Beginning, Previous Section, Section V
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For a long moment, no one spoke.
It was Mr. Browning who broke the silence. "I'm sorry, Miss, may I clarify your statement? You say you know who killed - "
"Who killed Brendan. Aye, I do. I saw 'im do it."
"Him!" Browning repeated, suddenly very eager. "Then it was not Miss Evans? You are willing to testify as a witness that Miss Evans is innocent?"
"Innocent!" Mary echoed the word contemptuously, then again, in softer tones. "Innocent. Aye," she continued quietly. "As much as I 'ave cause t' despise her... as much as I 'ave 'ated her... Of this... and o'many things, she was innocent." Mary drew a ragged breath, and her voice grew harsh again. "Ye can 'ave no concept of 'ow hard it is t' confess that now, after all that I 'ave been through, all that I 'ave done..."
Browning, very caught up in the solutions to the mystery the young woman seemed to possess, leaned forward in his chair. He ignored the young Mr. Darcy, who was too light-headed with relief and gratitude at Jessie's seeming reprieve to ask sentient questions anyway.
"Can you tell us, Miss Mary, what you saw of the murder? Did you recognise the offender? Could you point him out again? How are you acquainted with those involved? What - ?"
Mary shook her head at him, disregarding all his questions. "Please - I have to say it from th' start, Sir, or it'll make no sense to ye... It's not a long tale t' tell." She took a deep breath.
"Ye will recall, I think, Mr. Darcy," she said slowly, addressing James, "That Jessie and me were once ... friends." Her voice shook slightly. "An' I think ye also know it's been a long time since that term applied to us. Bein' a favourite of the Mistress and of you, th' Young Master... It made 'er different. A step up an' away from all th' rest of us. I don't think I would 'ave minded so much, though - except that my mother was so very bitter... Well I let it get t' me too. I learned to resent 'er. It was me who started th' rumour that saw 'er sent away, an' although it weren't my purpose at the time, I wasn't honestly sorry to see 'er go.
"She hadn't meant to, but through stirrin' my mother's bitterness she 'ad made my life miserable. I hoped I'd never see 'er again. But I did. She came back, more lovely an' more lady-like an' more... special than ever. Everyone was talkin' about 'er, an' Brendan..." Mary's voice cracked suddenly, "Brendan..."
Browning, still hanging on every word, left a polite space for the girl to recover her composure, then encouraged her to continue with a gentleness that could not quite conceal his natural eagerness to hear the rest of the tale. James watched and listened in outward silence, while inwardly his thoughts flew in a wild flurry of memories, self-recriminations, and guilt as he realised suddenly that he had not yet been given time to grieve over the very real tragedy of Brendan's death. Brendan's death...
For a few moments, Mary seemed to lose her nerve entirely. She bit her lip hard and turned her face away as her eyes over-flowed with fresh tears. It was several moments before she found the strength she required to pull the shreds of her consciousness together once more.
"Brendan loved Jessie with all 'is soul," Mary's voice was quiet, tight with an unspoken pain. "One look and she had 'is heart in 'er hands. She never meant to, never tried... An' yet..." Mary shrugged helplessly.
"I loved Brendan Atworth," she confessed rawly, closing her eyes to control the pain. "I've loved 'im since I were ten years old. He never looked at me, though. I always thought that one day 'e would turn an' around and see me there, one day... But when one day came it was Jessie - beautiful, refined, lovely Jessica Evans - she was the only one he could see. It was like... like a hot knife in my 'eart an' suddenly, I 'ated her more than ever.
"That's why... That's why when the gennulman wanted to 'urt 'er, I agreed t' help. I took 'is money an' I told Jessie - "
"Wait a moment, please," Mr. Browning was listening intently, "The gennul - I mean, the gentleman. Who was he? Do you know his name?"
Mary nodded. "Aye," she replied softly, "It were Mr. Darcy's guest. It was Mr. Rutherford."
"Simon." James' voice was deceptively calm as he named his cousin. Beneath the surface, a molten pit of rage simmered furiously. He got to his feet and stalked across the room, wrenching open the door.
The footman posted outside turned in alarm.
"Have Mr. Rutherford brought here at once," James snapped. "No, better yet, tell me where he is."
The footman inclined his head nervously. "I'm sorry Sir," he replied cautiously, "Mr. Rutherford left word that he was going out riding for the afternoon. He'll not be back till nightfall, Sir."
James whirled back to face Browning. "Could he know that he's been incriminated?" He wondered sharply, talking half to himself. "Could he have fled?"
Browning considered, then shook his head. "To have remained in this house even this long indicates that this 'Rutherford' is sure of his impunity. And there is no way he could have known that Miss Mary intended to confess." He turned to Mary. "Is there?"
"No. 'E doesn't know I'm 'ere."
James crossed to the window, peering out at the stark snow-blanketed landscape. "I am going after him," he declared darkly, crossing back to the door.
Browning cleared his throat. "If you would allow me to offer my opinion Sir, I believe the best thing to do know is hear the rest of Miss Mary's story. When Mr. Rutherford returns, and I think there is little doubt that he will, then better to confront him with the all the facts on your side."
James paused, then nodded very slightly. He stalked restlessly back to the window again.
Browning nodded kindly at Mary. "Very well, Miss. You're doing wonderfully. Can you tell us whatever else you know? We were up to your accepting money from the gentleman. What exactly was he requesting that you to do?"
"He told me t' pass a message t' Miss Evans. He said that 'er fiancee wanted t' meet 'er in th' game woods rather than by th' pond. An' gave me a gold coin jus' for runnin' th' message. I s'pose 'e took me for a fool, but I knew right off that 'e was up t' no good. That 'e wanted t' 'urt Jessie. But I..." Mary paused, and flicked a guilty look at James's unyielding back. She swallowed, and continued shamefully: "...I took the money. I carried the message. Jessie believed me, of course, 'cos even after all th' things I said an' all th' years that 'ad passed, the little fool still trusted me..." The angry regret in her voice was only half directed at Jessie.
"I thought my hate was strong enough t' save me from guilt, but... it wasn't. I couldn't shake it off, th' knowledge of what I'd done an' th' fear of what my spite might cause. And so I gave in, I gave in an' I followed Mr. Rutherford, just to make sure... I don't know. I guess t' make sure my conscience would know exactly weight it was t' bear. An' then Jessie arrived, an'..."
James turned to watch her. Mary fixed her eyes intently on the carpet.
"...An' Simon grabbed 'er, an' she screamed an' 'e pushed 'er back against a tree so she hit 'er 'ead. He was talkin' at her, sayin'... I couldn't catch it all but it was somethin' about causin' a scandal and somethin' about an in'eritence..."
Browning looked to James for an explanation, but James did not notice. His expression was set in cold steel as he watched Mary tell her story. Browning made a mental note to ask about this later.
