A Peculiar Connection (26 page)

“And that is where the next page is removed,” Mr. Darcy interrupted. “See!”

“I do,” I answered. “But what significance does it hold?”

“From then on, my father never makes mention of Peter again. Not anywhere—not in a single diary he kept thereafter. Does that not seem strange?”

“And it appears he either did not finish his thoughts in this entry,” Mr. Gardiner added, “or—”

“Or, for some reason, he thought it best to remove what he had written,” Mr. Darcy finished. “And that is not all.” He picked up another book. “The year of your birth, Elizabeth, Father writes about Peter’s disappearance in March. He tells of his distress and the anguish it causes my mother. Here, listen to this.

24 March 1791

Returned to Pemberley from London this night. What Wickham (Mr. Wickham, Sr., was his steward at the time) wrote in his letter to me is true—Peter is nowhere to be found and has been missing ten days. Anne is growing ill with worry. Tomorrow, I will begin the search with visits to the neighbours, and I pray I must not call in the detectives. Oh, merciful God, let this be some foolish prank he is playing. If it is, however, I shall have his hide!

“That year, over and over again, from March until the middle of June, my father writes of his unsuccessful search for his brother, and then…evidence of discarded pages begins. Throughout the book, pages have been removed.”

Mr. Gardiner rose and refilled his glass from the decanter of sherry. “I think a simple explanation may exist for the volume written in 1791. By the time the summer months arrived, your father’s despair over finding your uncle gave way to the dilemma facing him over Lizzy’s birth. He could have noted her expected arrival but then discarded his observations so that no evidence remained to connect him to her in any way.”

“Except that Sir Lewis de Bourgh failed to destroy the one letter Mr. George Darcy wrote about my birth,” I said.

“One would draw those conclusions,” Mr. Darcy said, “if our suppositions are correct.”

I sighed and leaned back against the sofa. “How are we ever to discover any other answer, sir?”

Mr. Darcy rose and returned the diaries to the table. “That is why I have come to Ireland. If Peter Darcy does not hold the key, then I have nowhere else to turn.”

“Key to what?” I asked, irritation in my voice. “Surely, you do not hope to have your father’s name cleared, do you? Have we not seen proof enough of his participation in the deed?”

“What
proof
have we seen? Lady Catherine has produced a letter—”

“Written by Mr. George Darcy,” Mr. Gardiner said.

“True, but examine it again, if you will.” He withdrew the letter from his coat pocket and handed it to my uncle. I rose and stood beside him, looking on while he read. “Not once does my father say that the child in question is his.”

“But Lady Catherine said—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He waved his hand as though to dismiss my words. “My aunt most definitely had her say.”

My uncle looked up from his reading. “Are you saying that you doubt the veracity of Lady Catherine?”

“No…no, I would not disparage her in that manner. Oh, I do not know what I am saying, except for one thing.”

I held my breath, wondering what he could mean and what he might say next.

“Lady Catherine is concealing something. She would brook no questions concerning the details of what Sir Lewis told her about the night he carried Elizabeth to Hertfordshire. Repeatedly, she said it was none of my affair.” His voice rose in volume. “None of my affair! I ask you, if it is none of my affair, then whose?”

Mr. Gardiner and I exchanged looks, and I could see the concern on my uncle’s face. “Mr. Darcy, the hour does grow late,” he said. “I believe we must depart.”

“I apologize for keeping you,” he replied, looking somewhat surprised that we should wish to leave.

We made our farewells, and the two men agreed to meet on the morrow to discuss the final details of our travel plans. Mr. Darcy appeared preoccupied and proved quite hasty in his final remarks. I descended the stairs, my mind in a muddle.

In the carriage, my uncle remained silent for some time. I wondered what he was thinking, but in some ways, I did not care to know.

“Lizzy,” he said at last. “Do you think that you are George Darcy’s daughter?”

What?

“I…well, yes, of course. Lady Catherine said I was, and I have not seen any evidence to dispute her word. Why do you ask me that?”

“Because I strongly suspect that Mr. Darcy no longer believes you are his sister.”

