Invigorated by her decision, she bounded up the broad staircase and into the room she shared with her sister Jane. In moments, Elizabeth had her boots on, and a bonnet to shield her face from the hot summer sun. She forwent gloves, for she did not mean to walk where she would meet anyone, and went back down the stairs.
She slipped out the front door, then paused to stand tall, sucking in a deep breath of sultry summer air. To the right and left were little paths that meandered out to meet others, and more still. Today, she selected ones that, with a cut across a field or two, though not across old Mr. Grason’s farm, would bring her to Netherfield Park.
Elizabeth adored the view of Netherfield Park’s great manor house. She enjoyed imagining what sort of people might reside there, and what it would be like to be one of them. If no one happened to be about, which was often as the owner of the property preferred to be in London, Elizabeth would sneak down and peek into the windows.
She especially enjoyed looking into the great ballroom, with its lines of sheet-draped chairs. What would the lofty, cream and gilt space be like full of people and candlelight? Of ladies in their finery, and dapper gentlemen, and laughter?
What would it be like to dance there in the arms of some charming gentleman? One who would gaze at her with such adoration that no one else in the room mattered? The way she’d seen more than one man look at her sister Jane. If only the owner decided to return, or someone would let Netherfield Park, Elizabeth could find out.
She let out a sigh. That was, assuming she could ever find a gentleman who would look at her with even a tenth of the admiration most showed Jane.
Chapter Five
Weeks. For weeks, Darcy had scoured the border towns of Scotland. He had men combing over every village, no matter how small. Searching up and down the road to London as well, and in Town, in case, for some inexplicable reason, Wickham had hidden Georgiana away there rather than racing for Scotland. Yet it seemed no amount of time, money, or effort could uncover the location of his sister.
“Sir? Mr. Darcy?” Patrick’s voice.
Darcy looked up from an untouched meal of mutton pie and dark ale. His was the only table occupied in the small common room of what passed for an inn in this miniscule Scottish town. He’d already forgotten the name of the place. He’d passed through so many.
Patrick stood before the table, proffering a letter. “A letter from Mrs. Reynolds, sir. The courier said it is urgent. He said he has been through half the border towns in Scotland seeking you, sir.”
Darcy accepted the missive with trepidation. An urgent letter was how this whole nightmare began, though that one had been from Mrs. Younge. He cracked the seal his housekeeper had placed and unfolded the page.
Dear Mr. Darcy,
I write to inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Wickham have arrived at Pemberley.
Darcy stood, his chair skittering back, earning him a startled look from Patrick.
In the past, we would not have permitted Mr. Wickham entrance, per your orders, but we did not want to turn Mrs.Wickham away, and they would not be separated, so we permitted him in. Per Mrs. Wickham’s request, they have been allotted adjoining rooms in the family wing and are being offered all hospitality.
I await your instructions.
Mrs. Reynolds
“Pack,” Darcy said, shoving the letter at Patrick. “I will see about fresh horses.”
He must call off the search as well, Darcy realized as he crossed the little common room. And make arrangements for those who had aided him to be paid. Then, he would travel to Pemberley as quickly as his considerable wealth allowed.
He stepped out into the afternoon warmth, but rather than turn in the direction of the stable, Darcy continued forward, across the street, then down another. Long legs carried him from the little village and into the open grazing land beyond. Leaping a low wall of stacked stone, he started up a steep hill, rapidly claiming the summit. He halted to a view of craggy, lichen-spattered rock and meandering sheep.
His hands fisted. He squeezed his eyes closed, fighting down anger.
He had failed. Utterly and miserably. Oh, he could blame Mrs. Younge, or Wickham, or even Georgiana, but the truth was, Darcy had failed. He was Georgiana’s older brother and guardian. Responsible for her well-being.
And he had failed.
He sucked air through bared teeth, trying to quiet his anger. To tamp it down into something manageable. To find a way not to unleash an unseemly, stricken yowl of rage out over the contentedly grazing sheep.
His eyes opened. He spotted several weathered outcroppings that would be perfect to kick. Through force of will, he remained where he stood. Abusing rocks would not change his failure, and if he broke his foot, that would only be one more torment to plague him.
He forced his hands open, though the muscles remained as tight as when they’d been balled into fists. Every movement wooden, he walked carefully back down the hill. All that remained to him, all he could do, was to return to Pemberley and learn what he would have to pay Wickham in order to keep Georgiana safe. Darcy had no illusions that Wickham would care for his sister.
At least, because of Richard’s strange premonition, Wickham would not have Georgiana’s dowry. Not yet. When next Darcy saw his cousin, apparently the better of Georgiana’s two guardians, he would have to thank him.
They departed as the sun set, the going slow by lanternlight. Changing horses so often Darcy reflected that he could have bought a new team for what the use of others’ cost him, they made all haste back to Pemberley. Even traveling at a pace only wealth could provide, the better part of two weeks passed, each day augmenting Darcy’s misery, before they turned up the familiar drive to his family home.
Normally, the serenity of the well-tended grounds and stately façade would soothe him. Darcy took great pride in his holdings. In maintaining them and the Darcy name. Today, however, the manor house appeared austere and withdrawn, almost judgmental, as he disembarked before broad steps that had underscored the comings and goings of so many of the Darcy line. Steps that should never have been made to bear the footfalls of a Mrs. Georgiana Wickham.
