P. James: Death Comes to Pemberley

“When she discovered she was with child it was a disaster for us both. She made it plain, and in great distress, that no one must know, except of course her mother who could hardly be kept in ignorance. Louisa felt she could not burden her brother’s last months, but when he guessed the truth she confessed. Her chief concern was not to distress her father. She knew, poor girl, that the prospect of bringing disgrace on Pemberley would be worse for him than anything that could happen to her. I could not see why a love child or two need be such a disgrace, it is a common enough predicament in large households, but that is what she felt. It was her idea that she should go to her married sister, with the connivance of her mother, before her condition became noticeable, and there stay until after the birth. The idea was that the child would be passed off as her sister’s and I suggested that she should return with the baby as soon as she could travel to show it to the grandmother. I needed to ensure that there was a living and healthy child before deciding what best should be done. We agreed that I would somehow find the money to persuade the Simpkinses to take the child and raise him as their own. It was then that I sent a desperate plea for help to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and when the time came for Georgie to be returned to the Simpkinses he provided me with thirty pounds. This, I imagine, you already know. He acted, he said, out of compassion for a soldier who had served under him, but no doubt he had other reasons; gossip Louisa had heard from the servants suggested that the colonel might be looking to Pemberley for a wife. A proud and prudent man, especially if he is rich and an aristocrat, does not ally himself with scandal, particularly such a commonplace and sordid little affair. He was no more anxious than Darcy would have been to see my bastard playing in the woodlands of Pemberley.”

Alveston asked, “I suppose you never told Louisa your true identity?”

“That would have been folly, and would only have added to her distress. I did what most men do in my situation. I congratulate myself that my story was convincing and likely to induce compassion in any susceptible young woman. I told her I was Frederick Delancey, I have always liked the idea of those initials, and that I had been a soldier wounded in the Irish campaign – that much was true – and had returned home to find my dearly beloved wife had died in childbirth, and my son with her. This unhappy saga greatly increased Louisa’s love and devotion, and I was forced to embroider it by saying that I would later be going to London to find a job, and would then return to marry her, when our baby could leave the Simpkinses and join us as a family. Together, as Louisa insisted, we carved my initials on the trunk of trees as a pledge of my love and commitment. I confess that I was not without hope that they would cause mischief. I promised to send money to the Simpkinses as soon as I had found and paid for my London lodgings.”

The colonel said, “It was an infamous deceit, sir, on a gullible and essentially innocent girl. I suppose after the child was born you would have disappeared for good and that, for you, would have been the end of it.”

“I admit the deceit, but the result seemed to me desirable. Louisa would soon forget me and marry her fiancé, and the child would be brought up by people who were his family. I have heard of far worse ways of dealing with a bastard. Unfortunately things went wrong. When Louisa returned home with her child and we met as usual by the dog’s grave, she brought a message from Michael Simpkins. He was no longer willing to accept the baby permanently, even for a generous payment. He and his wife already had three girls and no doubt would have more children, and he could never be happy that Georgie would be the eldest boy in the family, having precedent over any future son of his. Apparently, too, there had been difficulties between Louisa and her sister while she was with them awaiting the birth. I suspect it seldom answers if there are two women in one kitchen. I had confided in Mrs Younge that Louisa was with child, and she insisted on seeing the child and said she would meet Louisa and the baby by arrangement in the woodlands. She fell in love with Georgie and was determined that he should be given to her for adoption. I knew that she had wanted children but had no idea until then that her need could be so overwhelming. He was a handsome child and, of course, he was mine.”

Darcy felt that he could no longer remain silent There was much that he needed to know. He said, “It was Mrs Younge, I suppose, who was the dark woman whom the two maids glimpsed in the wood. How could you bring yourself to involve her in any scheme relating to the future of your child, a woman whose conduct, as far as we know it, shows her to be among the most base and contemptible of her sex?”

And now Wickham almost sprang from the chair. His knuckles on the arms were white, his face suddenly flushed with fury. “You may as well know the truth. Eleanor Younge is the only woman who has loved me, none of the others, including my wife, has given me the care, the kindness, the support, the sense of being important to her, as has my sister. Yes, that is who she is, my half-sister. I know this will surprise you. My father has the reputation of having been the most efficient, the most loyal, the most admirable of stewards of the late Mr Darcy, and indeed he was such. My mother was strict with him, as she was with me; there was no laughter in our house. He was a man like other men, and when Mr Darcy’s business took him to London for a week or more, he lived a different life. I know nothing of the woman with whom he consorted, but on his deathbed he did confide to me that there was a daughter. To give him credit, I must say that he did what he could to support her, but I was told little of her early history, only that she was placed in a school in London which was no better than an orphanage. She ran away when she was twelve and he lost contact with her after that, and when increasing age and responsibilities at Pemberley were becoming too heavy for him, he was not able to undertake a search. But she was on his conscience at the last and he begged me to do what I could. The school had long since failed and the proprietor was unknown, but I was able to contact people in the neighbouring house who had befriended one of the girls and was still in touch with her. It was she who gave me the first hints of where I might find Eleanor. And in the end I did find her. She was very far from destitute. There had been a brief marriage to a much older man who had left her sufficient money to buy a house in Marylebone where she received boarders, all of whom were young men from respectable families who were leaving home to work in London. Their fond mamas were immensely grateful to this respectable and motherly lady who was adamant that no young women, either as boarder or visitor, would be received in her house.”

The colonel said, “This I knew. But you make no mention of the way your sister had lived, no mention of the unfortunate men she blackmailed.”

Wickham had some difficulty in controlling his anger. He said, “She did less damage in her life than many a respectable matron. She was left no jointure by her husband and was forced to live by her wits. We rapidly grew to love each other, perhaps because we had so much in common. She was clever. She said that my greatest, perhaps my only, asset was that women liked me and that I had the trick of making myself agreeable to them. My best hope of avoiding poverty was to marry a wealthy wife and she thought I had the qualities to achieve this. As you know, my most promising and earliest hope came to nothing when Darcy turned up at Ramsgate and played the indignant brother.”

The colonel had got to his feet before Darcy could move. He said, “There is a name which cannot be on your lips, either in this room or elsewhere if you value your life, sir.”