Mary was still talking. "...That's when I got up an' ran. Whatever was happening, I no longer wanted an 'and in it. I wanted it t' stop. I was suddenly so afraid, felt so sick... I ran to the pond, 'cos I knew that Brendan would be there, still waitin' for Jessie t' show... An' she wouldn't, not ever, because of me. Because of me. I screamed for 'im, told 'im Jessie was in trouble in the Game Woods. He ran to 'elp 'er. I followed, but by th' time I got there, all I saw was Brendan on th' ground an' Jessie kneeling over 'im, cryin'... Mr. Rutherford was standin' back, watchin' them, an' 'is face was so white... 'E had a knife in 'is hand, an' it was covered in blood. I watched 'im back away, then look at th' knife an' drop it into th' bushes like it were suddenly too hot t' 'old. An' then 'e ran. An' Jessie began t' keen, an' I knew suddenly that Brendan was dead, he was dead an' she was cryin' over 'is body. I couldn't believe it, couldn't bear it, I jus' dropped t' my knees, hidden there in the bushes, an' I was cryin' too. An' that's 'ow we both stayed until James turned up. I couldn't face 'im... couldn't face any one... An' I ran."
Browning regarded her seriously, rubbing his chin. "And why did you decide now that you wished to confess?" He asked quietly. "Obviously your original intention was that no one should discover your actions. Why change your mind?"
Mary shrugged miserably. "I... I don't know. But somehow... I jus' couldn't live with it one second longer. What with Brendan dead... An' it bein' my fault... An' everyone sayin' that Jessie would be hanged fer murder, with me knowin' she never did nothin' wrong... Not one thing. Not ever..." Her shoulders began to shake. "I jus' couldn't live with it... Couldn't live knowin' that Brendan 'ad died an' then Jessie too - all 'cos I was too afraid, too spiteful to say... th' truth."
Mary's face dropped into her hands and she descended irrecovably into sobs.
Browning stood up and crossed the room. He placed a gentle hand on the weeping girl's shoulder. "It's all right now, dear," he said softly, "You've done the right thing. The truth - " he permitted himself a small sigh of satisfaction - "The truth will be known."
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
~Kahil Gibran
The room was a scene of utmost tranquillity: a fire crackled quietly to itself in the hearth, and the grandfather clock in the corner produced a steady rhythm of soft, deep ticks. A pretty girl lay back against a mountain of pillows on a large, extravagantly canopied bed, her hands crossed quietly on the coverlet before her and her eyes gazing reflectively into space.
It was, of course, an illusion, but one which Jessie found slightly comforting. Her outer calm assisted in keeping her inner distress under control.
So, she was to hang.
At least, that was the impression she gained from Jenny, whose teary and overly kind ministrations were transparently spurred by pity. She was incriminated in the murder of Brendan Atworth, and would hang for it.
It was an infinitely strange feeling, the knowledge that one's own death was imminent. Since Brendan's murder, she had come through a few black, pain-crazed days and nights when she would have welcomed death, and indeed, had hoped for a harsh sentencing to absolve her of the terrible, crushing guilt she could not dismiss.
What had happened to those feelings? The pain and the grief remained, but they were no longer the black, bottomless pit that they had seemed before. From some buried part of her, new reserves of strength were beginning to emerge, offering her a little solid ground to stand on. And now, facing the probability of death, she discovered, even to her own surprise, a fierce will to live.
Beyond that simple instinct, however, many things remained in confusion. How could she go about proving her innocence, when Simon would certainly deny his involvement and do his best to implicate her? The word of a governess against that of a gentleman did not amount to much. For what reason should Simon have to want to kill Brendan?
...But he didn't want to, Jessie recalled. He meant to threaten me, maybe to kill me. Brendan was not expected as part of Simon's equation, and his death was a wild card, an accident. Why threaten me, though? What did he stand to gain by my death? But wait, he did not intend my death either. He said... Jessie closed her eyes, shuddering as she forced herself to recall, through the blur of her fear, the words he had spoken in the Game Woods. "What would he do... if I were to rape you...? He'd probably try and kill me..."
James. He wanted to hurt me to provoke a reaction in James. Something to do with causing scandal, something to do with claiming fortunes... With claiming James's fortune...
Jessie frowned. It would all make sense, except that she remembered James telling her how Simon stood to inherit both his mother's and his father's estates, and both their fortunes. He was the last man in England with a motive for risking himself to claim a pocket of wealth vastly inferior to his own. There was definitely a link missing somewhere. Some key fact that would tie the contradictions together...
Jessie suddenly decided this was getting her no where. It seemed a terrible waste of whatever precious moments of life remained to her to stay in bed a minute longer. She sat up and threw off the bed covers. Crossing the room, she opened a closet and silently blessed Jenny when she found some of her own dresses hanging inside. She donned one quickly, and made for the door.
But as she reached for the handle, it swung open of its own accord.
James paused outside the door to Jessie's room, wondering if he ought to knock. Although her condition had been slowly improving in the three days since her fall, he knew that she still slept most of the time, and he had not yet managed to catch her awake. He decided he had probably waited long enough - if she slept now he would have to wake her. So many things had changed in such a short time!
Immediately after leaving the interview with Mr. Browning and Mary, James had gone to inform his parents of Jessie's reprieve, only to be greeted with his own. His father's objections to his intention to marry Jessie had miraculously evaporated, and his inheritance replaced. If he and Jessie were to wed, they would do so with the blessing of both Elizabeth and Darcy. Unwilling to question the miracle, James had come straight here to Jessie's room, for as yet she knew nothing of their absolution.
Without knocking, he gently pushed the door open, expecting to find her sleeping. Instead, he was presented with a empty bed and a beautiful, fully awake young woman standing just beyond the threshold of the door.
For a split second, they seemed confounded by the sight of one another.
Then, without warning, the moment shattered and both James and Jessie were possessed by the same overwhelming impulse.
Without quite knowing who moved first, they found themselves locked in a fervent embrace, holding one another close with a burning intensity born of a lifetime of separation and restraint.
Neither could have said how long they stood like that, but both felt the overwhelming sense of homecoming. That of all they had done in their lives, this was their ultimate destination - nothing else could ever be so important.
It was James who finally stepped back, but only so that he could look into Jessie's face. She gazed up at him, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears, a helpless response to the intensity of her feelings. James raised his hand to her face, letting his finger-tips brush her cheek and the line of her jaw.
And despite all they had come through to stand at that point, there were now no words to be said. But Jessie and James had never really needed words when they were together.
When James's lips grazed hers for the for the first time, a thousand fantasies dissolved and became obsolete in the face of exquisite reality. The tentative first kiss was repeated quickly, deepening and overtaking all their senses - touch, sight, smell, taste and thought.
Time blurred.
It was most certainly 'too soon' when a quietly persistent cough from the doorway forced them to part.
Mrs. Darcy stood there, her expression a curious mixture of amusement and sobriety. She smiled warmly at Jessie, rather confusing the guiltily blushing young woman, but when she looked to her son, her forehead was lined.
