Elizabeth nodded silently, but her stomach twisted. Lady Catherine herself might be the source of danger, for all Elizabeth knew, and this journey but a ruse! And where was Darcy? Might Georgiana’s departure delay or hasten their reunion, if such were to be?
But London! Mr Wickham had said that Darcy would be in greater danger in London than elsewhere, and Georgiana would be in no less peril—if she could trust his word! Oh, she could not allow Lady Catherine to take Georgiana away from Pemberley without knowing the truth! Any hope of learning more from the dead attacker was now gone, and the charming snake seemed the only voice willing to speak.
She looked steadily back and forth between the two girls. Lydia seemed morose at having to leave her new friend and comfortable situation. Georgiana’s face was a blank as she stared into her future. The child had endured far too much grief, and now had no control over her own affairs.
Elizabeth grimaced. To have to depend upon such a man as Wickham! And alone—no, she would have to meet him alone, if only to avoid compromising another. She closed her eyes briefly and drew a shaky sigh, then clenched her teeth. Meet him she would, tonight, before Lady Catherine took Georgiana away. She hoped he would not perceive how badly she needed him.
Lisbon, Portugal
“SenhoraVasconcelos?Acarriageawaits you.”
Amália looked up from the floor of her room to the young petty officer. “A carriage? I have called for no carriage.”
“It is the general’s order, Senhora. That is all I know.”
She rose unsteadily. This had not come as a surprise—after all, the letters carried by Pereira had surely been brought before Ruy’s superiors. Vasconcelos and the bishop held considerable political influence, and she was but dead weight to a regiment camp. Her reasons for fleeing her husband would count as nothing before a military tribunal, and she would be forced to go back to him.
“Pardon, sir,” she wetted her lips, stalling for time, “has there been any word of Captain Noronha? Is he well?”
“I know nothing, Senhora,” repeated the bored officer. He stood back and motioned for an orderly to collect the single bag she had brought with her from Porto. “Come now, please.”
“Sir, I beg you,” she trembled, her eyes beginning to sting. “Please, may I not speak with a nurse or a surgeon before I go? I must know if he will recover—my father will wish to know,” she added as an afterthought, hoping her father’s wishes might seem of greater import than her own.
“If he recovers, he will stand trial for murder, Senhora.”
Her chest was heaving now, her eyes brimming. “Ruy!” she gasped. “I must see him one more time! Oh, please, you do not understand, I must go to him!”
“It is not permitted, Senhora,” the officer stated unequivocally. He stepped back and gestured, plainly, that she was required to follow.
Amália turned beseechingly about, seeking anyone who might speak for her. A rivulet of saltwater spilled down her cheek, and she dashed it away as her face was turned from the officer. Two young women sat nearby, sewing the uniforms of their husbands. Their eyes met hers, and then both looked down again. She watched them some seconds more in disbelief—though there was nothing they could have done, her mind refused to accept that none would even try. No one remained who would step to her side.
Slowly, her feet obeyed. She watched the floor, disconnected from the movements that carried her forward. Was there truly nothing more she could do?
“Wait,” an inspiration pricked her. “I wish to give a note for his commanding officer! For General Lecor, or General Cotton if he will read it!” She whirled away, giving him no opportunity to object. She would have her say, somehow make her words heard! There was a scrap of paper in her pocket, and she scrawled a makeshift letter.
“Here!” she cried, thrusting it into the officer’s hands. “You must give this to the general!”
The officer’s face was expressionless. “This way, Senhora.”
Amália surrendered. What more could she do? Head down in defeat, she stepped slowly to the Vasconcelos-emblazoned carriage brought by Pereira, an army escort standing by. The driver handed her in, and the door closed. She never saw the officer discard her crumpled note.
Chapter thirty-eight
Pemberley
Elizabethdrewhercloakmore tightly about herself. The evening air was damp, and the night promised long, cold rain. She could not fathom a worse idea in this moment than to walk out alone, just as dark was falling, searching for a man she abhorred.
Drawing the shade from her lantern, she lifted it and walked briskly, hoping to warm herself. Just as she reached the bottom of the palatial steps to the house, a hesitant voice called out in greeting. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet, may I be of service?”
Her heart leaped into her throat in shock, and she spun about. Her lantern cast its glow over O’Donnell’s lanky form, and she placed a hand over her breast to still its hammering. “N-n-no, no thank you,” she stammered quickly. “I only desired a few moments of fresh air.”
The footman drew nearer. “’Tis not my place, Miss, but ‘tis not safe for a lady to be out about the grounds alone, after dark. Mr Darcy—well, that is to say, Colonel Fitzwilliam would never have approved it. I beg you would permit me to escort you.”
She raised her lantern slightly to scrutinise his face. “You are very kind, Mr O’Donnell, but I intend to remain close to the house. I am in great need of a few moments of privacy, do you see, and the night is not so very cold that I may not enjoy the formal garden before I retire.”
He cast a quizzical eye to the heavens. “I think it will rain, Miss. Perhaps the orangery would suffice?”
“I thank you, but no. Now, pray, do not concern yourself with me, for I am well accustomed to walking in all weather, and we have seen warmer days of late. I shall return directly.” He opened his mouth to object on her behalf, but she inserted firmly, “Good evening, Mr O’Donnell.”
