Volume I, Chapter 1 -- "Pemberley"

Posted on Tuesday, 18-Aug-98

Author's Note: First of all I would like to thank you, the reader. I thank you from the bottom of my heart by taking the time to read my story. It will not be a long chapter because it is only to set the mood of the story (and add mystery). I write this story with much gratitude to the authors, which this book would have no ghostly plot nor fascinating characters. To Daphne duMaurier; the author of Rebecca, much kudos to her thrilling book. To Jane Austen, for her beautifully constructed characters (which I will unfortunately change a bit).

Here is the link toRebecca Posters

ast night I dreamt I went to Pemberley again. It was like all the others. Never a different version. Always moonlit. Always of Pemberley.

As if I appeared in a watercolor painting, I imagined Pemberley's weather beaten entrance. Colors of near midnight drifted and mingled in my eyes. Dazed, I dragged my feet to the gate. There I wrapped my hands around the iron spokes, feeling the rust catch my white gloves. I gazed wistfully through the bars and leaned my chest against the gate. A sharp pain dug into my stomach. I stepped back and lowered my eyes to the lock. There was a time when Pemberley was not shut out from the world. But in my reverie the door to Pemberley hung closed with the lock and chain woven carelessly through the bars.

Simply I wished to be inside the gate. With such desire my dream quickly took me there. I passed through the barrier easily as if I were a ghost and inside Pemberley I stood.

A few feet from the gate I paused and stared at the lane. Our once salt and pepper gravel road had thinned to a waving ribbon. It wound around the trees, twisting and turning dangerously. Farther down I progressed to find that the bushes split the ribbon to threads of lane. All gravel was washed away by the spring rains. I could see miniature tributaries and dry streams where the gravel carried. Moss and weeds smothered the lane, suffocating Pemberley's drive. The woods that were never so dominant, mastered my view. As I paced along a vein of the former road, hanging branches forced me to bend and hunch my shoulders. My eyes fell upon the sprawling claws of roots that clenched the soil in its grasp. Leaves were soaked and carried a repulsive stench of mold. My footsteps made no sound but slight suction noises of mud. The arms of the trees leaned to envelop me into their dreary woods. It struck me as ice-water splashed upon my face; nothing was the same.

This route which we took so many times in the Royce was a stranger. The once meticulously manicured grounds crawled with neglected plants. Weeds, bushes, and wildflowers reached to my belt or my eyelashes. Inside the cave of branches the moon's light filtered and manipulated the ground to appear as the restless sea. I advanced through the forest walking on the trembling moon-water. My eyes were fixed to the ground as my mind raced with foolish theories of being swallowed by the "sea". A monstrous branch formed a wall before me. I heaved the branch to my side, obtaining incredible strength that I never possessed before. I stumbled over dead branches and slowly walked while being attacked by twigs snatching at my dress. The moonlight suddenly poured it's silvery glow and blinded my sight a moment. My hands clasped over my eyes to shield the overbearing light.

A gust of wind blew freezing air up my skirt and threw back my hair. A shiver dripped down my spine. I saw it. Pemberley.

She stood there silent and untouched. Unlike the grounds, Pemberley appeared as if we never abandoned her. The windows remained open, allowing the thick salty air to drift into the home. I sucked the air threw my nostrils. The sour and soupy air flooded my mind with memories. I shot a glare to the cliff where Pemberley stood. My ears heard the torment of the waves crashing against the jagged rocks. With the rhythm of the waves smashing, my heart slowly beat.

I tore my eyes away from the cliff and again stared at home. Fierce shadows gloomed and sulked in the corners of Pemberley. The grey stone walls towered high and became bewitching. I swiveled my head to avoid crying and suddenly saw our tree. Good memories drifted into my head and I saw Pemberley alive as when we lived there. Ashtrays were stuffed with crooked cigarette butts, and a single string of smoke drifted lazily into the still air. A crumpled copy of The Times took it's place on the master's chair. And Jasper, oh sweet Jasper, he laid anxiously on the oriental rug, wagging his tail with vigor.

This was the way Pemberley should be known. Tea under the chestnut tree. Long golden sunsets and wonderful silent walks on the beach. Jasper eagerly pawing at the kitchen doors. Roses from the garden blooming in the summer. The chirping of the birds waking us early. These were the memories that didn't hurt.

In reality, I laid in a bed hundreds of miles away from Pemberley. In a few moments I would awake. I would yawn and stretch my body dreamily. Then slowly I would open my eyes and be attacked by bright and sharp morning sunlight. Sunlight was not the soft color of the watery moonlight that still drifted in my mind. I would realize the bare hotel room was were I woke. I had some sense of comfort with lack of atmosphere that it possessed. And our lives will go on as better.

We would not talk of Pemberley, I would not tell him my dream. For Pemberley was ours no longer. Pemberley was no more.