"James," she said quietly, "Simon is returning to the house. He comes in from the stables even now."
Jessie blinked rapidly, then remembered in a rush what she had meant to say earlier, before being... distracted. She turned to James with wide eyes.
"James, I know I've - that is, I - James, I didn't kill Br - "
"It's all right, Jess," he interrupted gently, taking her hand in his, "We already know. Simon killed him."
Jessie's mouth fell open as she looked from Mrs. Darcy to James and back again. "But how could you know? He would never have confessed!"
"I'll tell you everything, believe me, but later. But now we have little time." James looked intently at Jessie and he addressed her seriously: "Jessie, Simon has been out all afternoon but now he's coming back to the house with no idea that his crime's been discovered. A confrontation is unavoidable. If you'd rather not be there - "
Jessie's eyes flashed indignantly. "Not be there?"
James smiled at her, his eyes full of love. "I thought you'd say that," he said, leaning forward swiftly and kissing her on the cheek.
Jessie blushed again, looking to Mrs. Darcy in guilty confusion. Knowing nothing of the change in attitude that had taken place in James's parents, she was thrown off balance by his open displays of affection.
"Well, let's go. Time to bait the lion in his den."
Mrs. Darcy placed a reassuring hand on her son's forearm. "No, James," she reminded him, smiling grimly, "Your den."
Simon stood by the mantelpiece in the library, warming his chilled hands over the roaring fire. He couldn't help indulging in a small, self-satisfied smile. Everything had worked out - he couldn't believe how well.
The blacksmith's death had been an accident, it was true. But it had paid off beautifully: the garden rat had broken down and James had spilled his little secret at last, in the midst of a truly damning scandal. Darcy had been furious, of course, and in perfect accordance with Simon's long-nurtured plans, Pemberley was now without an heir.
But not for long, if he had anything to do with it.
The only remaining blot with the potential to mar his bright future had been the niggling awareness that the murder weapon was missing. In the few moments of shock immediately following the death of the blacksmith, he had dropped his knife. It was a distinctive dagger, easily identifiable to him.
Unlikely as it was with all the snow which had fallen, if any one were to find it he would be instantly connected with the crime and that was not something he could risk. Hence his decision to go 'riding' in the snow. Never mind how odd it had looked, though - luck had been with him, and now he could feel the hard, cold metal shape tucked into his coat. Simon's smile grew wider.
The knowledge that Miss Evans stood a good chance of recovering and telling her side of the story did not phase him overly much. She was at best a shamed governess, at worst a murderous whore. Any accusations she cared to make would be groundless and ridiculous when measured against his word as a gentleman.
The sound of the Library door opening interrupted his ruminations, and he turned to see the Master of Pemberley enter, followed closely by his wife.
Simon bowed politely in greeting. Mrs. Darcy returned a tight smile, which caught his attention briefly. He could hardly fail to notice that her affection for him, never very robust, had waned in recent weeks. Perhaps her strained attempt at warmth meant that a decision had been made which she disapproved of. Perhaps his scheming had already paid off...
Before he could complete that train of thought, two more figures entered. He did an admirable job of concealing his surprise as he recognised James, hand in hand with Miss Jessica Evans. A faintly uneasy feeling hovered in his stomach as he looked from couple to couple, but he pushed it aside. Whatever was happening here, brash confidence on his part would be sure to tide him over until he was back in control.
Jessie did not give him that chance. "Hello, Simon," she said prettily, smiling acidically.
Simon was not thrown quite so easily. He raised one aristocratic eyebrow, and looked her up and down with apparent surprise and disdain. A deeper spark in his cool blue eyes danced, mocking her, daring her to accuse him openly. He had no doubt that if she tried, her attempts to implicate a nobleman would only leave her looking guiltier.
Without acknowledging James, he addressed the elder Darcys with a demeanor of sober concern. "You are braver than I should be in your circumstances," he told them seriously, "Are you certain it's quite... safe to have Miss Evans wandering about the grounds unrestrained? After all, she did kill a man. Shouldn't she be confined until she can be taken away for trial?"
"And that is how you think a guilty criminal ought to be treated, is it Simon?" James inserted, ignoring the fact that the question had not been addressed to him. "Locked up? 'Restrained'?"
Simon turned to regard him coolly. "Indeed, sir. Especially one," he turned back to the Darcys, "Who has bought such shame upon your house and your good name." He shook his head sadly. "After all that you did for her - for both of them - they repay you like this. Allow me to share my condolences, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, for I do appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to cut off a son..."
Jessie gasped softly and looked at James, who squeezed her hand in gentle reassurance without taking his eyes off his cousin's face.
"...but I hope you will not mind me saying: there can be no doubt that you have done the right thing. It will be a terrible scandal indeed when Master Darcy's peasant-mistress is tried for the murder of her fiancée, but good society, I'm sure, will be much more understanding when it becomes known that you have recognised his guilt and disconnected yourself from him. A very fair, very strong gesture on your part."
Simon stole a quick glance around at his audience. Jessie was looking at him with unconcealed disgust, James with calm disdain. The elder Mr. Darcy, however, appeared quite impassive, while Mrs. Darcy seemed only speculative.
He took all of this as a good sign, and decided to take things one more step. "Of course," he pondered slowly, "It's never a good idea to leave these things uncertain, with the times being the way they are..."
"Leave what uncertain, Simon?" Elizabeth inquired severely.
Simon feigned surprise. "Why, the inheritance of Pemberley of course. I'm sure it has occurred to you, Mrs. Darcy, that Pemberley is presently without a legal heir. It may appear insensitive, but with your best interests in mind, I do suggest you seek another. It's a dangerous thing to let these matters remain unsettled."
Darcy's left eyebrow lifted slightly, then dropped again as he resumed his impassive expression. "You are quite right, Simon," he agreed soberly, "The matter has been much on my mind these past few days. Of course, the estate will eventually go to the sons of our younger daughter Catherine, but that is a long way off. My sister Georgiana has only daughters. That brings me to you, of course, but I have been forced to conclude that a young man who already stands to inherit two estates, a title and a large independent fortune is hardly a candidate for further responsibility of the magnitude of Pemberley..."
A curious thing happened then. Simon's face actually darkened, as if a shadow had passed across it. For weeks the Darcys had witnessed nothing but polished acting from their guest. Now that a genuine emotion was revealed to them, it only highlighted the superficiality of every other feeling he had feigned to express.
"Do not let such reservations hamper your thoughts, Mr. Darcy," he near-snarled, "Be assured that I stand to inherit nothing from my father besides his title - and that only because he could not have it revoked." His countenance cleared slowly as he regained control over his outburst of emotion. "So you see," he continued, more restrained now, "I would have no difficulty - would indeed be honoured - in taking on the responsibility of Pemberley estate."
There was a heavy pause, then James's voice was heard, low and dark. "So that's it. You b*****d."
Simon looked at him without comprehension. "That's what?"
