Chapter Four #2
From this it could easily be seen that all of Mrs. Bennet’s grandchildren were not equal in her sight. Jonathan had long ago ceased to hope for, much less expect, affection from her—so this was not the reason her words stung him so terribly. That was the mention of his late cousin, Susannah.
All at once he felt too exposed, too vulnerable, too intimidated by his grandparents’ uneasy welcome. “I shall go to my room and undertake the unpacking.”
“What? You, unpack your own trunk?” Mrs. Bennet’s ire felt sharper to him, almost unbearably so. “I assure you, we have servants enough in this house to see to such tasks, even if Pine shall have to leave off making the marmalade to—”
“I wish to do it myself,” Jonathan said. “Pine need not be troubled.”
With this he hurried upstairs, increasingly desperate to be alone.
In point of fact, Jonathan had never unpacked his own trunk, not once in his life.
This was simply the first excuse he thought of to ensure quick solitude.
As soon as he shut the bedroom door behind him, he sat down heavily upon the bed, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. But calm would not come.
Susannah had been Jonathan’s cousin, the daughter of his uncle Wickham and aunt Lydia, born late in their marriage.
As Lydia and Wickham had little money for servants and less patience for the more tedious aspects of caring for their child themselves, they were all too happy for Susannah to visit relations as often as possible, for as long as possible.
The Darcys had welcomed her more often than any others, for by this point, they had realized they would be blessed only with sons, and they delighted in the presence of a little girl.
When Lydia died of smallpox, Wickham surrendered Susannah all but completely.
Therefore the little girl spent far more time at Pemberley than she did at her home.
By that point, Jonathan had been enduring the miseries of boarding school so he had seen his young cousin only out of term time.
Most other children had intimidated him, annoyed him, or both, but he had adored Susannah from the start.
She had been quieter than his wild brothers, even solemn.
He was used to mockery for his particular ways, the order in which he liked to place things, his dislike of any casual unexpected touch, but Susannah had taken Jonathan as he was.
If she ever realized that his behaviors were peculiar, she showed no sign of it.
They had played games together, croquet or hide-and-seek, and he had even been willing to swing her around on the lawn.
It seemed to him sometimes that he could still hear her laugh.
So much time did Susannah spend at Pemberley that it seemed possible, even likely, that eventually she would live there permanently.
Jonathan had overheard his parents discussing their intention to provide her with an ample dowry, something Wickham could not supply.
This had made Jonathan happy, for it clarified Susannah’s place in the family; she was to be considered a sister, as much as though she had been born to his parents.
Yet Mr. Wickham had not agreed with this—had allowed pride to dictate his actions far more than paternal love. This pride, combined with one simple, terrible mistake, had led Susannah to an early grave.
It might have struck an observer as strange that Jonathan sat in his room, mourning a death that had occurred years ago, while the demise of Mr. Hurst barely entered his thoughts.
Such is the difference between those we love and those we only know.
Mr. Hurst would receive his due shortly; Susannah could never receive hers, and so Jonathan would not deny her this place in his heart.
When Juliet awoke, she quickly took better stock of her situation than she had been in any condition to upon her arrival.
Her room was exceedingly pleasant; the angle of the sunlight suggested she had only dozed until just before midday, and a fresh basin of water and cloths had been placed nearby.
Her first impression of Mrs. Bingley, though clouded by exhaustion, had proved true: Juliet was being most generously received.
Yet that could be no more than a guise, could it not? After Juliet’s past experiences in investigating murders, she had learned never to assume that anyone—however civil and obliging—was innocent.
Still, the Bingleys’ hospitality proved even more gracious than she had realized.
When she descended, Mrs. Bingley and her husband welcomed Juliet, asked about her journey with such interest that their questions seemed sincere rather than commonplace, and repeatedly thanked her for her goodness in coming such a long way to help them.
Did they not know of the scandal of the portrait? This seemed impossible, and yet the only alternative was that the Bingleys truly refused to judge her on so unjust a basis—so rare a stance that Juliet could scarcely credit it.
The Bingleys assured her that, as soon as the house knew she had awoken, a messenger had been sent to Mr. Darcy at his grandparents’ home, and indeed, after but a few minutes, Juliet heard the thump of approaching hooves, the jingling of stirrups and bridle.
She did not allow herself to look out the window.
Instead she stood with the Bingleys as Mr. Darcy was again shown in.
“Miss Tilney,” he said, inclining his head toward her. “You are refreshed?”
“Sufficiently so for our purposes.” Juliet next addressed the Bingleys: “I thank you for your kindness, but much of what Mr. Darcy and I need now to discuss is best spoken of in private. This room will do, or another similar—so long as the door is left open, and a servant is not too distant, propriety can be maintained.”
“Of course,” Mr. Bingley said. “You must have the use of my study for the duration of your efforts.”