Volume I, Chapter 2 -- "Memories"

Posted on Monday, 07-Sep-98

Author's note: I dedicate this chapter to my mother because I love her so much. :-)

At times I want to return to Pemberley. Just to have one more glance at the high stone walls and stained glass windows. Wouldn't it be a delight to look at the sea through rose colored glass? But awful memories would return. They would flood my senses more than my dreams have ever done. It has been three years since we left and never returned. We would never reproach the date when life turned cold. But we knew when it came. On those fateful dates we would fall silent. Not much conversation or activity. The next day a new couple would be in our place; happy and cheerful. My lips would never whisper the past which brought him such pain. I could not do that to him.

I knew he thought of the past often. Of what, I do not know. It could be the good times that we miss now. Or the unforgettable past which covers him in cold sweat at three in the morning. In the middle of a conversation some words would trigger his memory. I could never remember which words. But I recall the first time when I foolishly mentioned boating...

"Mr. and Mrs. Naply invited us to go boating today in their new yacht. Of course I declined..." My voice drifted as his eyes became fixed on the lace covering on the breakfast table. I memorized his look.

His brown eyes became dark and his face became heavy. I could see his jaw tighten and relax; pulsating.

"What marvelous weather we are having! Quite fortunate. Don't you think so, Dear?" I strained cheerful glee through my lips as I picked up the knitting tools and began to flicker my fingers furiously. I couldn't look into his eyes. They were distant strangers.

He suddenly jerked his head back as if he were slapped.

"Oh...ummm... what were you saying, Darling?" He tore his eyes away from the lace and began to blink rapidly.

He folded his hands on the table and exhaled a held breath. Swiftly I retired my knitting and reached my hands over the table. Both of my hands barely blanketed his large fist. I gave a tender squeeze.

"Well, how about a walk? You know the weather is quite marvelous," he said.

I nodded as we stood to leave.

Our present life was boring as one would dare not hope for. I became engrossed in painting and gardening and made it a project to memorize every flower's genus name and common name. I spent endless hours discussing perfect manure and new mulch with the local gardeners. My good friends became the flower sellers and the gardeners. But my conversations were not always about gardening. No, I treated myself with many idle hours of gossip. Who knew so many people had so many sordid secrets.

I would meet with Mrs. Henderson every Tuesday. She came to take coffee and crumb cake; leaving a crumb when she departed. Mrs. Henderson reminded me of dear Mrs. Bennet-Foley-Templeton. Mrs. Henderson was a plump aged woman in her mid-fifties (that is what the age she admitted to). It was just like how I remembered Mrs. Bennet. Both loved food, gossip, and fashion with a passion.

Oh how I remember our time in France...

1936

"There you are Madame," the waiter scooted her chair with some difficulty. Unfortunately her diet did not last long in Paris.

I helped myself into the chair across from her and slid it to the table. The waiter gallantly placed the menus before us.

"The specials today are--"

Mrs. Bennet cut him short. "No, no. We need not any menu. We will both have the specials. I will have a martini straight up and she shall have..." she eyed me cautiously, "She will have--"

"Orange juice, please. Thank you," I cut in before she ordered me the same drink.

"Very well," he took my menu, "Is there anything else?"

Mrs. Bennet looked up at the elegant ceiling and looked straight to the waiter. "Snails. Oh and put much more butter on them."

The waiter took her menu and promptly left. Mrs. Bennet turned her attention to me and said, "One thing about those Frenchies, they sure know how to make sauces. But here they try to kill you with no taste. Barely any butter they use in their recipes!"

She took a piece of the stone-hard baguette and saturated it with olive oil.

"Tomorrow I believe there is going to be a rose show," her speech was muffled with the bread.

"Really? I am sure it will be lovely." I sipped my water to pause. "What time would it be?"

"One o'clock, I am sure. Roses. You know roses remind me of one of my companions before you. Rose-Marie was her name. Not talented at all.

"But my first -- have I told you all my companions?" I shook my head, "Really? Oh. Well, my first companion was a fabulous Dutch girl. Liselotte was her given name. But I called her Lise." She said this proudly like a mother hen. "What a beautiful girl she was! The men were attracted to her like moths to a fire. If I taught her anything, I taught her to choose a good man. She ended up marrying an Spanish bullfighter. He was quite handsome and rich. She was lucky when he was killed two Octobers ago."

I suddenly snorted as I gulped my water. The ice-cold liquid choked me and I coughed violently.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," I was able to sputter. "I am fine. Quite fortunate she was."

"Well, where was I? Oh, Lise. Hmm, I hope she is well," she smiled as the escargot was placed between us. Quickly she took her fork and shoveled four snails on her plate.

"My youngest was, Rachel. Quite silly if you ask me. Always giggling and admiring men in regimentals at our time in England. She eventually married a Colonel and now I believe has ten and counting children,"

Taking a snail she dipped it into the sauce and shoveled it in her mouth. The buttery sauce dribbled off her chin. I could assess she enjoyed it.