"That's what you've been at all along. From the moment you set foot in this house. You lost your own inheritance and you sought to steal mine. You saw what I felt for Jessie and you manipulated it every way you could to turn it into a scandal that would turn my own parents against me."
Simon laughed lightly, but his voice had grown slightly strained. "That's ridiculous, James. Everything that has happened you have brought upon yourself. I could hardly force you to dally with the little garden rat, could I?"
"No, that you couldn't. Jessie and I have loved one another for longer than we remember. But you are failing to recall, Simon, that Jessie would have nothing to do with me and engaged herself to another man to save us both from scandal. And without any option left except to respect the distance she begged of me, I stayed away. There's no scandal in that, is there Simon? It thwarted all your plans. So you got desperate. You tricked Jessie into entering the Game Woods alone. You threatened her with a knife, and with rape. Anything to guarantee a reaction from me."
Both Jessie and Simon were staring at James, the former in surprise and the latter in horror. Neither knew anything of Mary's presence or of her subsequent confession. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, who had been informed of everything before Browning left Pemberley, watched this confrontation with no little satisfaction.
Simon's face, which had paled significantly, now began to flush red. He assumed it was Jessie who had told James all of this, but damn it, he hadn't counted on them figuring so much out! He attempted to defend himself, but James pressed on, drowning him out.
"But you were interrupted, weren't you Simon?" James felt Jessie's hand tighten convulsively in his, but he knew he could not afford to spare her this pain. "A man named Brendan Atworth stepped in on behalf of the lady, and in the heat of the moment you stabbed him, and you killed him."
Simon's hand drifted involuntarily toward the dagger beneath his coat, then away again. "This is slanderous," he spluttered, his eyes darting desperately around the room for a chance to escape the situation. His control was crumbling.
"Slanderous, Simon?" James's eyes narrowed as he watched the man's hand drift again toward a faint outline under his jacket.
"You have no proof! The word of you little whore against mine! Just imagine my side of the story - a rich man's peasant mistress trying to accuse me of murder! You can't honestly expect any court in the country to - "
James lunged forward, and Simon recoiled, expecting to be struck, but instead of swinging his fist, James grabbed the collar of the other man's coat and wrenched it down. The garment did not come all the way off, but the gesture served its purpose: something metal dropped quietly onto the carpet.
Both James and Simon lurched toward it, but James was there first. Simon lunged again, but James raised the knife and Simon dropped back once more.
The whole room saw clearly the dried blood still marking the ornate, long-bladed weapon.
James smiled grimly. "Last mystery solved, Simon," he said quietly, "We now know why you were so compelled all of sudden to go horse-riding. You sought to recover your knife - the one thing that could incriminate you beyond doubt."
Simon swayed slightly, then stumbled over the couch and collapsed with his head in his hands.
James let the knife drop cautiously, and watched Simon's defeat without emotion. Not even Jessie could summon pity for the hated man.
It was Elizabeth who spoke next, and her words were unexpected. "That wasn't exactly the last mystery, James," she pointed out quietly, "I would know what it was that Simon did to cause his father to disinherit him."
Simon looked up slowly, his face twisting bitterly. "What did I do?" He whispered, "What did I do? Ha. I gambled away his best horse when I was drunk. I slept with his mistress. I stole money from him to supplement my allowance. I gambled that too. And then one morning, I slept in late. I slept - in - late! And without warning he came roaring into my room, saying it was the last straw and that he was disowning me as a son. That was it - he couldn't be dissuaded. And the b*****d threw me out without a penny."
James and Darcy both looked on him with disgust at the explanation, but Elizabeth's brow remained furrowed. "But if not you, Simon, then who inherits the fortune and the estates?"
Simon shrugged, and his expression grew snarled with anger. "The crazy old man raves about some woman he tumbled with years ago, who swore she was having his child. He used to get drunk sometimes and say that she was the only woman he ever loved. Ever since he wiped me from his family tree the bloody fool has been looking for that woman and her bastard, swearing the brat is going to be his heir." His fists clenched furiously. "He'll never find them. No get of a whore is going to take Castleden and Rosings from me while I'm still living!"
Jessie's strangled gasp brought all gazes around to fix on her. She did not notice them, seeing only Simon. Her face was white and her eyes wide and staring. James reached out in concern, but she brushed him off without even seeing him, moving toward Simon on unsteady legs. The whole room held their breath as she reached him, and Simon was no less surprised than any one else when her cool fingers touched his face, raising his chin so that his gaze held steady with hers.
Startled, angry dark-sapphire eyes stared back at her, framed by black lashes and arching eyebrows.
Very slowly, she drew her hand away, straightened up, and stepped back.
"Brother..." she whispered clearly into the silence, before her legs gave way beneath her and she crumpled into blessed darkness.
The more I live,
The more I know.
What's simple is true -
I love you.
~Jewel
For a moment, everyone was too stunned to move. Then all at once the spell was broken and the Darcys all surged forward at once to tend to the girl lying unconscious on the floor.
Simon took only moments to apprehend the situation and take advantage of it. He didn't quite know what to make of Jessie's strange gesture, but he was more than ready to believe her mad. It didn't matter now anyway. In mere seconds, the attention would be back on him.
He rose silently, and edged toward the door. He almost made it before he heard James shout. Giving up on stealth, he broke into a sprint.
James leapt to his feet and followed, still shouting.
Simon had the head start, and he was a good match for James in speed. The two young men pelted through the halls as servants threw themselves out of their path and pressed themselves against walls to avoid them.
Simon saw an open door and sped toward it, slamming it behind him. James skidded to a stop and wrenched it open again, losing more ground. He caught a glimpse of Simon rounding another corner, and found himself in Pemberley's entrance hall. Simon was sprinting for the door.
Swearing softly, James pursued him.
Striking the soft snow that blanketed the outdoors, Simon stumbled and slowed. Now James was able to follow in the trail Simon forged, and gained on him quickly.
Just as Simon twisted his head to see where his pursuer was, James tackled him into the snow. They both rolled, and Simon fought back viciously, catching James a heavy blow to the stomach and shoulder. James responded with equal fury, struggling for the upper hand.
In this case, however, James's superior strength couldn't match Simon's greater fighting experience. James landed more than one hefty punch, but Simon's tricks came dangerously close to pinning him in the snow again and again. Each time, the stronger man managed to buck free at the last moment, but his luck couldn't hold forever.
Inevitably, Simon fought his way to dominance - slamming James flat in the snow and pinning him there. His desperation-glazed eyes stared into the beaten man's with an angry vacancy that bordered on madness. Concentrating his weight on keeping James pressed to the ground, he opened his mouth to speak.
James often wondered what he had been about to say, but there was no way to know. For it was at that moment that Simon's weight was lifted entirely away. James rolled automatically onto his side, wincing as his bruised body protested. He blinked several times and looked up.
Tom Evans stood before him, holding the struggling Simon aloft and regarding the man with a look of puzzlement on his weathered face. Ox-like though Tom was, Simon's attempts to free himself were making his observations difficult. Very casually, Tom reached out and clipped Simon on the side of the head. The blow knocked him out instantly.
