to maintain the pretense of casual interest.
“Said it was an accident.” Molly wiped her wrinkled face.
“But I never believed it. It was a wet August, full of thunderstorms. Course, there were tensions. You know family disagreements. Master John, he had strong feelings about right and wrong, didn’t like some of the business arrangements his brother was making.
Said there were better ways to prosper than getting mixed up with… certain types of people.”
Molly glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers, then lowered her voice. “Traffic coming in and out. All political. High taxes, you know, and Master John, he was worried about the family name being connected to such activities.”
“And Martha Wickham?” Elizabeth asked carefully. “What do you remember of her during that time?”
Molly’s expression grew complicated. “Poor Martha. She’d lost her own babe just before coming to work at Rose Cottage—stillborn, it was, after she’d carried nearly to term. Made her fiercely protective of little Elizabeth Rose, sometimes more than was welcome.”
“More than was welcome?” Georgiana echoed.
“Oh, she meant well, but she’d fuss and worry over that baby something dreadful.
Wouldn’t let Miss Rose do things her own way, always hovering and correcting.
There were words between them more than once about who should decide the child’s care.
” Molly shook her head sadly. “Martha had so little left after losing her baby that she poured all her mothering into little Elizabeth. Natural enough, but it caused friction.”
“Didn’t she have a son?” Elizabeth reminded.
“Ah, yes, little Georgie.” Molly’s eyebrows furrowed. “Always getting into trouble, that one. He was often with his father, tagging along on estate business.”
Georgiana’s face soured at the mention of George Wickham. “What happened the night of the fire?”
Molly’s expression grew grave. “Terrible night, that was. Martha came running to the main house, screaming that Rose Cottage was ablaze and everyone inside was lost. Took three men to calm her down enough to get the story out of her—she said the smoke was too thick, the flames too fierce. She tried to reach them, but…” The old woman shook her head.
“Poor soul was beside herself with grief.”
“She said everyone was lost?” Elizabeth pressed.
“Aye, all three of them—Master John, Miss Rose, and the baby. Martha blamed herself fierce for not being able to save them, especially little Elizabeth. Said she should have been sleeping in the nursery instead of…” Molly paused, catching herself.
“Instead of what?” Georgiana asked with innocent curiosity.
“Well,” Molly said reluctantly, “there had been talk that Martha was keeping company with someone she shouldn’t. Thomas Rumsey, the butler. He was dismissed not long before the fire for… irregularities in his conduct.”
“Wait, so Martha didn’t rescue the baby?” Elizabeth felt her heart drop to her stomach. If Martha hadn’t saved Elizabeth Darcy, then it meant she was lying now, using Elizabeth as an imposter.
“Said the flames were too thick.” Molly shook her head. “They found the bodies of John and Rose, but the baby was too small. Must have turned to ash. Although I’m a cook, and well, a roast just doesn’t turn to ash without burned bones.”
Both Elizabeth and Georgiana shuddered at the imagery.
“But Martha didn’t leave Pemberley, did she?” Elizabeth asked. “Even though that butler left?”
“Oh no, dear. Martha was married to Ralph Wickham, the Pemberley steward.”
“My grandfather was still alive,” Georgiana said. “So Ralph must have worked for him.”
“Your grandfather had suffered a fall and could not walk,” Molly said. “Your aunt Rose tended to him day and night. Your uncle John went to the magistrate.”
“Whatever for?” Elizabeth found it difficult to follow Molly’s story.
“The contraband,” Molly said. “Silks from China recorded as muslin. But not my place to speculate about my betters.”
“Uncle John might have discovered something that put him in danger?” Elizabeth pressed.
“Might have,” Molly agreed noncommittally. “Or he might have enjoyed his cups too much. A philosophical one, friendly to a fault, but head in the clouds.”
Her father was a drunk? Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Georgiana, who shrugged.
“Where’s Mr. Rumsey today?” Elizabeth asked.
Molly glanced around furtively and shrugged.
“I suppose he’s found another situation.
Current butler is Mr. Furgate. Been there twenty years.
You look just like her, your aunt Rose, but you got that Darcy chin.
Dainty with rosebud lips and spirited eyes.
Not like those Bingley girls, overly tall and horse-faced.
Set their sights on the Matlock boys, they did. ”
Elizabeth suppressed a laugh at the description of Charles’s older sisters.
“You mean my Fitzwilliam cousins?” Georgiana asked. “Augustus and Richard?”
“Probably, but the Bingleys are from trade, and not all that savory. Blackguards, all.” Molly’s eyes grew blank as she stared into the past. “Your uncle John was too good for this world. So was your aunt Rose. God always takes the best people home first.”
“Yes, that is often the case,” Elizabeth said sympathetically.
“Whose daughter did you say you are?” she asked Elizabeth, blinking as if she hadn’t been introduced. “You have that look about you.”
“I think Molly needs her rest now,” Georgiana interjected gently, noting the old woman’s increasingly wandering attention.
They bid Molly farewell and continued toward the house, Elizabeth’s thoughts in turmoil. Two bodies, not three. And Martha’s strange behavior.
“What do you make of that?” Georgiana asked as they entered the cool dimness of the servants’ corridor.
“I hardly know,” Elizabeth admitted. “It contradicts everything I’ve been told, yet raises more questions than answers.”
“The stillroom should be along this passage,” Georgiana said, guiding Elizabeth through the warren of corridors that comprised Pemberley’s service areas. “There’s another elderly servant, Mrs. Winters.”
They found the stillroom filled with the pungent scents of drying herbs and simmering preserves. A thin, severe woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a tight knot stood at a work table, methodically crushing lavender flowers in a mortar.
“Mrs. Winters,” Georgiana said, “this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She’s researching her family connection to the Darcys.”
The woman looked up, her pale eyes narrowing as they fixed on Elizabeth’s face. “Bennet, is it? Rose Bennet’s relation?”
“Her niece,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Her brother is my father.”
Mrs. Winters set down her pestle with deliberate care. “You’re looking for information about Miss Rose and the baby.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Elizabeth admitted, surprised by the woman’s directness. “Anything you might remember.”
“I remember plenty, Miss Bennet, but I doubt you’d believe half of it.” Mrs. Winters wiped her hands on her apron. “Miss Rose was a lady of strong convictions. She came to me often for remedies—not for herself, mind you, but for tenants’ children or village women in difficult circumstances.”
Another glimpse of my mother’s character, Elizabeth thought with growing warmth. Compassionate and practical, it seems.
“Were you here the night of the fire?” she asked.
Mrs. Winters’ mouth tightened into a thin line. “There was no fire.”
Elizabeth blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me correctly, miss. There was no fire—at least, not one that consumed three bodies as we’ve been led to believe.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened. “But the cottage burned to the ground! Everyone saw it.”
“The cottage burned, certainly, but it was empty when the flames took hold.” Mrs. Winters’ voice was cold and certain. “I know because I saw Master John and Miss Rose myself that very night, leaving the estate with valises and the baby wrapped in blankets. They were fleeing, not dying.”