I took the one that was left for me and chewed slowly as she began again.

"Katt was my success. Though the Prince of England admired her greatly, she married the Duke of Eagleshire*. Quite happy I believe."

Mrs. Bennet stopped the conversation short. Her eyes looked over my shoulder eagerly and with much interest. With the gold spectacles around her neck, she quickly raised them and peered at the entrance.

"Oh, my. Oh, I believe it is him. Hold. Yes, it is him." A quiet squeal followed as she craned her neck to see around a couple behind me.

"Look dear. Right behind you. That man... in the black suit...Thatis Mr. D'arcy!"

I looked behind me to see a tall, handsome man being seated. My eyes became fixed on him with curiosity.

"They say he is still mourning over the lost of his wife... Caroline D'arcy..."

Author's Note: *Eaglesire: fictitious place :-)

Volume I, Chapter 3 -- "A Woman With No Delicacy"

Posted on Tuesday, 22-Sep-98

Mrs. Bennet wiped her mouth distractedly and laid her fingers on the table. She began drumming her nails incessantly, waiting for a revelation to pop in her head. Her mind scanned possible ways to plot an attack or rather an "approach" to acquaint herself with Mr. D'Arcy. My back was facing his table but before me, behind Mrs. Bennet, was a large framed mirror which enabled me to witness the powerful view of Mr. D'Arcy.

He looked like no man I ever met. His hair was slick and crisply done in a slight pomade. His eyes (I believe to be brown) were set deeply under a forest of eyebrows. These eyebrows constantly were knitting in pleasant concentration as he read the evening paper. His black suit was neatly pressed and hung elegantly off his broad shoulders. Even his strong jaw had a commanding presence. But there was a certain loneliness as he sipped his water. I must be silly. Of course he is not lonely. How could that man be so.

Mrs. Bennet's voice poked into my observations, "He is the master of Pemberley. Have you heard of it? Of course you have. It is one of the most elegant estates in Derbyshire. Quite a formidable land. Pity that it must be wasted on a bachelor." Her hazel eyes drifted into mine and sparkled with amusement. Her faded red lips suppressed a smile.

"Millions. He is worth millions." She began dribbling more escargot sauce as she plaintively chewed. A waiter brought our drinks and before he could place her martini on the table, she grasped the glass and took three gulps.

"I will have another."

"Oui, Madame. Is there anything else? Shall I take your orders?"

Mrs. Bennet furiously shook her head, "No, no, no. I believe we will soon be the company of a gentleman."

"Oui, Madame."

"You see that man there?"

"Oui, Madame."

"He is the one. Do you recognize him?"

"Oui, Madam."

"What is his favorite liquor?"

"Oh, ahhh, I believe it is a nineteen-oh-one merlot. Expensive label..."

"Bring me a glass of that instead. No! Make it two glasses."

"Oui, Madame." The waiter thankfully left.

Little of Mrs. Bennet's past was known to me. She tells me detailed stories of her past weddings. By her recollection, men were always admiring her. They called on her day and night with flowers and chocolate. Mrs. Bennet professed the cause was her ample bosom in her early teens. While the other "grape girls" were filling their training brassieres with tissues, she talked flirtatiously with sailors. She never said she loved her husbands. The only thing I knew of them were their name, occupation, and annual salary.

She jumped in her seat suddenly, "Oh my. Dear, would you do me the grandest favor?" She began to search for her amber colored sequin handbag. She looked to the left of her chair, then to her right and it could not be found. She anxiously bent her body and ducked her head underneath the table. Her martini glass rattled and shook as she wiggled her head below. I searched across the room if anyone was witnessing this event. Suddenly I heard a loud thump and all the glasses rocked out water or gin.

"Ouch. Damn table." She took rubbed her head and cursed to the table, "Bloody table. It's so low! I mean really! How can a woman with my long legs fit underneath such a short, miniature of a table." She held her purse and carelessly flung it on the table, bringing more clatter.

"I don't believe that these tables were made for people to be under, Mrs. Bennet."

As soon as the words were released I had to muffle a laugh with the back of my hand. Mrs. Bennet was barely 5'2". She did not notice my amusement and continued, "What I need you to do dear is to go up to our room and retrieve those pictures from Charles Bingley's wedding. You know him. He was that nice chap who married Jane Who-ever. Jane was a friend of yours correct?"

"Yes, she was a good friend."

"Well, anyways go up and bring them to me." She snapped open her purse and took out a powder case, a lipstick tube, and a small bottle of perfume. She patted her face lightly with powder, then opened her mouth wide and applied red lipstick thickly.

Hurry child! Dinner does not last all night!" She waved her gloved hands carelessly in my direction, shooing me to go. As I crossed the restaurant to enter the lobby, I saw her dabbing perfume behind her ears and at the crevasse of her cleavage.

I knew a terrible fate awaited Mr. D'Arcy with the woman of no delicacy.