“Are you certain?” Mr. Bennet asked, insisting no more on the tablecloth.
Thatcher clutched his hands together. “I am. He tried to carry on with my sister, see,” he said before realizing that was not something one said in the hearing of the wife of the rake. Inclining his head apologetically, he added, “Before he married Mrs. Wickham, that is. Days before his regiment departed from Meryton. Whole days. Maybe a week.”
Her flushed face twisted, and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her hands balled into fists, her lips pressing into a flat line. It was difficult to tell if she was mortified or enraged.
“Wickham was here,” Darcy repeated to himself. To the footman, he asked, “You followed him? Did you find where he is staying?”
Glancing at Mrs. Hill, the young man continued, “I neglected my duties to follow him. I am sorry.”
She patted his hand. “Do not fret over what is done. Where did you find him?”
“I followed him to an abandoned tenant hovel.”
Richard jumped to his feet. “We must apprehend him immediately.”
“He is not there. That is why I took so long to return.”
“Then, where is he?” Richard demanded.
“I stopped following him once he reached the road. I ran after him but had to return when I grew too tired to continue.”
Had Thatcher possessed the endurance of Pheidippides, Darcy had no doubt he would have run all the way to London in pursuit of Wickham.
Mr. Bennet gasped. “What would you have done had you caught him?”
Thatcher scratched his head. “I did not think that far, sir.”
“Where was my tablecloth?” asked Mrs. Bennet, returning to the topic of her greatest concern. Miraculous the machine may be, but it had its limits.
“Under the hay piled in the barn. The ladder had been tossed on top of it. Mr. Hill never does that. I went to lean it against the wall and that was when I saw the lace. It was so soiled and torn, I almost did not recognize it.”
Mrs. Bennet tightened her lips. “How vexing.”
“I apologize for shirking my duties,” finished the footman, clasping his hands in front of him and bowing his head like a man prepared to get sacked.
“Nonsense. You have been most helpful,” Mr. Bennet said. “Mrs. Hill, I believe this answers some of your previous concerns regarding the lad. Make surehe gets a bath and a hearty repast. He must be exhausted,”
Mrs. Hill puffed like a pigeon. “I will see to the tablecloth and to Thatcher. He has done the family a fine service.”
The young man beamed at her as she added, “You did well. Very well, indeed. Cook has a piece of plum cake for you in the pantry.”
“Not anymore,” a feminine voice whispered. Lydia.
Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Mrs. Hill will see that you get heartier fare, but I must ask you to take Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam to the abandoned hovel where you saw Wickham first. Perhaps he left a clue behind.”
“Good idea,” the colonel acknowledged.
It was a good idea, and had Darcy not been so reluctant to part from Elizabeth’s side, he would have been more eager to agree with it.
His wooing would have to wait.
CHAPTER 29
Elizabeth settled herself inside her father’s study, a long day ahead of her and a worn copy ofThe Mysteries of Udolpho. Radcliffe’s gothic novel seemed appropriate, and given the profusion of extraordinary events in her own life of late, Elizabeth could not hope to entertain herself and pass the hours with anything less than an equally spectacular tale.
Joining the heroine and her father as they crossed the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean coast, anticipating her first meeting of her love, Valancourt, Elizabeth startled when her father touched her shoulder.
“Lizzy, Miss de Bourgh is here,” he said, his expression as puzzling as his words. “She has come to call on you.”
