“Of course, Mrs Reynolds. Miss Darcy may be occupied for some while yet,” Elizabeth sighed. She took the letter, noting the hasty, flourishing hand that had inscribed the colonel’s name. “Does the messenger await, then?”
“Yes, he is standing in the yard at this very moment, Ma’am. Shall I send him away?”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as she broke the seal. The tight urgency in the script, and the familiar address to the colonel caused her hand to tremble. The words, she suspected, would have held the power to shake even that stalwart man, let alone herself. “Please excuse me, Mrs Reynolds,” she murmured distractedly. That good lady took her leave, but Elizabeth scarcely noticed as she fell into the divan beside the pianoforte.
My dear old chap,
Too much has passed by now that I should dare to speak openly to you, but there is a matter of the greatest import, with which you are sure to require my assistance. I have become privy to information that you would doubtless hold dear.
You know me too well to think that I would take the trouble if the cause were not also one of interest to myself, and therefore I approach you only at the end of need. This I give as surety that I speak the truth—for if my information were not valid, or were I at liberty to do otherwise, I should never have turned to you. In return for your gracious audience, I offer more than you can presently imagine, though I warrant that not all of what I have to relate is likely to be palatable to you.
If you are agreeable, simply reply one word in the affirmative via my messenger. I shall meet you in the clearing behind the old chapel tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. By nine, I shall have taken myself out of the area. Now, my dear old man, I hope I needn’t worry that you might betray me before first hearing me out. By the by, Mrs Annesley is looking rather frail.
Yours & etc.
Elizabeth’s eyes were wide as she scanned the letter a second, then a third time. Clearly the writer had some intimate history with the colonel, but his information was not current in regard to Fitzwilliam’s whereabouts. That was hardly surprising, as even his own family believed Richard Fitzwilliam to be comfortably ensconced within Pemberley’s protective walls. None could have suspected that he was away on some mystery of his own.
She hunched low in her seat, deep in contemplation. Had Fitzwilliam learned anything? Was it true—possible even—that his seeming delusions were valid? Could Darcy be…?
A choking sensation burned within her throat. The suspicion she had feared to nurse flared once more to life in her heart. Might he be yet alive in this world, kept somewhere at the mercy of another?
Her eyes stung as she tried to decipher the intent of the letter once more. Clearly some reprisal was feared, as the author had not even dared sign his name, but whatever knowledge held by the informant was thought to be so valuable that he would risk his own neck, hoping that Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gratitude would outweigh his justice. Could this unknown writer even know Darcy’s whereabouts?
Elizabeth clenched the paper close to her face, her breath shallow and hot against her fingers as she stared blindly at the fire. She must know what this man had to say! Yet, without Colonel Fitzwilliam himself to receive him, how could she persuade this stranger to divulge what he knew?
Her gaze drifted slowly upward, resting at last on a painting above the hearth. How many times had she admired it? It had become as a matter of course to her, but now she forced herself to look on it again. It was an oil of Pemberley, the one that had struck her by its beauty upon her first visit to the house with her aunt and uncle.
Beside it was a smaller painting, one which Georgiana had placed there only the week before to look on as she played her piano. The subject was a young man, not yet twenty, with the fire of youth in his eyes, and that same quiet smile that had occasionally rested upon her. Fitzwilliam Darcy, as he was before the cares of the estate had fallen upon him. On his knee rested a blonde girl with the same shy smile, posed intimately with her brother in what was likely their last sitting before their father’s death.
Elizabeth swallowed.If there was any hope at all….Gladly would she sacrifice her own safety and reputation to meet with this stranger, if it meant even the ghost of a chance that he might speak with her, share what he knew. She could pose no harm to this mysterious informant, but neither could she offer the protection he seemed to crave from the colonel.
Reading between the lines, Elizabeth decided that the writer clearly wished for Fitzwilliam to arrive alone. That, she could not dare to do. However, if she appeared with an innocuous footman rather than someone imposing—the steward, for instance—perhaps her feminine frailty and dependence upon a chaperon might be excused. O’Donnell immediately came to mind, but his every movement was sharply watched, and she was not so certain that she ought to trust him herself. No, perhaps a lad from the stables, one thought to be ignorant of the affairs of the Quality, but strong enough to defend her honour if the need arose.
The remaining question was how to inform Georgiana of her intentions, or indeed, whether she ought to inform the girl at all. Lydia would be no help either, for she could not have kept a secret even if promised an entire wardrobe of new bonnets. The colonel had made it plain to her that he did not want his cousin to feed on a false hope, and would not this cryptic note arouse suspicion in even the most innocent of hearts?
