Chapter Three

My life at Pemberley settled into a pattern so smoothly as it began, and I was happy there. However I must confess, and I am not ashamed to admit it, for it is completely natural, that on occasion I mourned the loss of status, position and freedom since Papa's death.

Everyone wishes to be in a better situation than they are — I still, having married very well, on occasion have faint flashes of discontentment, and wishing for more, whether it be wealth, excitement, youth — that wish for youth I never had in those early days at Pemberley.

Was I miserable now? Having been brought down from being one of the leading Misses of a neighborhood of four and twenty families to that oft-pitied creature, the governess?

No.

Despite such a fall, I still could laugh at myself when I became unhappy with my situation, and so I rarely found myself unhappy.

So, dear reader, if you are unhappy due to a reversal of fortune, I beg you, after an appropriate time for grief has passed, to follow my own philosophy and think only upon the past as it brings you pleasure.

Perhaps I found it particularly easy to not mourn my situation at this time, because my situation did not constantly force me to face my position of dependence. Mrs. Reynolds was what she seemed from the first, a kind, open hearted woman, who had more real sensibility and thought, and less high respectability, than I expected in a woman in such a position of command over such a large estate.

My dear Georgiana invited me to dine with her every night, and I became fast friends with her within two months' time, and she simply forgot to maintain any pretense of superiority over me.

And there was the library.

For a bibliophile such as myself, access to that was worth nearly any unpleasantness.

I conducted my lessons with Cathy in that lovely, lovely room, a massive room, with a second story of shelves with fine burnished walnut railings all around, looking down on the main part of the sitting room. It was a quiet room, with a pleasant fire always kept in the grating, and a sense of being dedicated to learning. The room always smelled dry and clean. Miss Darcy sometimes sat with us, but out of a sort of respect for me, she never attempted to interfere in what I taught Cathy.

There in one corner was a large globe that was taller than me. A collection of fine stuffed chairs and sofas, all in brown leather, were scattered about, and on one table each morning, despite the master not being present, a copy of each of the principal newspapers was placed, along with any editions of the scientific journals which had been received in the past week.

The reading pleasure of Mr. Darcy was assured, should he happen to arrive of a sudden.

He subscribed to most of the publications of scientific interest which Papa had, and several he had not, and there were shelves filled with the volumes of the proceedings of the Royal Academy rebound in red calfskin with gold embossings.

The sides of the room all around were stuffed with books, and books and more books. More books than I had ever seen outside of a public collection. Even the bookstores stuffed with antique texts that Papa would frequent on his infrequent trips to London were smaller, in addition to less elegant. There was a tall stand with the directory, into which was written in clear handwriting the location and title of every book owned by the library, with a small mark in pencil to indicate if it had been taken with the master and was thus absent.

Most of the books were protected behind locked glass panels, and I worried at first that it might be taken amiss if I asked for access to a particular book, but Georgiana warmly assured me that she would be delighted were I to borrow any book, except the particular antiques which Mr. Darcy and his family had collected over many years, rather like my own father, only with more resources, and perhaps more taste.

These I could admire through the glass. Books from the time of Elizabeth, or Henry VIII, one of the first run of King James Bibles. The greatest of them all was a copy of the first folio of Shakespeare's works. Georgiana reverently explained that a few times with guests Mr. Darcy had taken it out, and they looked over the fine delicate pages, and he'd shown her the scribblings in the margins made by the Earl of —, a man whose line had ended during the Civil War, but who was an ancestor of the present Darcy line and from whom the book had been inherited.

In such an environment I would have found it impossible to not be studious, and to my good fortune Cathy's spirit ran to a similar tone — at least for two or three hours in a day.

Beyond that, it was more of a struggle.

To my delight, I have had the joy of raising several rascally children of my own to adulthood. They will read this, so I cannot insult them too far, but one was… not the most obedient creature in the world.

Adorable pets. But also obnoxious brats.

However, I do not brag overmuch when I say that my instincts were good, and what Cathy needed most was what every child needs — love and attention. In many cases my tendency was simply to behave in the opposite manner from my mother, who waxed hot or cold depending upon whether she felt her nerves and disliked the weather that day more or less severely.

Perhaps if I had in fact grown up in that imagined charity school from my more heroic imagined beginnings, and then taught the children there as a junior teacher for a year or two, before embarking upon my position as a governess, I would have told you in calm terms how Cathy was an ordinary child, of ordinary merits, who showed no brilliance, cleverness, or anything else worthy of note. But little Cathy was the first child I had ever been close to, and her love for me drew forth a similar love in my heart.

I made a point to ignore that suspicion my quick brain created which suggested that Cathy might not be the master's true daughter. It would explain the coldness of Mr. Darcy towards his daughter, but it would not explain why he avoided Pemberley, and further, Georgie showered affection on the child. Though as I came to know Georgiana's character closer, I realized that she would shower her affection on any creature which showed her affection in turn.

Time passed. It tends to.

I taught Cathy, and dined with Miss Darcy and sewed with Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Annesley, and I became Miss Darcy's boon confidante — for she needed such a creature, lacking any women near her own age whom she was on intimate terms with.