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That night, I slept little. My uncle’s statement whirled around and around in my head. Could it possibly be? Might I be the daughter of someone other than George Darcy? No. I had not seen one thing to make me think that. Yet, I had seen much to support the fact that I was his daughter. Lady Catherine stated it as fact most assuredly. The letter that George Darcy wrote to Sir Lewis would certainly lead one to believe that I was his child. Mr. Fawcett said I was the natural child of a gentleman from the North Country. Eleanor Willoughby said my father was called Darcy, and I bore a distinct resemblance to George Darcy’s mother, Siobhan.

If George Darcy was not my father, who could it be? I allowed my mind to wander freely. What if Lady Catherine had tried to mask her husband’s infidelity? Perhaps while visiting Derbyshire long ago, Sir Lewis met my mother and lied, telling her his name was Darcy. He evidently had relied upon George Darcy for help in the past. Was it because he had been faithless in his marriage vows? Could I have been his mistake? I shuddered at the thought. I had never met Sir Lewis, but I could not imagine that young girl I had seen in the portrait attaching herself to a man married to Lady Catherine. If so, why would George Darcy have worded his letter in the manner that he did?
Tonight, I must beg leave to call in all favours you owe me.
No, that did not make sense, and Eleanor Willoughby never mentioned that her sister even knew Sir Lewis. It could not be him.

Siobhan had two other sons besides George: Henry and Peter. I knew nothing really of Peter, other than he converted to the Catholic religion, and he wished to live in his mother’s homeland so much so that he ran away rather than risk his brother’s disapproval. I doubted that he was responsible for my birth, for it appeared that he cared little for anyone in Derbyshire. He did not even write to his family once he settled himself in his new home. I had the impression that he must have been a serious-minded, solitary man, not one who would trifle with a neighbour’s young daughter.

Henry, however, was handsome, headstrong, and had an eye for the ladies. Could he have been the Darcy my mother met secretly in the wood at Pemberley? And if so, did his widow know of my existence? Perhaps she feared that, if she revealed the truth, it would damage her late husband’s good name. Had she encouraged her nephew to travel to Ireland on an endless quest only to prevent his discovery of the truth in Bath?

My head ached at the possibilities, and I punched my pillow with all the confusion that possessed me. What good would come from hoping for what could never be? Why dare to contemplate the idea that George Darcy was not my father, only to have it snatched away from me? The girl I had been a year ago might have dreamed such a dream, but I no longer possessed that girl’s faith. It had died in the garden at Longbourn when Lady Catherine came to call.

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We departed Dublin three days later. Mrs. Gardiner had regained a bit of her strength by that time, and I hoped that the subsequent journey would not assign her to bed once again. Our carriage followed behind that of Mr. Darcy, but oft times, Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley exchanged places with Mr. Gardiner. It proved a merry exchange when four women travelled without men to overhear the conversation. I was surprised, but not displeased, that Mrs. Annesley entered into the dialogue much more freely at those times.

“And how do you like Ireland?” my aunt asked her.

“Much more than that sea voyage. I was never so glad to feel firm ground beneath my feet in all my days!”

That provoked a spirited discussion between the two older women of the ills they had experienced aboard ship.

Georgiana took the opportunity to speak to me about how charming she found the country. I marvelled at the changes I had seen come over her since first we met last year. That shy, quiet young girl had blossomed, becoming much more confident and animated. She spoke of her future debut the next spring and insisted that I go to London and accompany her to teas, balls, and other social gatherings.

“Would you not rather have someone by your side who is more accustomed to such events? What about Miss Bingley? She is well acquainted with the public life of London, and I know that she desires your company, for I have heard her remark upon it more than once.”

“Miss Bingley desires my company for one reason only, Elizabeth: she wishes to marry my brother.”

“Georgiana!” Mrs. Annesley exclaimed, interrupting her discussion of rheumatism with Mrs. Gardiner, even breaking off in mid-sentence to reprove her young charge.

“Well, she does. You know it as well as I!”

“One must not disrespect an older lady, my dear. She may not be your equal in some matters, but she is an accomplished lady.”

“Yes,” I added, lifting my chin. “It cannot be denied. Miss Bingley does possess a certain air.”