Elizabeth frowned. For her own safety, Mrs Reynolds must be made aware of her destination, but perhaps Georgiana was best left to entertain her aunt for now.
At Sea
Richardgazedovertheport bow of the fast little naval supply ship he had caught from Lisbon. It had been a good job, he congratulated himself, that he had found one sailing directly for Liverpool, and that his military credentials had persuaded the captain to take him aboard at the last moment. It would save him several days more of travel on horseback if he wished to look in at Pemberley, and attend Georgiana straight away. London, he must face at length, but he would see to his cousin’s safety before doing battle with the city.
His thoughts strayed ever back to that city he had left and to the lady whose tears had kept him from sleep.Amália… fate was too cruel! What kind of a God could allow such a treasure to be wasted on a man who abused her or a father who dismissed her wishes? Was there no justice? He clenched his fist against the rail, attempting to blot out the memory of that bruise on her cheek, the tarnished gold on her finger... no! He would remember her as she had been, back in her days of maidenhood!
But it was no good, and he knew it. Years ago, he had left behind an enchanting girl, one whose playful charm had stolen his heart. Now he sailed away from the woman, possessed of the full measure of her grace and beauty. No longer an innocent flower was she, as he had always thought of her, but a fiery Jael, who could weather injustice until such time as she could strike a deadly blow against it.
He felt a lurch in his heart, and it seemed as if that organ would fly from his chest. She was what he had always known she would become—what he had sought, and could never claim for his own. He tried to counsel himself that even if she had not married, even if her father had approved of him, her life in England would have been one of ridicule and hardship. Thetonwere not kind to Catholics, and only marginally less cruel to foreign wives of second sons, particularly those brought home from the battle field.
Had he the prestige given the heir to the earldom and financial independence, he might have championed her tolerably well... but the best he could have ever offered her was his soldier’s pay in a barely livable flat in London, near his barracks. His parents certainly would not have welcomed her into their home. His fingers flexed, the knuckles white on the rusty railing as he swallowed. Nauseating as it sounded, she was better off wed to that scoundrel Vasconcelos than himself!
At least he had one comfort. Darcy was alive, and even now on his way back home. Richard dared to hope that he might be close on his cousin’s heels. Surely, Darcy would not have gone to London. Surely not! Considering Ruy’s account of Darcy’s distress and condition, Richard expected that his cousin had gone on to the seclusion of Pemberley. To Pemberley, therefore, he also would go.
It was a pity that more was not known of Darcy’s enemies, but if Ruy had been correct, it was someone in their own family, and of them they must now be cautious. Lady Catherine and her ambitions came first to mind, and Richard congratulated himself on thinking of securing the aid of Elizabeth Bennet and her uncle Gardiner as a precaution against that lady’s schemes. However... he frowned. Lady Catherine would have profited far more by wedding Anne to Darcy, rather than to himself. Surely, the last thing she would have truly desired was to lose her daughter’s marital prize—unless she had at last determined that Darcy was not to be controlled and that better luck might be had with himself and Georgiana.
His father made him nervous as well, for the earl had seemed all too prepared, and not nearly enough grieved at Darcy’s sudden disappearance. But then… with his brow furrowed, he remembered long summers they had spent together as boys at both Matlock and Pemberley, his father stepping in to counsel his nephew as if he were a son. His father could not have orchestrated something so heinous! Many times, even in Darcy’s adult life, the earl had shown himself to be like the father Darcy had lost. He had advised the young master in learning his duties, and even shielded him from the darker wiles of society until he was capable of defending himself. James Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock had always behaved the proper uncle, guiding where it was needed and then stepping away, rather than clinging to control.
Richard pensively tapped the rail of the ship. And had not the Earl of Matlock sufficient depth to his coffers that he had no cause to harbour jealousy for Darcy’s wealth? Blind he admittedly might be to one so close to himself, but Richard could not credit his father with such greed, for greed it must be to compel anyone to injure so fine a man as his cousin. Richard could think of no other complaint anyone might make against Darcy—save that he had not married their daughters, but even then, he had never given any save Elizabeth Bennet cause for expectations.
Even Lady Catherine had always held Darcy high in her esteem—high enough that she never dared truly pressure him after he had properly set her down. Richard rehearsed in his memory every one of their visits to Rosings over the past several years. Lady Catherine was forceful in her demands, but she had never yet crossed the fatal boundary that would cause Richard to think her the architect of all this nonsense.