And so with a peaceful pattern of life we passed from brisk October into November with the leaves dripping down lovely and golden from the trees. From November into icy December, during which I found out that amongst its virtues the old house did not include that most valuable and pleasant virtue of a particularly tight construction. The most used rooms stayed warm, but the hallways tended to drafts. Freezing drafts. And then the weather turned from icy December into snowy January, when so much wet white powder dumped on us that I learned exactly why the roof of the estate was so steeply sloped. And then, as our progress at French, geography, and games of dress up continued steady, snowy January ended with the heaviest snowfall of them all.

This was thankfully followed by a series of clear and somewhat warmer days in the early part of February.

This entire time I heard that laugh often.

At least half the time when chance brought me near the great tower on the west wing of the estate, I would hear the booming laugh of Grace Poole, echoing down. I grew familiar with that sound — at times I fancied, as I lie in bed at night, that I heard that sound turn into coherent human speech, ranting against enemies and vile murders, and promising the drinking of blood, but mayhap, it was merely in my dreams.

I only saw Grace Poole rarely, for she seldom left her tower. She ate within it and stayed there when she performed the sewing tasks that seemed to be her excuse for her position at the estate. She never, not once to the best of my knowledge, invited others to join her in her tower retreat. Grace Poole was a woman with the coarse worn face and the sallow look of one who had damaged themselves with the consumption of too much strong spirits. A faint scent of gin clung to her whenever I saw her. But she had an everyday look. A rough creature, but not a strange or eerie creature. I could not match her visage with the sort of person who could produce such a creeping laugh.

However — I must repeat my shameful confession of incuriosity.

I was a woman who thought she thought a great deal of everything, with neither pride nor prejudice clouding my eyes. But I simply did not consider that there was a strange mystery contained in Mrs. Poole's strange behavior. I in fact thought very little about her or about the laugh.

One day, after the great snow in January, Georgiana and I walked arm in arm through the cold and peaceful grounds of the park. Cathy ran before us bundled like a rabbit in furs and mittens, leaping from snow patch to snow patch to throw up everything, like an excited kitten playing with a ball of yarn.

As we watched her play, I said to Georgiana by way of conversation, for I had a little curiosity, "Grace Poole has an odd laugh."

Georgiana shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. "That laugh, I cannot stand to hear it — eerie, terrifying, like something from one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."

You ought to note here that while I had no such presentiments, it is not because it was impossible for them to be formed. When the time of revelation came, Georgiana was as horrified as one could be, but rather less shocked than I.

"I do wish Fitzwilliam would dismiss her," Georgiana added.

"Mrs. Poole?"

"I do not know why he permits her to behave so strangely — and I have inquired from the servants. As nearly as I could prove, she does no work — no real work. I have been told, most severely, by both my brother and Mrs. Reynolds to not bother her about it though."

"So odd. So very odd." I pursed my lips. A cold breeze blew through the meadow, chilling my face.

I had noted that Mrs. Poole drank a great deal — perhaps she had some knowledge about the family and there was some secret she used to blackmail Mr. Darcy. Perhaps she was an unacknowledged relation from the wrong side of the sheets. I could not imagine there being any romantic connection or past between Mr. Darcy and Mrs. Poole — not with such a plain, everyday face, with those deep set suspicious eyes.

This shows again that in addition to not totally lacking curiosity, suspicion too had not entirely abandoned me. Unfortunately it was pointed in the entirely wrong direction.

As we continued our cold amble, enjoying the clean pure scent of the winter air and the feel of the bright thin sunlight, Georgiana added, "I have never felt quite at home at Pemberley since… since she came to be with us. Not Grace Poole. Cousin Anne. Mrs. Darcy—" Georgiana spat her own last name as if the addition of "Mrs." made it into the harshest curse in her vocabulary, a word a sailor would have blushed to say. "Life has never become again like things once were, not since Mama and Aunt Cathy convinced my brother to marry Anne when Papa was dying. Ever since that year…"

I squeezed Georgiana's hand. "I know you did not like Mrs. Darcy."

"No! Nobody could. Nobody. And… and Fitzwilliam is the best man. The best in the whole world. Abominably. She treated him abominably. It was not just what she did with… oh I should not tell you such."

"I do not demand to know any private family matter."

Georgiana blushed. "I am so glad it has remained tight — I do trust you. I do… but it is not my place. And you would — in any case, I hated her before. Anne… this was when I was sent away, she once… I had a kitten who I loved dearly. And she… she…"

My dear friend paled, and I paled with her.

"It was horrible — she claimed it was an accident. But I knew it was not. The poor cat had been suffocated. And my brother knew it was no accident either — she did other things. She would grab me, and pull at my hair. And once… once she grabbed my throat — she said it was in jest. She laughed. But she was not… not — Lizzy, might I confess something quite terrible?"

I nodded silently, wondering what could make Georgiana hesitate after those revelations. A cold wind blew, chapping our cheeks.

"I was happy, happier I think than I ever have been when I heard she had died. I at last felt… safe again."

"But yet you love Cathy?"