"It can't be 'im," Tom was mumbling, his forehead heavily furrowed, "Can't possibly be 'im... But by Christ, it looks like 'im..."
James did not understand. From the ground, he hoarsely voiced his thanks for Tom's interference, but received no response.
Sitting up painfully, he rested for a minute while Tom continued to study the limp Simon's face.
Neither man was facing the house, and so neither observed the small trio approaching from that direction.
After waiting a few more seconds, James climbed awkwardly to his feet. He looked at Tom. "His name is Simon Rutherford," he hazarded, still utterly bemused by Tom's behaviour and hoping for an explanation.
Tom looked up with a start. "Rutherford?" He echoed sharply.
James nodded, then stopped as the motion caused his head to spin slightly. "Yes." He paused, the prodded again. "Why, do you know the name?"
"Yes," The sudden voice from behind them caused both to look around. "He knows the name."
Jessie stood there, leaning heavily on Darcy's arm for support, with Elizabeth on her right. Her face was still pale but her expression was clear and determined.
James met his father's eye, silently demanding why he had allowed the weakened girl to come out into the snow. Darcy lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug, and James understood. He knew very well that when Jessie was resolved to do something, there was little any one could do to dissuade her.
"...He knows the name," she continued, "Although 'Maxim Rutherford' would be more familiar than 'Simon'."
Tom's grip on Simon seemed to fail - the unconscious man slid from his grasp and crumpled into the snow. Jessie met his shocked gaze without faltering, knowing that this time, he hadn't mistaken her for any one else. It was Jessie that he saw and her words which he heard.
The Darcys could only look from the old man to the young woman in confusion. They had no idea what was going on between the two. Jessie's next statement did little to ease their bewilderment.
"Maxim Rutherford," she said softly, not taking her eyes off Tom, "Is the name of my real father."
Tom's mouth moved, but produced no sound. He looked away, flicking his hands in a helpless gesture.
James stepped forward and gained her attention by taking her hand in his. "Jessie... How...?" He shook his head in confusion.
Jessie gave him her other hand. "I would have told you, James," she said softly, "But it was only very recently that discovered it myself. My mother's name was Alice Martin, the daughter of a country squire somewhere in Kent. She fell in love with a man named Maxim who was engaged to a wealthy heiress. When she found herself pregnant with his child, he refused to recognise them, so she swiftly married a laborer, who promised her child his name. Only she died giving birth to that child."
She looked back to Tom. "And that child was me," she added softly, pausing. Tom still could not bring himself to look at her. She returned her attention to James. "It was my grandmother who told me this much, but she could not tell me my father's second name. Alice never divulged it, perhaps because she never wanted me to be connected with him. I knew the name of the heiress's estate, though: Rosings Park. And when Simon mentioned it as the estate he was due to inherit, I remembered... And when I stepped forward to look into his eyes I saw... I saw..." She looked away, biting her lip.
James looked from Jessie to Simon. What had she seen in his eyes? And suddenly the realisation overtook him, rocking him to the core.
Jessie saw herself in Simon's eyes. The distinctive dark sapphire iris, the shape of the lid, the curved brows... How was it that no one had picked up the similarity in their faces!?
"He's your brother," he whispered, understanding at last, "Simon Rutherford is your brother... And Lord Cauldwell is your father. And you... You are the heir to the greatest fortune in all England!"
Jessie shook her head furiously. "I am no such thing!" She declared hotly, "I will take nothing from the man who abandoned my mother! I will not be indebted to such a creature as he!"
She pulled her hands from James's hold and went to stand before Tom. He was still trying to avoid her gaze, but she stared fiercely until he had no choice but to look at her. Jessie demanded all of his attention before she would talk.
"Maxim Rutherford may be my sire," she told him, her voice soft and very serious, "But you, Tom, were always my father.
"I will not pretend that you were a wonderful one. But now, at least, I understand why things were the way they were. I was the child of the one man you rightly hated, and through my birth I took away the one woman you truly loved. And when my mother died, the only thread that bound me to you was snapped. And yet... you kept me with you, you and Mrs. Evans. What little you had, you shared with me. You fed me, clothed me - even tried to protect me. And for that much, Tom, I thank you."
As she finished, tears swam in Tom's tired hazel eyes. He looked at Jessie now, his gaze for once unclouded by alcohol and hallucination, and he saw for the first time a beautiful, strong young woman... to whom he had no claim at all.
A terrible burden of regret descended on his already-bowed shoulders as he recognised in her eyes the broken remnants of the love she had once held for him - love which he had killed through twenty years of rejection and abuse. Love which might have been his redemption, if he had only been able to let go of the past...
Jessie saw that she had touched him, and found that her own throat was tight with a raw emotion she had not expected to feel. She hesitated.
A small tear trickled over Tom's prematurely lined cheek, and her hesitation crumbled into recklessness. Impulsively, she opened her arms and hugged her father - the only one she had ever known.
And then, in what had to be the second greatest miracle she had ever known, she realised that he was returning the embrace.
Tears pricked at her eyes, then overflowed down her cheeks. And although her face was turned into Tom's chest, she found herself smiling.
She wished that Alice could see them now. And who knew - perhaps she could.
She was sure her Mama would be smiling too.
Two Days Later...
Elizabeth was just preparing to leave the nursery after seeing Cathy to bed, when she heard the slam of a door from the floor above. The bang was followed by raised voices, muffled by the floorboards. Kissing the still soundly sleeping child on the forehead, Elizabeth frowned and left the nursery, closing the door softly behind her.
She climbed the stairs, following the voices, and met her husband on the landing. He too had been drawn by the arguing voices. Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a look of surprise as they recognised that they belonged to James and Jessie.
"...know that, but Jess, don't you understand? It doesn't matter! I love you and I swear I will not let you go again!"
"James, I understand that you love me, and you know very well that I love you." Jessie's voice was not so loud, but just as strained and unhappy as James's, "That is not an issue - it's something we both know, just as we've always known it and always will. You say that nothing else matters, but you're wrong James! You can say it now, when we're sheltered here in the country with people who love us, but that's not how it will always be! What will you say in a month, when your friends at the London clubs will shun you for marrying a girl who is barely mistress material, let alone fit as a wife? In a year, when we will be snubbed and shunned whenever we venture near fashionable society? In ten years when your children will not be considered worthy playmates for others of their class because of their mother's 'peasant stock'?"
"But you are not of peasant stock, Jess! For God's sake you are better born than I am, only on the wrong side of the blanket!"
Jessie's voice grew quieter, but no less angry. "Do not connect me to that man, James. Ever. His right to me ended the day he turned my mother away. I will never recognise him as my father just to get my hands on his fortune. His money can not buy me back as his daughter. I am Jessie Evans, and I was brought up in a gardener's cottage. Nothing can change that."
