29. The Hidden Chamber
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE HIDDEN CHAMBER
Elizabeth had barely written the invitations when Prue Duntze’s pattens clattered up the front steps, where she had no doubt slogged through the mud left by a fractious Derbyshire shower.
She shook off her cloak and surrendered her pattens to the Jamison, who bore them away at arm’s length as though they had personally offended him.
“I came as soon as I heard,” she announced, her tone suggesting that the French had landed at Dover. “Hannah told the post boy who told our cook, who told my mother, who told me at breakfast—though I suspect Mother intended it as disapproval rather than information.”
“What exactly is the tale being spread?” Elizabeth set aside the estate correspondence she had been reviewing.
Prue patted Elizabeth’s arm. “Why, the fact that your husband gave you the keys to the entire kingdom.”
“And good afternoon to you, too, Miss Duntze,” Elizabeth said dryly. “How delightful of you to call.”
“Oh, do not be proper with me.” Prue waved away formality as she might wave away a persistent fly. “We are past that, surely. You sat on a nursery floor and speculated about parish registries with me. We are practically confederates by now.”
Prue had battered her way into Elizabeth’s trust by sheer force of pattens, and Elizabeth, who made a habit of keeping friendship at arm’s length, found herself unexpectedly warmed by her irrepressible enthusiasm.
She inclined her head and set aside her quill. “Very well. Tea, or shall we dispense with that as well?”
“Tea would be lovely. I am parched from the walk, and Mother’s chocolate this morning was thin as water.
” Prue settled into the chair opposite Elizabeth, letting out a breath as she tugged her stays.
“Now, tell me everything. Is it true you have access to the strongroom? The wine cellar and Lady Anne’s jewels? ”
“Mrs. Reynolds has been most thorough in her orientation.” Elizabeth rang for tea, privately entertained by the speed with which news darted along the invisible trails binding great houses to parsonages.
Hannah, she supposed, would need a gentle reminder about discretion, though she doubted such advice would prove any more effective than instructing Harley to leave the slippers unmolested.
Still, Prue showed no sign of knowing anything about Little Tom’s parentage, so Hannah’s discretion, at least where it counted, remained intact.
“And Mr. Darcy simply handed you the keys before departing for London?” Prue leaned forward. “Miss Entwhistle is beside herself. She is convinced there is a romance in it—a grand gesture of trust, a declaration through deeds rather than words. She has been composing speeches about it all morning.”
“Miss Entwhistle might benefit from composing fewer speeches and more inquiries into reality.”
“Oh, she would never do that. Reality is far too disappointing for her tastes.” Prue accepted her tea with a grateful sigh and cradled the cup as though it were the holy chalice itself.
“But you must admit it is rather extraordinary. Georgiana tells me the master hardly speaks to anyone, keeps his own counsel, guards his privacy as fiercely as a dragon guards gold—and yet here you are, barely a month married, with the keys to everything.”
Elizabeth thought of Darcy’s note, still tucked in her writing desk beside the ring she could not bring herself to discard.
Nothing has changed for me. Nothing will.
She thought of his eyes in the library, dark with grief and desperate hope, offering her confessions while terrified she would dismiss them as unceremoniously as he had once called her not handsome enough to tempt him.
“Mr. Darcy is a man of unexpected depths,” she said. “I am only beginning to understand them.”
“Oh, and speaking of misunderstandings.” Prue took a noisy sip of tea before setting down the cup and wiggling her shoulders so rapidly Elizabeth almost expected her nose to twitch.
“Georgiana came to the parsonage yesterday and showed me an extraordinary letter from her brother, you know, the George Wickham who signed the registry with such flourish? She mentioned you had examined it as well.”
Elizabeth’s spine stiffened, though she kept her expression mild. “I glanced at it briefly.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar about the timing?”
“You refer to the miracle of a letter traveling from Bombay to Derbyshire in less than a month’s time?”
Prue’s eyes widened. “You noticed.”
“One of my neighbor’s nephews is stationed at Gibraltar,” Elizabeth said, “and she despairs of hearing from him more than twice a year. India is considerably farther. If Mr. Wickham sailed at the end of March, he would scarcely have cleared the Bay of Biscay by April third—let alone reached Bombay and penned a letter describing elephants and bazaars.”
“Then he never went at all.” Prue set down her cup with a click. “You knew, and you did not tell Georgiana.”
