Chapter Twenty Two
I returned by foot to Lambton, the sun had reached its zenith while I explored my once home, and now it set slowly behind me.
Along this road I had travelled eager as a maiden rushing to her wedding, I returned down that road as leaden as a man following the coffin of his beloved — I felt in truth much like that man, during the five miles walk.
Did Mr. Darcy yet live?
Georgiana? My dear Cathy? Even Mrs. Reynolds?
I had a pounding fear in my gut for the news of what had happened — how, when? The fire damage was old. This had not occurred recently, but many months in the past. Perhaps even when I had yet lived in Yorkshire.
It was in the hot middle of the afternoon that I arrived back into Lambton, sweat dripping down my neck and running down my back. I immediately betook myself to the inn, and ordered a meal in a private room.
The owner of the establishment himself brought the dishes into me — I stopped him from leaving by indicating I wished to ask him some questions. He was the sort of solid man of middle years who likely had spent years in service to a great house before accumulating sufficient funds to set up an independent place for himself.
"You know Pemberley," I stated to begin the conversation.
"Yes, of course, I spent many years at the estate. I was the butler to the late Mr. Darcy."
Even though it should have been obvious to me, as I did not know this man, and had known Mr. Darcy's butler, that he referred not to my Mr. Darcy, but to his precedent, I felt from his words a gasp of pain and a feeling of terror and lead in my stomach.
"He is dead then!"
The man looked at me more carefully, as if trying to read the secrets of my mind in that glance. "I refer to the father of the present Mr. Darcy. I retired from service following his decease and established myself here."
The present Mr. Darcy — not present at Pemberley certainly, perhaps not present in England, but present in this world, on our sweet green earth.
I could bear up now under any further revelations from this gentleman. There was a sort of exquisite lightness and freshness that filled me after the fear that had eaten at me was gone.
"Do you know, is Mr. Darcy present at Pemberley? Is the family present?" I asked in this way to further the conversation, though the answer was perfectly known to me: No one lived there at present but the crows, the worms they ate upon, and the growing weeds. Nothing but the owls and the snakes as I had once dreamed.
"No, Ma'am — you are clearly a stranger round these parts. Else you would have heard about the portentous events of last autumn. The whole estate burned down — to the ground. Not a stone left upon another after that fire. And a great deal of the valuable plate and artwork stored in the house destroyed too. Though some was saved during the course of the conflagration. But the Darcy family is old, and had been present there for many generations — the worst of it was the library. Someone saved the old Shakespeare I heard — saw a small pile of books myself, standing there that night in a pyramid saved from the library. You could see the fire leaping up above the sky from here, and almost hear the cries, so we all ran over to help, you know?"
"But how did it start? What happened? Were any killed?"
I now had my fear come back.
Georgiana, Cathy.
The host hummed and paused, as though mulling over the question. "Well. Well — have you heard the tale, that there was a lunatic locked up in Pemberley house? A sort of nonsense the old man would never have been happy with. I never would have guessed it of Mr. Fitzwilliam. He always seemed to be a sensible lad. It's a real pity how he fared. A real pity—"
"Good god, what is a real pity?"
"Well, so there was a lunatic who'd been locked up — no one knew for sure in the town that she even existed. There were rumors of course. But no certain knowledge. But after the death of Mr. Darcy's wife — that is the supposed death of the present Mr. Darcy's wife, there were these stories which came from the estate. Still had many friends there, I did, and they talked about the laughs coming from the tower. And it was beyond normal comprehension that they were the product of Mrs. Poole. A steady hand her, that is what they all said. But she drank a great deal — and then in the end, it proved to be Mr. Darcy's old wife, supposed dead, who had been kept as a madwoman raving in the tower, and hidden from all."
"I have heard something of this."