"Then don't take the money, don't recognise Lord Cauldwell, I don't care. This isn't about money any way, it's about your silly self-deprecating idea of not being a good enough wife for me! Where the hell did all this social humility come from, Jessie?"
His voice softened. "Where's the girl who stood with her hands on her hips and told me I was ugly? Who beat me at pebbles every single time we played? Who was my equal, if not my better, in everything that we attempted? You know that it's rubbish, this business of refusing to marry because 'society' will frown on us! Since when did you care about society?"
"Since I realised I loved an aristocrat, that's when!" Jessie sighed, and her voice turned pleading, "James, you don't seem to realise just how difficult it would be - for both of us, and for our families..."
"I'm not trying to say it won't be difficult, Jess!" James interrupted, angry and frustrated. There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his tone had changed. He sounded tired. "I never said that," he repeated softly, "But sometimes... you have to fight the hardest for that which you believe in most. And I believe in us. I just wish I could make you believe the same."
Still listening outside the door, and feeling more than a little guilty for eavesdropping, Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged another worried look. A moment later, James opened the door. He looked at his parents without surprise or recrimination - just shrugged helplessly and mumbled something about going riding for a while.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something - she wasn't sure what - but her husband had already stepped forward.
"Go with your mother, James," he said quietly.
He paused to look at his wife. She inclined her head slightly in question, even as she moved forward to take James's unresisting arm.
"I'd like to speak with Miss Evans," He explained simply, then turned and walked calmly into the room James had just left, closing the door quietly behind him.
James looked from the closed door to his mother in dulled confusion. "What is he - ?" He began, but Elizabeth's expression was just as wondering as his.
The mumble of soft voices could be heard now, but no distinct words. Elizabeth and James looked at one another, then by unspoken agreement, moved to a small couch a little way down the hall. Neither wanted to move too far away.
Interminable minutes ticked by, and still the voices murmured on. Mostly the low rumble of Darcy's speech, but occasionally interspersed with Jessie's fainter, more emotional tones.
Ten minutes.
James looked around. Got to his feet. Paced. Sat down.
Fifteen.
He tapped his fingers and got up again. Paced. Sat down.
Twenty minutes.
He made to get to his feet once more, but Elizabeth put out a firmly restraining hand. "No more!" She said commanded, only half-joking. "You'll drive your poor mother insane. No more."
James bit his lip and bowed to her request. Another minute passed. And another.
The voices stopped.
James's head jerked up. The door opened a crack, then wider. James climbed to his feet, waiting, expectant.
And then the door was open and Jessie's beloved form came flying from the room. Without slowing down, she threw herself into his arms.
He caught her joyfully, unable to believe that such a change was possible. The last of his doubts were swept away, however, when his ringing ears absorbed what she was saying.
"I will marry you, James..." She looked up at him, and although her face was blotched with tears, her smile was beaming, dazzling him. "After all," she added impishly, "It would be very prejudiced of me to refuse you on account of your station." He couldn't comprehend how her joy could mean so much to him, how one person could elicit in him this much love.
Elizabeth's eyes were wide as she observed the happy reunion, as astonished as James had been at the transformation. Her gaze drifted past them to focus on her husband, who was standing in the doorway of the room, watching the couple with a small, fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
He met her gaze, and his dark eyes warmed as he looked at her. Elizabeth smiled in return, her own eyes bright and her heart ready to burst with love for him, and for what he had done.
And although in years to come she was to ask him over and over what it was he had said to Jessie that day, he would only smile and say, "You should know, Lizzie. It was everything that you taught to me."
And that was all the explanation she ever did receive.
Jessie found it difficult to know exactly what she was feeling as she made her way slowly up the path toward the old gardener's cottage. Yet again, she was stuck by how little had changed here. And although she could not claim a happy childhood within those walls, it was somehow reassuring to find that it had remained the same, steady and immutable, year after year.
She knocked softly, and ran the scene that would follow over in her mind. Gran would shuffle to the door. She would open it an inch. Then she would peer out, squinting with her faded eyes, demanding to know who was there.
"It's me, Gran," Jessie replied, smiling quietly to herself as the pattern played itself out once again. "I've come to tell you something." She paused for a moment. "I am to marry."
There was a pause, then without making a reply, Ma Evans shuffled back into the dimness of the cottage. Unsurprised by her abruptness, Jessie followed, and sat down opposite her grandmother at the scarred old table before the fire.
For a long minute, Ma Evans spoke not a word. She glared sightlessly into the flames, silent and absorbed, as though Jessie was not present at all.
Accustomed to her grandmother's ways, Jessie waited patiently for a response. And at length, her patience was rewarded.
Without looking away from the fire, Ma said suddenly, "I don't need t' ask 'oo yer marryin', I suppose."
"No Gran. You don't need to ask."
The old woman nodded slowly, and fell silent again.
This time, Jessie filled in with: "James and I hoped that you might take another house, Gran. You and Tom. Then you could get some proper help for your eyes, and Tom might not drink so much..."
Ma Evans shook her head sharply. "Nay, girl, don't start gettin' such ideas in yer 'ead. Me? In some fancy place wi' carpets an' maids? Not likely." She paused, considered, and continued more slowly. "I were born in a mud-thatched hut, child, so this 'ere cottage is more'n good enough fer me. We all 'ave our proper station in life, an' I know mine."
Jessie listened to her grandmother in dismay, interpreting the candid words as they sounded.
"Is that what you think, Gran?" She asked softly, looking down at her hands, "That I was born in a laborer's cottage and ought not seek so far beyond that? That I'm forgetting my proper station by marrying James?"
Ma Evans was silent for a long time.
Jessie swallowed hard, suddenly sorry that she had come. To know that her wise old grandmother did not approve of the match which meant more than life to her was a heavy burden on her mind - a mind already loaded with anxiousness over her decision to become the wife of James Darcy.
She would not go back on it, of course. As her soon-to-be father-in-law had pointed out, when you loved someone more than life, all the rules and trappings of life must take second place to that love. And although she was prepared to set all the rules and conventions she had ever been taught at the back of her mind, she could not forget that they were there.
Unwilling to remain any longer in what seemed to her a painfully disapproving silence, Jessie stood up to go.
"I know tha' yer nowt like us, Jessie," her grandmother said suddenly, causing her to start and turn back.
Ma Evans still did not turn around, but her voice was clear and measured. "Ye never were, I think. Ye were born in a laborer's cottage, 'tis true, an' grew up wi' servants... but ye never did belong t' us. It were never yer 'proper station'. Now... Now I believe ye've found yer place." She turned around to face her granddaughter at last. "An' it's where ye always belonged, Jessie."
Cautiously and blindly, Ma Evans stretched out her hand. Jessie almost ran forward to grasp it in hers.
Ma Evans's ancient features creased slowly into a soft smile. "Be happy now, Jessie," she said quietly, "Be happy."
And I don't regret the rain
Or the nights I felt the pain
Or the tears I had to cry
Some of those times along the way.