“What purpose would it serve to break her heart with suspicions I cannot prove? She believes her brother is earning glory and preparing to send her a Kashmiri shawl. Let her keep that comfort until the truth becomes unavoidable.”
“You are protecting her. You are no better than Darcy!” Prue’s accusing finger wagged a mere ten inches from Elizabeth’s face.
Elizabeth bristled, heat creeping from her collar to her cheeks.
She drew back, ready to defend herself, but the words faltered.
She longed to protest, to claim her motives were nobler, but the mirror offered no comfort.
She had spoken nothing but the truth, yet she was tending a fiction as carefully as he ever had.
“I prefer to think I am allowing her a respite.”
“True. Georgiana seemed to be in low spirits when I encountered her coming down the lane.”
“She misses her brother,” Elizabeth told another half-truth, feeling her cheeks color. “I merely believe the revelation concerning George’s letters’ inordinate speed of delivery is better addressed by Georgiana’s brother, which is to say, my husband, when he returns from London.”
Prue absorbed this, her expression more thoughtful than accusing. “I suppose men who own great estates have extensive business in London.”
“Indeed they do. There is no puzzle there.” Elizabeth offered the seed cake, signaling that this particular avenue of inquiry had reached its end.
Prue accepted a piece, but her eager shoulders wriggled again, like the hindquarters of a rat terrier with his nose in a hole.
“Since you have the keys to Pemberley, perhaps you might settle a debate I have with Miss Entwhistle. She swears Lady Renwick described the old chapel in The Monk’s Confession with such precision that it must be a real place—a Norman undercroft, she says, with a barrel vault blackened by centuries of candle smoke, and a single lancet window facing east. I have never seen such a chapel myself, but Miss Entwhistle is convinced it lies somewhere beneath this very house. ”
Elizabeth hesitated. A tour of Pemberley’s hidden spaces felt rather like displaying borrowed finery—she had possessed the keys for barely three days, and her authority sat on her shoulders like an ill-fitting coat.
But Prue’s enthusiasm was difficult to resist, and there was something to be said for exploring her new domain with a companion who would appreciate its peculiarities.
“Very well,” she said, rising. “Though I warn you, my knowledge is limited. Mrs. Reynolds showed me the strongroom and the stillroom yesterday morning, but I have not ventured into any chapel.”
“Then we shall venture together!” Prue was on her feet before Elizabeth had finished speaking. “You provide the keys, and I provide the speculation.”
“A division of labor that benefits you considerably more than it benefits me.”
“Naturally. I am a parson’s daughter. We excel at receiving benefits while contributing speculation.”
In spite of it all—the ache of Darcy’s absence, the daunting weight of the responsibility that had descended upon her, and the tangled skein of secrets that defined her marriage—Elizabeth found herself laughing.
Prue was entirely ridiculous, and in this season of her life, such ridiculousness was a gift of the highest order.
They began their tour in the stillroom, where shelves lined with preserved fruits and medicinal cordials stood as a testament to generations of Pemberley housekeeping.
Prue was in raptures, wandering the aisles and pointing her candle over the neat rows, exclaiming over the sheer abundance of the provisions.
“One could withstand a siege for a twelvemonth, at the very least!” she declared, peering at a jar of damson jam.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, moved along the shelves, taking stock. If she was to rule this kingdom, she must know its measure. She intended to take her responsibilities seriously, right down to the very stones beneath her feet.
The wine cellar proved more interesting to Prue, who had clearly never seen wine stored in such quantity. The bottles stretched away in dusty rows, their labels faded with age, and Prue read dates aloud with reverent astonishment. “1732! That bottle is older than my grandmother!”
“And probably considerably more valuable, though I suspect less useful in conversation.”
“Your grandmother must have been a great deal more tiresome than mine,” Prue retorted, unbothered.
From the wine cellar, they descended further—down a narrow stone staircase Elizabeth had not known existed, through a low doorway that required both women to duck, and into a vaulted chamber that could only be the old chapel.
It was small, perhaps twenty feet by thirty, with a flagstone floor worn smooth by centuries of feet.
The ceiling rose in a barrel vault of pale stone, blackened by the smoke of candles that had burned here when monks still walked these corridors.
A single lancet window pierced the east wall, admitting a thin blade of afternoon light that fell across the altar like a finger pointing toward the sacred.