"In any case a year past an event of some significance in this tale occurred." The man looked more closely at me as though he wished to observe my reaction to the following tale. "A governess was brought for little Miss Darcy, Mr. Darcy's daughter — though there were always rumors upon that heading. That she was truly the daughter of Mr. Wickham, my old master's godson. I remember Mr. Wickham, there always was a rivalry between him and Mr. Darcy. It would not surprise me at all if he seduced Mr. Darcy's wife — and Miss de Bourgh, Mrs. Darcy, that is, she never had any proper stuffing in her. Not a good girl, even though she came from the best blood — blood matters, but education as well. Lady Catherine was the most autocratic and demanding woman who I ever had the chance to meet — a fine gentlewoman, but not so fine of a mother."
"Yes, but the fire, how did the fire start?"
"Well, let me see. As I was saying, a year past a governess was brought in for Cathy — Mr. Wickham, even if he was an immoral, irresolute young man, he was a charming boy. I was exceedingly sorry when it was heard around that he died in a foreign clime. But I see you are principally interested in the fire. So until then Mr. Darcy had kept hidden that Mrs. Darcy had gone mad. But Mr. Darcy fell in love with this governess. Even though she was in a place of servitude they say she was a very beautiful, sprightly and charming woman. And from a good family in the south fallen on hard times. Always behaved as a gentlewoman, and dressed well."
The entire time the man spoke, he observed me carefully, as though he had been given a suspicion at my exclamation upon Mr. Darcy's supposed death.
"The fire. But how did the fire start?"
"Young people, always impatient. Always impatient. I was getting to that. So you see, Mr. Darcy fell in love with his governess, and he offered for her — this shocked me completely. That was not the sort of behavior you would expect from a Darcy. Certainly not from Mr. Fitzwilliam. The Darcys have always been an upright and honorable clan, and breeding runs true. But perhaps the ill nature that led him to such a thing came from his Fitzwilliam side. They are more like the usual run of dissipated aristocrats. So Mr. Darcy offered an honorable marriage to his governess, and she agreed to marry him. But exactly at the altar, Lady Catherine came to stop them, and defend her daughter's rights, even though — I know Mr. Clarke the vicar, he swears Mr. Darcy reproached her with this — even though Lady Catherine had sworn to permit Mr. Darcy to enter a bigamous marriage when he agreed to acknowledge Mrs. Darcy's child as his daughter, despite Miss Darcy being Mr. Wickham's get — a shocking tale, is it not?"
"Exceedingly," I agreed impatiently.
"We'd never heard anything so horrid in this country for well on fifty years I'd say. Certainly not in the course of my life — naturally this woman, the governess," the host again looked at me closely, "fled from this sinful arrangement she'd nearly been tricked into. I can't blame her — any girl from a good family would. But Mr. Darcy, poor Mr. Darcy was distraught. She did not flee back to her family in the south, but rather disappeared entirely, and he conceived a certainty that she had died after he could not find her. But he rode to and fro over the countryside, and hired investigators, but they did him no good. She was gone, like a wisp in the wind."
"And did he return to the continent and resume his travels?"
"Miss, you seem to be well acquainted with the habits of my old master's son."
I blushed, but ventured no reply.
"No, no. He settled at Pemberley, he brooded upon the estate grief stricken. All now knew that his mad wife, the mad once Anne de Bourgh yet lived there, her creeping laugh booming from the tower more loudly now than ever. He sent off his sister with her companion to summer in Ramsgate, wishing no company in his grief, and he sent his daughter to one of the best schools. But he remained alone at Pemberley, wandering the halls at night, and sleeping during the day. It was as though this loss had overthrown him, even though he was in the core a sensible gentleman. I daily feared to hear that the young master had turned to drink or some similar destructive habit. But he never did."
The man paused and looked at the food he had brought for my pleasure. "By the by, Miss, what do you think of the soup? We keep a fine kitchen here do we not? Nothing compared of course to what was kept at Pemberley estate before, but—"
"It is very fine — how did the fire start — did the lunatic, did Mrs. Darcy start it?"