Georgiana began to giggle, and Miss Annesley’s attempts to calm her failed utterly. Her laughter was infectious, and I could not suppress my own amusement. It was obvious that we behaved in an unseemly manner, but it was not long before both older ladies could not refrain from bursting forth in mirth as well. We laughed until we were forced to hold our sides in pain, and Mrs. Gardiner begged us to desist, for she was quite uncomfortable. I wondered whether the shepherd in the field that we passed could actually see our carriage shaking from the hilarity within.

It was good to laugh. It reminded me of growing up in a house filled with five girls. Suddenly, I longed to see all of them once again. I missed Jane in particular, and I knew that my aunt yearned to hold her children. Ireland seemed like the other side of the world from Longbourn. And yet, I did enjoy Georgiana’s company. Sweet and unassuming, she brought joy to my life, and I thought how much I would miss her when we returned to England and resumed our separate lives. For that matter, I would miss her when we separated in Cork.

“Georgiana, has Mr. Darcy told you much of the city to which you travel?” I asked later.

“Wills says Ballymeghan is more of a village than a city. That is the only information I have been told since I learned my grandmother was born there. I wish I had known her, but she died long before I was born. My brother remembers her, but not well. Evidently, she had been in poor health for some years, and she kept to her chambers most of the day.”

“Do you remember this uncle whom you plan to visit?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.

“Oh no. He left Pemberley as a young man and never returned. I do recall visits from Uncle Henry, the one who lived in Bath.”

That statement aroused my interest. “What was he like?”

“Tall and handsome in his uniform and always happy. His beard tickled when he kissed my cheek, and he was forever taking sweets from the kitchen and giving them to me when no one was watching. I thought him absolutely wonderful!”

“I have only seen his portrait at Pemberley, and I agree that he was handsome,” I said. “I did not see much resemblance between Mr. Henry Darcy and your father.”

“They might have looked more alike if Uncle Henry had shaved his beard. I do remember that his eyes were different from Father’s.” She leaned forward and peered closely at me. “In truth, Elizabeth, your eyes are much like my uncle’s. Perhaps it is a family trait that both of you inherited even though you are not closely related.”

I straightened and turned my attention to the window.

“I wonder whether Wills ever determined the exact connection between our family and that of Elizabeth.”

“He has certainly devoted himself to the quest,” Mrs. Annesley said. “He spent countless hours upon the task at Rosings, Eden Park, and especially Bath. Do you share his curiosity, Miss Bennet?”

“I—”

“Lizzy has never been one to shut herself up inside for too long, no matter the pursuit,” my aunt interjected. “Give her a good, long tramp in the woods though, and she considers it a perfect day.”

I breathed out with relief as my aunt’s statement renewed Mrs. Annesley’s discussion of her various ailments occasioned by the last lengthy walk she had attempted.

An expression of disinterestedness settled upon Georgiana’s countenance, and she devoted herself to the passing scenery for a while. We remarked on the many shades of green that coloured the island, but eventually, she grew drowsy, removed her bonnet, and leaned back against the seat. I, too, wearied of the long journey and hoped we would stop soon to spend the night. The carriage rocked on as consistently as the ladies’ conversation. I was left to allow my mind to wander at will. Without fail, it returned to questions of my parentage.

I thought of Henry Darcy and the native similarity we shared. Had Mr. Darcy ever noticed it, and if so, had he shared the news with the admiral’s widow? I wondered what kind of man Peter Darcy would turn out to be and whether my presumptions of his character rang true. The only portrait I had seen of him was with his brothers, and he was but a young child at the time. Mr. Darcy had said he was now ill. Oh, I hoped we did not arrive too late for Peter Darcy to answer his nephew’s questions.

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At length, the carriage pulled into the small village of Cashel, and we clambered out, ready to stretch our limbs from the forced confinement. My uncle informed us that we would spend the night there at an inn. We followed him into the whitewashed, thatched house that bore the name “Fitzgerald’s” above the door. Our lodgings were somewhat simple but clean and tidy. Neither Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner nor I found the accommodations unsuitable, but I wondered how Mr. Darcy and his sister would feel. I doubted that either of them had ever stayed the night in such a humble dwelling.