“Only yesterday?” Darcy murmured under his breath. “Richard has been gone three days now. Their agents are more inept than I imagined.”
“Or they really did get the information yesterday. Which would mean that either we are speaking of two different informants, or the same one with a peculiar sense of timing and curiously divided loyalties.”
“You did not destroy the other notes, did you?”
“Of course not.” Reginald pulled out his desk drawer and took a small key from his pocket to unlock a hidden compartment behind the drawer. He checked them over to see that they were the correspondence he sought, then passed the pages to Darcy.
Darcy blinked, and his hand trembled. “These are what you received?”
“Yes. See, that one on the bottom is the one that arrived the day of Bingley’s wedding. And this one here, that came the day Richard left.”
Slow, burning breath trapped idly in his lungs until he forced himself to release it. He scanned the notes again, then inspected certain letters more minutely—particularly the way the informant had shaped hisW’s.
“Darcy? What is it?”
“I… I wish you had shown me these sooner,” he gasped.
“What, you recognise the writing?”
“Like it was my own, for we had the same master as boys. This is from George Wickham.”
Chapter 50
New York
ThelasttimeElizabethhad seen New York, it had been with fresh eyes, duly impressed by the magnitude and industry of that great city. Buildings seemed to reach for the sky, the sounds of a million voices all blended together, and the overwhelming energy pulsed from every street.
This time, it felt dirty. Worn out. Weary—like herself.
Arriving as an immigrant to her own country set a different flavour in her mouth than might otherwise have been there. The colossus of Lady Liberty was a beacon of hope for the stream of humanity setting foot on American soil for the first time, but it cast a long shadow over her. They had travelled second class, for Richard had been reluctant to appear as someone from well-heeled circles, and they disembarked with the merchants and families, all filled with aspirations that only made Elizabeth’s breast fill with pity.
Over two thousand people stepped off that ship, and Elizabeth could only feel small amid the frenzy. Richard pushed through ahead of her; giving her his hand when the crowd pressed the hardest, and glancing back frequently to see that she was well, but she missed—oh, with a pang so fierce she could scarcely draw breath—she missed William’s guiding touch on the small of her back, his steady voice in her ear.
Mercifully, the entire business of immigration was over and done in only a few hours. Richard kept their marriage document close to his chest but was never required to show it. They both sighed in relief at this, for she was not eager to prove her citizenship and have her origins printed for all to see—no matter how impossible it would be for someone to find her. Richard was even less eager to surrender his proud family name, but the Ellis Island clerk recorded them as Mr and Mrs Dick Williams of London, England. His look of profound distaste at the moniker was only alleviated by the fact that they walked onto the New York Ferry only moments later—free, safe, and at least somewhat hopeful for a new beginning.
They took a room in Greenwich, in a building mostly inhabited by Dutch families. On the ship, Richard had become friendly with a merchant who intended to settle in New York near his relations. As he proved friendly and willing to be of help, they accepted his assistance in searching for a vacant abode with basic furnishings that might be had for a short term. By sunset of the first evening, they were miraculously suited with an apartment and several friendly—if unaffectedly nosy—neighbours.
“But he could not help me find work,” Richard said with some regret. “I will begin looking tomorrow.”
“What do you mean to do?” she asked.
“That, I do not know. What skills I have, I am not willing to advertise. I suspect I will have to take the first thing to appear promising.”
The apartment had but one room—a dank chamber with peeling paint and a window hardly large enough to put one’s head out. It was enough to get them off the streets, but to her—formerly used to both rural simplicity and old-world splendour—the apartment felt dirty, thin, and insecure. She drew the single chair to the centre of that room, as if trying to stay as far from the walls as she could.
“You can take the bed,” Richard offered. “I got used to sleeping anywhere, so the chair will serve for me.”
Elizabeth cast a cynical eye over the beaten-down, lumpy padding, which was to serve as a mattress, and could not decide if his offer was generous or not. Suddenly, her narrow accommodations on the steamer seemed a far-away luxury that she would have been extremely glad to reclaim.
That night, she climbed—fully clothed—into the soiled bed and stretched out rigid and straight, staring through blurred eyes at the ceiling. For the first time in all her life, she was kept awake by the sounds of shouts just outside her window… and the even more alien sound of a man snoring in the same room.
When, sometime after midnight, Richard commenced a terrified and mournful howling and fell out of his chair while fisticuffing with some nocturnal demon or other, Elizabeth only sat up and watched from a distance. She knew well enough to leave him be. After some minutes, he rolled over and settled on the floor, and she lay down again. She pressed her damp cheek onto her folded hands and gazed towards the window, too broken and exhausted for hope or optimism. All her present being centred around one clamouring regret.What have I done?
Richard was away most of the next day, and the several days following. With the few resources she could command and the help of one kind neighbour, she did manage to scrape together something that might be creatively called a meal for the end of each day. Money was not the issue—the earl had seen to that—but this teaming and vibrant city concealed a sinister shadow. It may have been welcoming on the surface, but it was nearly hostile to any outsider who would try to call it home. By the end of a week, Elizabeth had ventured far enough to discover a market, but she always hastened back, as if being caught out was a sure path to discovery and being turned over to the law.
The second week, Richard returned in the middle of the afternoon with a grim smile. “I believe I have found something out of the city.”
Elizabeth brightened eagerly. “You have? What is it?”