So it was that, within but a few minutes, they were shown into the room, and Juliet found herself with Mr. Darcy again for the first time in months, all but alone.
“Miss Tilney,” he said, his voice rather low. “Have you been well? I have been much concerned—”
“My situation is unimportant, compared to the murder of this Mr. Hurst.” Juliet would not have it said that she had used the death of a gentleman as no more than an excuse to “catch” Jonathan Darcy!
Though he seemed surprised by her refusal to confide in him, he did not object, so she continued.
“First, I think, you should explain to me who all these persons are, and how they relate to one another. To you, I believe, they have all been well-known for many years, but to me they are strangers.”
He swiftly summarized the persons currently staying in the house: his uncle and aunt, the latter of whom had been born and raised very near; Mrs. Hurst, the sister of Mr. Bingley now suddenly widowed; and the Loftons, another of Mr. Bingley’s sisters and her husband.
Mr. Darcy described Mrs. Hurst as proud, Mr. Lofton as unpretentious, and Mrs. Lofton as being—“I have no right, as an investigator, to point any fingers, and my father would deplore the slang, but…I would call her ‘nosy.’ ”
Miss Tilney almost smiled before catching herself. “Then that is to the good. Mrs. Lofton may have ‘nosed’ out some information that will be of use to us.”
“As well as much that has not,” Mr. Darcy said.
He hesitated, then added, “I realize, of course, that all potential suspects must be investigated in turn, and fondness cannot be allowed to play a role—but I would be remiss if I did not say that I consider it highly unlikely that either of the Bingleys would ever take the other life of another. For my uncle, the mere suggestion is strange; for my aunt, nearly farcical. She is as kind and mild a creature as has ever been born, I should say.”
Juliet knew she must remain objective about the Bingleys, in order to counterbalance Mr. Darcy’s affection…and yet, based on her acquaintance with them so far, she could see the likely justice of his opinion. “If your aunt and uncle are as blameless as you suggest—”
“It cannot be Aunt Jane,” Mr. Darcy said. “Almost certainly not my uncle either, but it is not my aunt Jane.”
As Juliet had no information with which to challenge this assumption, she did not argue. “Are there other frequent guests at Netherfield? People who were there the night before, perhaps?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. She, too, is my aunt, a younger sister of my mother, and he is the local clergyman. They have two sons who attend a boarding school in the next county.” Mr. Darcy had become very thoughtful.
“On my first night here, the last night before Mr. Hurst died, there was some comment to the effect that the Brookses came to Netherfield almost every evening. This caught my attention slightly, Miss Tilney, because my aunt Kitty was never particularly close to Aunt Jane when they were girls. Nor had I believed their relationship to be much altered in adulthood. I may simply have been wrong, of course, but I should be interested to know why the Brookses are so often here.”
This seemed promising. “And Mr. Brooks?” Juliet asked. “What of him?”
Mr. Darcy shrugged. “I must admit that I know Mr. Brooks shockingly little. He is quiet but not dour, methodical in his habits, deft with cards and with dancing, and insofar as I have ever seen, otherwise utterly unremarkable.”
“Is there anyone else we should consider, Mr. Darcy? Anyone at all?”
“The only other guest present earlier that day was Mr. Isaac Lucas, a gentleman close to my own age, who recently came into his inheritance. That said, I cannot think why Mr. Lucas should have any interest in Mr. Hurst whatsoever. Moreover, he is the local magistrate.”
Juliet felt grateful that there should be little need to investigate the very person charged with administering justice!
They would ask questions, of course, but the difficulties presented by a murderous magistrate would be considerable indeed.
“Very well. Take me to the place of the murder, if you will, and we may begin to determine more of what happened on that day.”
She began to rise, only to hear Mr. Darcy say—with a new note in his voice, one that arrested her completely—“Miss Tilney, will you not tell me how you are? How you have been these past months? I have so often thought of you, longed to hear your voice.”
“Do not.” Juliet held up a hand, forestalling him. “Please, Mr. Darcy, do not speak of any such thing. What is gone—what is lost—we must continue on. Do not compromise what we are called upon to accomplish here, for it would but tarnish whatever scrap of reputation I still possess.”
“I would not do that for the world,” cried Mr. Darcy, “but we cannot be strangers to each other, can we? I do not wish that, any more than I believe you do.”
Shaking her head, Juliet rose and straightened herself.
“The past months have taught me how little our wishes are worth. The only desire left to me is that I should prove to the world that I can once again help to capture the guilty, to avenge the dead. You have always helped me in that before, Mr. Darcy. Do not abandon me now.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze met hers, so intently that Juliet felt heat coming to her cheeks. He said only, “I have no intention of abandoning you, Miss Tilney—now or ever.”
Oh!—but Juliet caught herself. She would find the murderer, and all else…at the very least, all else must wait.