Every road I had to take
Every time my heart would break,
It was just something that I had to get through
To get me to you.
~Lila McCann, song lyrics
James came down the stairs two at a time, whistling a soft tune as he reached the bottom. It was a week today before the date of his marriage to Jessie, and the bright morning reflected his mood exactly. Although he was conscious that Jessie still had reservations, he was confident he could prove that the risks and sacrifices they took were worth it. He smiled. Thinking of Jessie had that effect on him these days.
He was making his way toward his study when a small commotion from the entrance hall caught his attention and he changed course.
Smithington, the head butler, stood in the door way arguing impassively with a rather forceful visitor.
"...afraid, my Lord, that there is no one here who fits that description. If you desire an audience with Mr. Darcy then I may endeavour to arrange that for you, but - "
"Damn you man, get out of my way before I have you sacked. I don't care to see Mr. Darcy, I want to see - "
"Smithington, what's going on here?" James approached the scene with a furrowed brow. "Who is this man and why - "
But he didn't need to finish that question as he drew near enough to recognise the man standing on the other side of the door.
"Lord Cauldwell is calling, Master James," Smithington supplied unnecessarily, bowing in deference.
James's eyes narrowed. "Yes, so I see," he observed coolly.
"Your son has been taken from this place, Sir," he addressed the man shortly, "If you wish to see him you will have to travel back to London and ask the jailers at Newgate."
At the age of forty-six, Lord Cauldwell remained an upright, reasonably handsome man. His auburn hair was fading, true, and overindulgences in life's excesses had left their mark, but his cool sapphire-blue eyes were sharp as ever as he looked James up and down, returning the young man's disdain.
"You must be Darcy's boy," he observed diffidently, "Well as it happens, young man, I haven't come to see my son. In fact, I'll be quite well pleased never to lay eyes on the blighter ever again. No indeed." He paused.
"I have come to see my daughter."
James turned to Smithington and nodded very slightly in dismissal. The butler looked surprised for a moment, then recovered himself, bowed, and departed.
James turned back to Lord Cauldwell, but did not invite him in. His voice, when he spoke, was stony and cold. "You have no daughter here, sir. I suggest that you leave this place and abandon your search."
Lord Cauldwell lifted himself up to his full height. "You watch your mouth around me, young man! I will not go, nor will I abandon this search - not until I've found what I'm looking for. The rumour has reached me that a young woman residing here believes herself to be my daughter. I'll not be leaving until I have seen her with my own eyes."
"Then you had best prepare yourself for a long siege, Sir," James replied smoothly, "For the rumour you speak of does not desire to be verified."
Lord Cauldwell's face began to darken. "Do not speak in riddles to me, you insolent pup! I've stated my business here and I will see it out, even if I have to - "
"James!" Both men looked up, and both were promptly rendered speechless.
Jessie stood at the top of the main staircase. Golden sunlight from the upper windows of the entrance hall poured onto the landing where she stood. From the bottom of the stairs, the flooding light above and behind her turned her loosely tied hair into a halo of soft flame, and traced a glowing silhouette around her flawless figure. The effect was breathtaking.
Lord Cauldwell and James were each transfixed, but for different reasons.
"Holy Mother of God..." Whispered the older man, barely moving his lips. "Alice...?"
Oblivious to her appearance and to the presence of the other man, Jessie smiled radiantly and picked up her skirts to run down the stairs toward James.
It was not until she reached the bottom that she realised James had been talking to a stranger, and she had interrupted. She blushed faintly, and moved to stand beside James.
"Good morning, Sir," she smiled openly, "I do apologise for interrupting, I did not notice you there when I called out."
The man she addressed seemed incapable of a reply. Jessie's smile faltered a little as he only stared at her with an inexplicable intensity. Her gaze flickered uneasily toward James, whose expression told her instantly what she had started to guess - something of great import was taking place here.
James reached out and took her hand in his, and the gentleness of his action was at odds with the cold tone of his voice when he addressed the stranger. "This is my fiancee, Miss Jessica Evans."
He then turned to her, catching and holding her gaze in his to speak softly and seriously.
"Jessie. This is Lord Cauldwell of Castleden Estate."
Jessie blinked.
She heard another voice speaking and turned automatically in the direction it issued from. "And you," the tall stranger was saying, his composure and confidence now restored, "Are most certainly my daughter."
Jessie wasn't sure how she resisted the overwhelming compulsion to spit at the man's feet.
Her hand clutched James's so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Lord Cauldwell, oblivious to the cold light in the girl's stare, was still enchanted by how very much this woman resembled Alice.
"You have your mother's face and form," he exclaimed wonderingly, then added with considerable satisfaction, "The hair and the eyes, though - especially the eyes - they are pure Rutherford!" He chuckled proudly. "No, there is no doubt that you are who you say you are, girl. Jessica, isn't it? Jessica. Hmm. Not the name I would have chosen but pretty enough. And engaged to the Darcy boy, you say? Come come, you can do better than that! You're the richest young woman in all England now, Jessica. Marry a Duke, or at least a Lord. They'll be falling over themselves to claim your hand once I announce that you are to be my heir. And now that I've found you, I'll waste no time announcing it. What do you say to that, eh? Speechless?"
"Not generally, my Lord," Jessie responded icily. "It is only you to whom I have nothing to say."
Lord Cauldwell's smug excitement wavered.
"You may be right when you say that my eyes and my hair bear resemblance to yours," she continued coldly, "But believe me sir, I would change them if I could, if only to wipe every trace of your connection with me clean from my life. I've no interest on your money, your land, your dukes, or even your person. The day you turned my mother away weeping, you forfeited your right to know me, see me, or claim the title 'father'. Take yourself away from this place and seek another heir, my Lord. You must have dozens of miserable bastard children blotting the countryside. Go and thrust your wealth at them - their love will no doubt be more easily bought than mine."
Lord Cauldwell's eyebrows drew together in consternation at her incomprehensible response. He offered her wealth and privilege like she had never known, and she rejected it? She denied him as her father? He did not understand it. Perhaps she had a right to resent the fact that he had not played an exactly active role in her upbringing, but considering the magnitude of the compensation he offered, he had not expected hostility. In his experience, money was an infallible balm for any affliction or hurt. Except...
Except. Ah yes. Except for Alice. Money hadn't helped him there. He had not been able to buy her as his mistress, nor had his fortune been enough to purchase his own peace of mind after he let her go.
Maxim Rutherford, Lord Cauldwell, had never been a particularly sensitive or insightful man. His understanding of what it was he lost the day he turned Alice Martin away was limited. His life had always been selfish - his soul shadowed and flawed. He did not, and perhaps could not, comprehend the nature of a love as untainted as that which Alice had showered on him. And yet the awareness that he had held something rare and precious in his grasp, only to cast it thoughtlessly aside, was biting and sharp. And incessant.