"Ah-ha! You have guessed the right of it. The lunatic, Miss Anne, she was kept by a woman named Grace Poole — a hard woman, who was paid a great wage to control the lunatic, but this woman, she had a hard life in managing the lunatic, and a tendency to drink. I don't blame her for it — from what I've heard of Mrs. Darcy's behavior, she would have driven me to drink as well. But there it was — well one night she fell asleep, drunk on her dram of porter, and in this deep sleep she did not wake when Mrs. Darcy snuck the keys from her pocket, and used them to escape her room — I've been told she was known to do this at times. Rumor says she nearly burnt Mr. Darcy to death in his bed once. Well this time she set fire to the bed in the room that the governess, Miss Bennet, had used — like she knew what had been afoot and had a spite for the woman. And then she went on, going throughout the house, setting fires to the walls and furnishings. And to another guest room, and so in the end the house was well and truly lit up by the time the cry of fire was raised."
"Was Mr. Darcy home then when the fire started?"
"Yes, yes he was — as I said, he'd not leave even the doors of the house, except at night. A strong spirit prostrated by a strong blow. Though I fancy he had a great deal of guilt for what he'd attempted to trick that poor woman into. That must torment him — Mr. Fitzwilliam, he was always a man who seemed serious about his duty. To be torn apart by such different impulses and in an impossible situation was perhaps too much for his soul."
The innkeeper looked at me, in a manner that clearly showed he hoped for me to respond. I fancied from something about his eyes that he was taking a certain joy in prolonging the telling of this story, a story that I was desperate to hear the whole of. To know every detail. "But Mr. Darcy, if he was present, was he injured in the fire?"
"Well yes, at first he helped to rouse all of the servants, and organize them to carry out and save what little could be rescued from the conflagration. And then when all was burning — I'd by then ran up to the estate, we all rushed to it, to help as we could see the fire burning high in the skies, so I saw this myself. He had left the building and was looking around with the servants, and it was seen that his mad wife was missing. She climbed out to the roof of that tower she'd been pinioned in. And she stood high on the roof, surrounded by the burning flames, and everyone pointed at her. She could be seen and heard a mile off — I know for I was still that distance absent. A small thing, petite, but with a viciousness in her eyes. I never liked Miss Anne, no I never did. And then Mr. Darcy returned into the building to rescue her from the fire she had started. He exited through the skylight out onto the roof with her. And she stepped onto the battlement, shrinking away from him. I remember it well, he stood — you know him, a very tall man. Very finely built. And he called out to her, loudly: 'Anne' — and she laughed. Laughed so as to chill your soul. And then when Mr. Darcy took a step closer towards her, she leapt from the battlement of the tower, and hit the ground, and the brains were bashed out on the pavement stones, and that was the end of her."
I gasped to hear the story. "So then she is dead."
"Dead as the stones she struck."
"Heavens."
"A terrifying night. A horrifying experience. I'd never thought I'd live to see the day when such happened to dear Pemberley."
He shuddered.
"But then, then — did Mr. Darcy escape, is he well — did anyone but Mrs. Darcy die?"
"Well… no… no. The estate was burned to the ground. Not a stone left standing, except the remains of a few walls, I believe. And no one died. But some would say… some would say it would have been better if he had died."
"Good God."
"Mr. Darcy, once Mrs. Darcy jumped to her death, he attempted to descend by the stairs down the tower again and out. But as he was coming to rush out of the house, the tower collapsed. Some of the supports fell upon him and struck him — oh poor Mr. Fitzwilliam. There are some who say it is a just judgement from God for his attempt to spurn the church and enter a bigamous relationship under false pretenses, but I cannot help but be sorry for the lad. No, I cannot help it."
"What happened to him!" I asked, horrified. I feared that he had been struck in the head, and his mind destroyed.
"When they dragged him from beneath the building, his eyes had been burnt shut, and the one hand had been crushed and mangled entirely. They had to cut it just below the elbow simply to remove him from the debris — the fire yet burned. He's stone blind. Stone blind. And a cripple in the bargain. He has retreated from all company, tied himself up in an old lodge the family owns in the forests upcountry, in the mountains, about twenty miles from here. They say Miss Darcy insisted on joining him — she was always a shy creature, but affectionate."
