Page 8 of Bella Darcy is on the Run

Marie gave a small gasp behind them. "Mademoiselle?"

Elizabeth turned and said in a sharp tone that she used very sparingly, "Marie, leave us, please."

"But, madame, I did not know… Mon Dieu, I thought she was sleeping. I would never... "

"Now, Marie," Darcy bellowed.

The maid curtseyed again, her face pale, and hurried from the room, closing the door behind her. Darcy pulled back the sheets as if he might find his daughter concealed there, playing a game of hide-and-seek as she had when she was a young girl, giggling softly enough to give away her hiding place. A scrap of paper fluttered to the floor.

He picked it up and opened it hurriedly, staring at the sparse message, I am safe. Darcy sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "Oh, good God, Bella," he said, holding the note out in trembling fingers to his wife, who snatched it from him.

"I pushed her too hard," he said. "I knew she was unhappy and still I would not leave it alone."

"William..."

"What if she has gone with someone?" He looked up at her, and she saw at once where his thoughts had gone. "I nearly lost Georgiana to a fortune-hunting villain. What if I have been too lenient or let her have too much freedom?"

Elizabeth's face lost its colour. She sank down beside him, her hand searching for his. Her fingers were shaking. "No," she said quickly. "Bella would have told us. She would never be so impetuous..." Her voice broke, and she began to weep.

Darcy knew his wife. She was afraid of nothing and nobody, but in that moment she looked terrified. "We will find her," he said, folding her into his arms and speaking gently into her hair. "We will find her, and she will be safe. She will be safe." He only wished he possessed a fraction of the confidence he tried to put into the words.

Chapter Six

Bella sat on the squabs of a coach that was nowhere near as comfortable as her father’s equipage. She gazed out of the window at the unfamiliar countryside and tried to decide if her failure to be stopped from making this ridiculous trip was a good or bad thing. After her uneasiness with Mrs Saxon, it had been relatively simple to acquire a hired coach and driver, pay the right people and be on her way with Clara. The driver, Jo, was a taciturn man, concerned only that she could cover the expense of the trip. He had readily agreed to take them as far as Birmingham, where Bella had confidently informed Mrs Saxon that one of her own family carriages and a companion would meet her to convey them onwards. There would, of course, be no such carriage and no such person, but she had decided that was a problem for Birmingham Bella.

Right now, she was wondering about the validity of the whole endeavour. It had seemed exciting and brave when she had walked the paths of Pemberley planning her flight, or when she had spirited away a map of Britain from the vast library to plan her route. Now, sitting in a shabby coach with a terribly improper maid and in the charge of a driver who she felt sure would sell her to a highwayman for the right price, she was no longer so certain.

She had decided to embrace Byron's sentiment, "Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?" as though she were some great romantic heroine. Only her rebellion would not be against her King and country, but against the expectations of her family. To do that, she would seek out the one member of her family who had failed to follow the path set out for her: her aunt Lydia. If only Aunt Lydia were not so very far away, and if only Bella could stop worrying about what her papa and mama must think.

Bella had a vague memory of a pretty, vivacious woman whom she had met on only one occasion when she was eight or nine. But she had vivid recollections of the whispers and overheard mentions of Mrs Wickham. Apparently, she had married some ne'er-do-well soldier who had died just a few years after they were wed. After that, Lydia Wickham had accepted no offers of housing or support from her family or friends, other than a small jointure from her brothers-in-law, which she had used to buy a cottage in wildest Cornwall where she kept company with bluestockings.

She had heard her terrifying Aunt Catherine describe Lydia as a hoyden of the first water, despite Papa's fiercest look. She had tried to ask her Uncle Charles about her once, for he was the most indulgent of her uncles, but he had merely whispered that Aunt Jane and Aunt Elizabeth would have his guts for garters if he gossiped with her on that particular subject. It was all very frustrating, and this, in Bella's opinion, made Aunt Lydia the most interesting person on their vast family tree.

"You are looking very serious miss," said Clara, leaning forward to get a better look at Bella’s face. "Is all well? Is it that your Aunt we are visiting is very sick?"

"I did not say that she was sick," Bella said carefully. "I said that she is in need of me." Rather, I am in need of her, she thought guiltily. "We have some way to go until the next change of horses. And we have several days’ travel until we reach Falmouth. Why do you not tell me a little of yourself?"

Bella had already been subjected to several of Clara's prolonged monologues on subjects ranging from the extortionate price of ribbons in Ashbourne to a woman named Nancy who had once thrown an entire jug of ale over a gentleman for taking liberties. But for all Clara's willingness to talk, Bella knew little beyond the scant details she had learnt during their brief interview.

"There isn't much to tell. I was born in Bristol; my Mammy was a laundress. And I tell you, miss, there was no way I was goin' to spend my life washin' unmentionables. You should have seen the state of her hands. Shocking. We had to find men's gloves for her layin’ out because nothin' else would fit her. I did my best to conceal it with the rosary, but Father McGonagal still made mention. Said everything that passed through his mind, that man. You'd expect more tact from a priest."

She made a face and stared for a moment at the faded gingham of her skirt. "From there, I was on my own. But I worked in that big house I mentioned for, oh, goin' on three years before they got sick of the sight of me. Then a friend of my Mammy's wrote to Mrs Saxon. They'd grown up in the same village. And right glad of it I was."

"What do you mean by a big house? Was it a grand estate or a town house?"

"Not exactly, miss. It was a pushing house, if you get my meaning."

"A pushing house?" Bella frowned, trying to place the term. "Some sort of warehouse or factory?"

Clara's eyes widened and her shoulders shook. She seemed to be trying to contain a laugh. "I don't think I'd call it a factory, miss," she said at last. "Though there was plenty of work went on there, right enough."

Bella regarded her suspiciously. "Then what sort of establishment was it?"

Clara hesitated, and for once seemed to think better of saying whatever had first come into her head. "Best you don't know, miss."

"You cannot tell me that and expect me not to ask. I really cannot imagine what you are about."

Her maid sighed and looked towards the window as though hoping the passing countryside might offer some means of escape. "It was the sort of house gentlemen visit when they fancies a bit of company and don’t mind payin’ for it."