There was nothing he had ever regretted more in his life than letting Alice Martin go. Her memory would not leave him. And as he grew more and more unimpressed with the legitimate heir his brief marriage had provided, he began to wonder more and more about the child Alice had claimed to carry. Of course, he had never seriously doubted that it was his. And when at last he decided that Simon was unfit to claim the Rutherford fortune, he was free to fix his mind on the idea seeking out Alice and his child, wherever they might be, and somehow reclaim what he had lost. This he would do by means of the best mediator in the world - money.
He had forgotten, of course, that Alice, and apparently her daughter too, were exceptions to the laws of human nature. The thought both flummoxed and pleased him, heightening his awareness of Alice and her child as somehow special.
Unexpectedly, in view of Jessie's cold declaration, Lord Cauldwell smiled. "It was your mother, I suppose, who has taught you to think in this way. Money did not impress her, either. It is a singular condition, and I do not profess to comprehend it, yet I am glad to see you have inherited it, Jessica."
"I learned nothing from my mother, my Lord," Jessie replied bluntly, "She died twenty years ago, giving birth to me."
And Maxim actually blanched. An entirely unfamiliar sensation of grief-stricken horror overwhelmed him, followed by a viscous stab of guilt. He reeled slightly, leaning heavily on his walking cane to keep himself upright.
Jessie watched his reaction uncertainly, but said nothing and offered no assistance.
"Dead!" He whispered disbelievingly, "All these years... dead!"
Lord Cauldwell took several minutes to recover himself sufficiently to speak, but the colour did not return to his cheeks, and his eyes, having lost some of their brash arrogance to shock, seemed duller and sadder than before.
Like all of his behaviour throughout the conversation, his next actions were unanticipated.
Asking no more questions about the nature of Alice's death or Jessie's life since then, he fixed his gaze determinedly in the distance and declared steadfastly, "The child of Alice Martin will be my heir. I will not take another. The documents will be sent to you. Now that I have seen you, I will not seek you out again. You bear me no obligation, since I have borne none to you."
He looked at his daughter as if to memorize her image, and there was an unspoken finality in his gesture. Just for a moment his eyes met hers. He looked away quickly, unable to hold her gaze.
"This is all I know how to give, Jessica," he said, his voice strangely tight and his face still turned away from her, "Accept it..."
And with that Maxim turned, and very slowly, made his way down the wide front steps of Pemberley. A large, richly upholstered carriage waited for him in the driveway. A sober-faced servant helped him into the cab, and closed the door behind him.
Still hand in hand, Jessie and James stood framed in the massive doorway, and watched the carriage roll away.
For a long minute, they stood in silence. Finally, James asked quietly, "What are you thinking?"
Jessie stared after the disappearing carriage. Another minute passed before she replied.
"I was thinking... how terrible to live a life that is hollow at core, and never realise." Another pause, and Jessie's voice dropped to a whisper.
"But how much worse to discover it... too late."
The day had dawned cold and clear. A high, pale blue sky spanned above the white landscape, and a fresh layer of snow, fallen during the night, crunched sharply underfoot.
Jessie's breath streamed before her in billowing white clouds as she walked. In one hand, she clutched her thick woolen skirts to hold them out of the snow. In the other she held a beautiful spray of wine-red roses.
She crossed fields and clambered over styles. She passed one or two early-rising villagers, and acknowledged them briefly without stopping. She had only one destination that morning.
And finally, after just under an hour on foot, she reached it.
Being only a small town, the Lambton church was not an overly large or grand structure. It was an ancient little building constructed out of mossy grey stone, and skirted by an old cemetery full of crumbling gravestones and a quiet sadness.
Jessie made her way slowly down the newest row of tombstones, then stopped and kneeled to brush the snow from an inscription.
Born
June 1811
Gone to God
December 1835
Very carefully, she divided the spray of roses she held and laid them gently before the grave stone.
For several long minutes, she sat there in silence, her head bowed and her eyes pricking sharply.
Yet no tears fell.
"You see that I'm not crying, Brendan," she whispered at last. "And I won't cry any more, I promise you. Because I know that was never what you wanted for me. You gave up so much, forgave so much, suffered so much - all because you wanted me to be happy. So I'm going to try now, Brendan. I'm going to remember you everyday, and even when that hurts... I'm going to smile."
She climbed slowly to her feet, but did not walk away. For another few minutes she stood in silence, looking down at the grey stone.
"You know that I loved you, Brendan," she continued softly, "And I do still. You were truly the best man I have ever known. But... God destined me for another.
"I don't think I ever lied to you about where my heart lay. We never deluded ourselves on that account. I just... want you to know that if we had married, I would have done my best to make you happy. Whether I would have succeeded or not - who can tell? But God help me, Brendan: for you, I would have tried."
Very gently, Jessie kissed her finger-tips and leaned down to press them against Brendan's name, inscribed in the cold stone.
Straightening up, she walked over to an older part of the grave yard, stopping again to brush snow from the epitaph of a plain, simple tombstone.
Beloved wife of Tom Evans
Rest in Peace.
Jessie kneeled once more to place the remaining roses on the snow-covered grave.
"It's been a long time, Alice," she told her mother quietly, "I know I used to come and talk to you often when I was a little girl, but I've been away, you see. Far away." She paused.
"It hasn't been easy, Alice. There's been so much pain, so many tears. I can't believe how much I have hurt. But you know, I think it's just like James said. There are some things that you have to fight for. And the more precious the purpose, the harder the fight will be. Well I've fought hard, Alice. And I'm going to keep on fighting. That's something I want you to know."
And then Jessie sat silently for a long minute, stroking the petals of the roses very gently with one finger, and thinking.
"Jessie?"
Jessie's head snapped up, and to her surprise she saw James approaching over the snow. She tilted her head in an unspoken query.
"I received your note," he said, arriving by her side slightly out of breath. He looked down at the inscription of the grave she was sitting before.
"Oh," he said softly, "Would you like me to leave?"
For a moment, Jessie just looked at him with an expression of considered wonder. And all of a sudden, she smiled. She shook her head, climbing to her feet. "No James, that's all right. I just realised that I've forgotten to tell the best news of all."
She took James's arm in hers. "I didn't tell you, Alice," she announced clearly, "But today is my wedding day. Today I'm going to be married!"
She looked at James, and her smile glowed. "And Alice, I want you to know that things really are going to be all right now. Things are all going to be all right."
James raised a questioning eyebrow and smiled slightly. "All right?" He asked pointedly.
Jessie laughed and threw her arms around his neck with child-like abandon. James put his hands on her waist, lifting her up and swinging her in a quick circle. He then lowered her back to the ground, and kissed her soundly.
"Very well, 'wonderful', then!" Jessie whispered happily when his lips left hers, "Things are going to be wonderful."
They began their journey back to Pemberley hand in hand, laughing and talking, and playing games in the snow like children. Now, as always, they lived and loved in perfect symmetry with one another.
And behind them in the silent graveyard, splayed brilliantly against the white ground like tributes to the past, lay two scattered sprays of Roses in the Snow.