"Of course I do!" Georgiana protested almost angrily, looking at the red cheeked little girl assiduously building a small snowman on the side of the grey cobblestoned path. "It is all Lady Catherine's fault, I am sure. Of course Cousin Anne went bad, having been raised by Aunt Catherine. It doesn't matter whose blood she had with such a parent! But I should not say that — were you my governess, you would discipline me quite sharply for saying so much about my family."

I laughed, self-consciously hoping to clear the furrow from the brow of Georgiana. "You may speak as ill of your aunt as you wish to me."

"Do you dislike any of your family?"

"I myself am fond of neither my mother, nor my youngest sister," I replied smiling.

Our dear little Cathy then determined to bring our attention back to her, by tossing a snowball at me, and then as I balled one up with my gloves to launch in retaliation, she targeted Georgiana.

After a brief conflict conducted with flying ice, Cathy was happily running forward again to explore and dig in the mud around some rose bushes — those parents who try to keep their children indoors out of fear of broken limbs and other mischances are quite insane in my view. There is nothing more tiresome than an energetic child — believe me, I have several who I love dearly. Children must be allowed ample opportunity to run, explore and exhaust themselves.

Yes, a sound body makes learning far easier. But that is not the point. The point is that a child who has ample exercise is far more sweetly tempered when she is not running.

As we walked, the chief gardener came up to us in the cold clear sun. He was following his rounds to check for damage from the storm amongst the plants.

"Begging your pardons, Miss Darcy, Miss Bennet." He pulled off his cap and looked down politely.

I asked him with a smile, "Mr. Marcus, do tell, was there any significant damage from the storm?"

"Nothing amiss. No nothing at all, Miss Bennet. Everything safe as the Bank of England." He shuffled his wool cap around in his hand. "But, Miss Darcy, you must write the master and tell him that his suggestion to save the frost damaged shrubbery worked. Clever as binding the feet of a sheep to keep the rot off — he knows every tree in this park, I tell you. Every one — impressed I am when a gentleman has anything of sense to say upon my business — but Mr. Darcy, he does not only read the books, he somehow knows what he is doing."

"Mr. Darcy keeps such a close watch on the land," I asked surprised, "as to concern himself with the fate of particular shrubbery?"

"Never a better master than him — even if he does absent himself over much."

I mulled this over as Georgiana and I continued our walk. There was this odd contradiction. Mr. Darcy showed a close concern and connection to the land, yet did not visit.

"Your brother," I asked Georgiana, "how close a watch can he keep on the affairs of the estate from the continent?"

"Oh, he manages everything! — he writes such long letters to Mrs. Reynolds, and Mr. Fotherham the steward, and to his man of business in London. And he asks to be informed of any tenant disputes, and to have close and detailed descriptions of any damage to the estate, or the needs of the tenants to be sent to him, and often when he runs across a profitable idea on the continent he gives the most particular details as to how to implement it — my brother has the best memory in the world. He can remember the details of all the grounds of the house, just out of mind."

"Remarkable but — why does he come back so seldom?"

Georgiana shrugged and looked sadly down. "I think… I think it is… Cousin Anne was not kind to him, and there were… oh, I shudder to remember those days. They were not happy."

"Yes, but she died more than five years ago — he loves the land. He must love you and Cathy — it is not proper for a man to absent himself so much from his house and family."

Georgiana flushed, and began to cry.

I had a soggy sensation in my stomach at having said so much as to make Georgie cry. It was not my place, not in any way, to comment upon the doings of a gentleman with his own estate. But really, I only cared about Georgie. At that time I was of the opinion that Mr. Darcy could set himself to stew in whatever pique he had against the house, so long as it did not hurt my dear friend.

I embraced Georgiana

"My brother is but rarely home — I…" She sniffled. "I miss him."

"I can see — I can see. Write him, and beg him to return," I counseled Georgiana. "Beg him to spend more time here, with you, and with Cathy who misses him as best she can when she barely knows him."

"But… I cannot tell Fitzwilliam what to do."

"You can say that you miss him and wish he were here."

"But what… what if he does not…"

I smiled at Georgiana kindly and took and held her hands. "He loves you, and he loves this estate — he will surely come if you give him that extra reason to come."

I did not think that he would.

But I knew that I would think less of my unseen employer, Mr. Darcy, were he to ignore such a plea from his sister. I would think that he was unworthy of Georgiana's regard.

AN: I'm just going to copy and paste part the new AN to the first chapter to here - but thank you to everyone who followed this book, and has waited patiently for me to at last publish it here at ff net. I expect to put out two chapters a week until it is complete. The book also exists in E-book form, and can be bought from your preferred major ebook retailer - also, if you are interested in my other books, I just released Friendship and Forgiveness on the big A (not the fruit, the warrior). In it Elizabeth and Caroline Bingley are best friends, and changes flow out from that. What will happen when Elizabeth starts to fall in love with the man her best friend is determined to marry herself? - that book unfortunately is only availble at the Bezos store, but it also is in the KU program. If you search for that book, add my name (Timothy Underwood) to the search term to make it more likely for you to get good results.

Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this adventure, and enjoy Mr. Darcy playing the role of Mr. Rochester!